Signs of Struggle (6 page)

“Thank you for telling me about your people, and what the eagles mean,” I said.

Lunatic nodded, asked, “When will you acquire another wife?”

“Shortly after I win the Nobel Peace Prize. The time for another wife has passed,” I said.

“You do not look old. You do not act old. Your chest is deep, though not as deep as mine; your arms are large, though not as large as mine; and your stomach is flat.”

“And not as large as yours,” I said, craning my neck in an exaggerated attempt to see over the bar. Moon’s stomach was flat, too, but also thick. Maybe a forty-four. Mine is a thirty-six, despite the beer. Used to be a thirty-four. Smaller frame than Loon Moon.

He ignored the jibe, said, “Also, I must say your neck needs some work. How many winters have you seen, forty, forty-two?”

“I have seen more than forty winters, less than sixty, oh Wise One.” The Chippewa looked surprised, then shrugged his shoulders as if the information were irrelevant. He said, “There are some women nearby who would make fine wives. The women of Iowa are fair, with fine breasts and strong thighs, although they have too much education and do not keep their ideas to themselves. Also, some are too thin. They exercise and starve themselves to look good for men who would rather have some appropriate plumpness. Nevertheless, there are opportunities. I will look for you,” he said.

I had finished my first Loony Burger. “Don’t worry about me, Moon, I will find my way, and right now my way does not include romance.” Liv Olson came to mind just then.
Hmmm
. I munched on my fries. I finished my beer.

“I said nothing about romance. I speak of marriage, white eyes.”

“Been there, done that, got the joy and the beauty and the t-shirt,” I said. “I do appreciate your concerns for my love life, however.”

“I accept your rejection.”

“Are you married?”

“Not the type.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Plural,” he said.

“Where? In the back?” I stretched and stared toward the back door.

“Wherever I go. Vulga, Monona. City girls. They have sisters.”

“But not for me,” I said.

“You are an enigma, O’Shea,” Lunatic said.

“And you are Ashinabe, Moon, not to mention Ojibwa and Chippewa.” I stood, grabbed a napkin from the bar, wiped my mouth, and asked for a doggie bag for my second Loony Burger. Lunatic produced a white Styrofoam box and placed the second burger inside. He closed the lid and secured the little tab to hold it shut.

“I think it’s time to visit with the Sheriff. I thank you sincerely for the insights into the story of Mi-Ge-Zi.” My use of the Anishinabe word pleased the bartender. “See ya later.”

“Yes, see you. By the way, do you think Larry was somehow involved with what went down out at the farm with his brother?”

"Does Beyonce float?"

I waved and turned to leave and nearly bumped into Horace Norris, who had appeared behind me. His old eyes were moist and calm. He said, “I’m sorry for your great loss, sir. It’s a sad thing.” Then he turned and shuffled back to his booth and his beer as I shouldered by the double doors and strode into the sunlight.

I
decided to hoof it to the Sheriff’s office eight blocks away and leave the truck in the parking lot. It was already warm, ninety degrees according to the Hawkeye State Bank time/temperature sign. No sense in waiting for it to get hotter before going to meet The Law. The opportunity to field test the effectiveness of mega-doses of ibuprofen on my thigh was another motivator. And a short walk would let me grab a closer look at Rockbluff’s downtown. I set my Styrofoam box in the truck.

Twenty yards south of The Grain o’ Truth, my curiosity was tweaked by Mulehoff’s Earthen Vessel Barbell Club and Video Rental across the street. Having a lifelong interest in places where people pay good money to publicly hurt themselves, it was worth a look. An old yellow Pinto wagon with a gray-primer driver’s door drove past. Its tailpipe hung from a bent coat hanger, and made metallic farting sounds as it went by. I crossed the street.

The combination of gym and video rental reminded me of businesses back in Georgia, sprouting up like fresh stinkweed everywhere. Laser eye surgery and funnel cakes in one place, fertility clinics combined with hot air balloon excursions in another. My favorite example of capitalism’s spirit in the Deep South combined a barbeque joint and dog grooming emporium, raising questions about the menu and the Department of Health. But I’d learned that loose licensing and a bit of grits graft can work wonders.

