Switcheroo (5 page)

At the end of the first year it
was obvious from the results that I had not been at an actual library.  Strings
were pulled, endowments were made and I was allowed a second chance.  I joined
a fraternity, which was supposed to get me ‘into school’ according to my
folks.  All it did was get me into more trouble.  My drinking and partying had
no structure until I joined the fraternity.  I now had one hundred and ten new
friends for whom life meant acting out as many Jimmy Buffet songs as possible
before flunking out or graduating. They had a very fancy marijuana garden in
the attic.  Did this count as botany? They had a fortress made of empty kegs in
the back yard. It was really fun but not what I needed.

After a second year of poor
grades, Vanderbilt sent me home to Knoxville and I was informed that what I
really needed was the army.

I can’t say enough about the Army,
so I won’t even start.  I didn’t like it and they didn’t like me.  I was
discharged after two years with no skills beyond the ability to blow up things
and people.  I have yet to use these skills, although I have been tempted.

In college at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, life was somewhat different.  I worked at a furniture
upholstery shop in the afternoons picking up and delivering furniture, and went
to school in the mornings. This working structure helped me with my
under-achieving problem. I felt a lot better spending twenty dollars of my own
money than I would have spending twenty thousand dollars of my dad’s money. It
was in my junior year that I met Debra, ex-wife number one.  I met her at a
place I had found on campus to replace my old haunt, The Library. She was a
waitress at Old Campus Inn on Cumberland.

Waitresses have no choice; they
have to talk to you. Since I had used up all my self-esteem by 1983, I kept
going in there and hitting on her until we started going out.  She was a
beautiful girl, with a generous figure and a wonderful artsy quality.  Two
years later we were married and things changed. The generosity of her figure
grew Twinkie by Twinkie and her artistic intellect turned to argumentative
insecurity. Big words, big hips, lots of bitching.

We were divorced after three years
that felt like ten and I lost the house in Lyons Bend that my parents had given
me. I still drive past that house occasionally and get angry because it is so
nice. The den was bigger than the whole first floor of my current home.

I was twenty-six and a telephone
collector at 1
^st
National Bank in Knoxville.  It was a horribly
repetitive job that I viewed as a stepping stone to a higher paying, equally
repetitive job at the bank. I was working insane hours for what I thought was
very little money, while wishing I was making insane money for very little
work.

Over the next few years I worked
my way up to a profitable loan officer position and eventually attracted the
attention of Terry Black, Vice President of retail lending.  I began playing
tennis and golf with him on weekends and eventually got to know his darling
daughter, Michelle.

She was a tennis player herself. I
won’t bore you with the details but we hit it off.  After a one-year courtship,
we were married in a huge wedding at the Cranberry House on Kingston Pike. My
parents were proud of me for a brief moment.  The successful job and the
beautiful wedding… they got caught up in the fanfare.  It was really just a set
up for a bigger fall. I had over-reached my under-achieving bounds and was
about to be taken for a ride.

I had a few hobbies: golf, racquet
sports, and the occasional poker game.  Michelle had a hobby too: shopping.  I
had a pretty good job at the bank, but early in our marriage I found it hard to
keep up with her shopping binges.  She could trade cars, buy a wardrobe and
furnish a room all in the same weekend.  This, combined with our new house in
West Hills and her taste in restaurants, was a total strain on our resources. 
I could not ask my folks for any more help and I would not let her ask her
father, my boss, for help.  When the credit cards were all maxed out, I
canceled them.

When I told her we had to sell her
Porsche 911, she told me we were through. She needed more freedom.  What she
needed was a new sugar daddy, or sucker I would say.  Her father made up a
reason to fire me at the bank and I lost another beautiful house to divorce.

I went to police academy.  Why? 
Hey, chicks dig a uniform, right? I know that this doesn’t sound too sharp, but
I had seen enough domestic problems of my own to mediate other peoples’, ya
know?

After some mistakes and a couple
of years on the force I wrote the Mayor’s mother twenty-five parking tickets
and had her car impounded.  It was parked in handicapped parking across from
the City/ County building just about every day for a month.  Her only handicap
was alcoholism, and she totally disregarded all my tickets.  The Mayor’s wrath was
unstoppable.  I was released from the force.

Through an old bank connection, I
got a job as an independent contractor with LISA doing field investigation work
for finance companies. I got my PI license and eventually made enough money
working out of my apartment to open an office.  It was great work, no boss
breathing down my neck and I could work with other clients in my spare time.
With fifteen to twenty calls per week with LISA, I was making enough to take
only a minimum of other clients. I got these mostly by referral.  I had only a
tiny ad in the yellow pages. On the internet, you would have to scan at least
three pages of ads to find me.  AAA Aardvark Investigations got most of the
Yellow Pages biz.  Fine with me, they could have it.

I opened the office through the
kindness of my mother.  My father, a retired banker with investment savvy had
built a small fortune, and then died of a heart attack in 2007.  I had just
been kicked off the police force.  Mom softened toward me after dad passed on
and leased me a small office space in The Arcade building she owned.

It was a beautiful marble front
building on Gay Street downtown.  The office had twelve foot ceilings and would
have rented for about fifteen hundred per month to a stranger.  Mom let me have
it for five hundred a month. Funny thing was, she never cashed the checks I
sent her for rent. My checking account was now out of adjustment by over
$25,000 because of this.  I never mentioned this to mom, but I sensed she did
not have the heart to cash them, thinking (correctly so) that I was barely
getting by.

I should not complain. I was doing
pretty well.  After two years I took my financials to the bank and bought a
house in Sequoia, the same neighborhood where my mom lived.  It’s a big
neighborhood. My house was on the smaller, less fashionable side. Like the
difference between owning a Corvette and a Chevette. Both were Chevy’s, but
that’s were the similarity stops.

I had a black and white Border
Collie, Bandit, and a quarter acre yard for him to poop in.  I had a humble
house that no ex-wife could take.  Both ex’s had remarried, so I had no
alimony.  Life was pretty good, except for an occasional bout of loneliness.
Maybe Tammy could help with that.

This is pretty much what I told
Tammy in the back and forth discussion that lasted our twenty minute drive.  I
probably exaggerated a bit of the incomes and outcomes to try to impress her,
while leaving out how my own flaws had contributed to the divorces.

We pulled onto 11E and headed
toward her Grandma’s house. Sitting in the passenger seat, looking small, I
think Tammy was relieved that we were up to the