The storefront of Mulehoff’s looked like the aftermath of two architectural approaches running headlong into each other. Old brick and cheap, warped exterior paneling butted heads against blocks of opaque glass and a single Doric column by the front door. In a previous life, the enterprise might have been a neighborhood grocery, or maybe a tanning salon before that. I thumped the Doric column as I went by, confirming my guess that it was plastic and hollow (a little like me), and pushed through the glass door. Once inside, the air conditioning whispered up against me. Refreshing, soothing, like a kiss from a best friend’s girl. Not too cold.

The inside walls were concrete block painted green and gold. Scattered across the open floor space were benches and barbells, racks of solid dumbbells, and exercise machines. The abundance of good, familiar equipment was impressive. I meandered to the far end.

The video store was situated in the right rear corner. Movie posters of current films were taped to the back wall. Vampires feasting on busty
ingénues
, scenes of explosions, and top stars in heated liplocks returned my gaze.

A cash register sat on a display case that featured muscle-building food supplements, Earthen Vessel t-shirts, and bodybuilding magazines. A cooler the size of a tipped-up coffin and filled with water bottles and multi-hued sports drinks hummed softly against the back wall next to the posters. Powerlifting trophies, adorned with little silver statuettes of bulging men in frozen flexings, posed on a shelf next to the cooler. Probably the proprietor’s. Instant credibility.

I looked back at the workout area that comprised ninety percent of the room. Five men and two women in their twenties and thirties pumped iron, accompanied by good-natured chatter and encouragement. The men wore tank tops and Umbros; the women, brightly-colored thongs over iridescent tights, and tees over sports bras. The men tossed brief, insouciant glances in my direction. The women ignored my entrance after a quick size-up. I was old enough to be, given opportunity and lack of self-control in high school, their father.

A man sporting a short, salt-and-pepper beard muscled bench presses on a wooden lifting platform in the middle of the gym. He finished a set of five slow, smooth repetitions with an Olympic bar loaded with four forty-five pound plates on each end, 405 pounds counting the bar, which bent slightly under the weight, then bounced and clanged when the lifter racked the barbell.

I have never even attempted to do one rep with that much, and this man, in his fifty’s somewhere, had done five easily. He sat up, rubbed his gloved hands together, and looked around. When he saw me, he got up, stepped down from the platform, and ambled my way.

He wore a green t-shirt, black sweatpants, and gray New Balance cross-trainer shoes. He oozed power. Like a friar’s tonsure, curly gray and silver hair circled his balding pate. He bobbed along on the balls of his feet, moving like an amiable bear on street speed. I put up my hands as he approached.

“You
look
friendly,” I said. He laughed a peculiar, high-pitched giggle that immediately put me at ease. Most people that big and strong are docile, like bullmastiff dogs, understanding their strength. Good thing.

“Mike Mulehoff,” he said, peeling off his right glove and offering a handshake. The grip was not for the faint of heart.

“Thomas O’Shea."

He looked me over. “Bodybuilder?”

“No. I just work out to delay decay.”

Mulehoff smiled, revealing a gap between his top front teeth. I nodded at the bench in the middle of the room. “I couldn’t do one rep with four-o-five.”

“You could if you worked out here. I guarantee it.”

“You sound like an entrepreneur.”

“Naaa, I’m Scandinavian,” he deadpanned, “and trying to make a couple of bucks on the side to supplement my meager teacher’s income.”

“What do you teach?”

“History, Dubuque Senior High School. Down the river a ways. Know it?”

“Used to,” I said, “a long time ago when I attended Clinton High and used to bang heads with the Rams in the old Mississippi Valley Conference. Nice campus.”

“That it is. I like it there. Good kids.”

“Nice gym,” I said. In addition to the weights and machines, the place offered a complete array of treadmills, recumbent bikes, and elliptical trainers. “No tanning booths? No Day Care?”

“I’ll add them in when membership hits two thousand.”

“May you never reach that number.”

“That’s the way I feel, too. You want to give us a try? A free week and a t-shirt if you buy a monthly membership. You ought to consider us. Unlimited workouts. If you want music, bring your own iPod and keep it to yourself. No television sets. Tell you what, if you can bench two hundred pounds once with a three-second pause, I’ll give you a free month. If you can push the poundage, you can’t lose.”

“Thanks, but I plan on buying my own equipment.”

Mulehoff shrugged, then assessed me. “You don’t look familiar. You live around here?”

“I’m new in town, and I live south and east of here, on a bluff. House that Gunther Schmidt built a few months back.”

“Oh, so you’re
that
guy! Okay, now I understand,” he said softly, nodding his head slowly. “So, welcome to the Greater Rockbluff Metroplex, future sight of the Winter Olympic Games.”

I smiled and nodded and started for the door. Mike’s voice interrupted my flight.

“It’s okay to work out by yourself, but you might do better here. Scripture says ‘iron sharpens iron.’ If you can bench two hundred with that short pause, you can save money and still have people to work out with, or not. No one will bother you if you choose to work out solo.”

I went back. “I guess I have nothing to lose. Do I have to sign a waiver in case I blow out my shoulders? They’re creaky.”

“I think I can trust you not to sue.”

Already in t-shirt and jeans, I walked over to an empty bench, set an Olympic bar on the rack, and slid a pair of forty-five pound plates on my end of the bar as Mulehoff did the same on the other end. I sat on the bench and swung my arms across my chest a few times to loosen up.

“That’s two twenty-five, you know. You only have to do two hundred.”

“If I’m going to win a free month, I want to remove all doubt,” I said.

Mulehoff grinned. “I’ll spot you.” He moved to the head of the bench.

I laid back and scooted up. Then I reached up to the bar, gripped the cold, gnarled metal at shoulder width, popped the bar off the supports, steadied it, then slowly brought it down to my chest and held it there.

“One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three. PUSH!” Mulehoff shouted.

I pushed. The bar went up smoothly and I racked the weight, took a deep breath, and sat up. Sharp pain yelped deep in my left shoulder, but I didn’t mention it.

“Congratulations, Thomas!” Mulehoff said. He seemed genuinely pleased. “Not bad for an old Clinton High River King.”

“Thanks. I’ll be in Monday morning. What are your hours?”

“Open every day except Sunday, six AM to ten PM. And no additional charge for the subtle and sophisticated ambiance. But, changing the subject just a second,” he said, folding his thick arms across his deep chest, “were you in The Grain o’ Truth just now?”

“I was.”

“I thought I saw you go in. I was looking out the window between sets and saw Larry Soderstrom leaving a couple of minutes ago. Looked perturbed. What happened?”

“Moon did not like Larry’s attitude and told him to leave. Larry pulled a knife, Moon pulled a shotgun, Larry left.”

“A little free advice, Thomas. Avoid that guy. He’s bad news. And if I had been Moon, I might have just gone ahead and taken Mulehoff’s Initiative, someone pull a knife on me.” He pulled off his other lifting glove, the Velcro cherking with the movement.

“Mulehoff’s Initiative?”

“When I really want to do something, I just go ahead and do it. Calling it Mulehoff’s Initiative makes it sound more philosophical than carnal. So who else have you made friends with in Rockbluff, besides Larry Soderstrom?”

“I don’t know about friends, but I’ve had conversations with Lunatic Mooning. I met Arvid Pendergast, and bumped into Horace Norris, Rachel Schoendienst, Harvey Goodell, Liv Olson.”

“Horace is a trip, isn’t he?” Mulehoff asked rhetorically, laughing and rubbing his hands briskly with the white towel draped around his thick neck. “You need to sit down with him sometime and get to know him. Did you know he has terminal cancer?”

“He told me he was dying.”

“Prostate got to him, but so far it’s the slow-moving kind. Might have years and years left, but he’s not going to count on it. He does the roller blade bit, occasionally skydives, does snowmobiling in the winter. Squeezing out every bit of life available. Who else have you met in our metropolis?”

“I wasn’t formally introduced,” I said, wondering why I was giving Mulehoff so much information about me other than the fact that I liked him right away, “but I did run into Wendy Soderstrom yesterday, at their farm, and Molly Heisler, Deputy Doltch, a couple of EMS guys. Schumacher and Aldrich, I think their names were."

“You were out there when Hugh was killed? Are you kidding me?”

“I was driving by right after the accident. Tried to help. Too late.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’d like to know how Hugh Soderstrom ended up under that rotary mower. I think I’ll share my questions with the Sheriff. That’s where I was headed when your sign caught my eye.”

“He’ll listen to you. He’s fair. I’m sorry you had to bump into something like that so soon after moving here. It’s not perfect, but Rockbluff’s a good place to live.”

“Well, I gotta go. Maybe my new buddy Larry was up all night drinking because of what happened to his brother. I can understand that. He just needs to take his anger out on something more appropriate, like the heavy bag, or some deadlifts. Maybe a twenty-mile hike.”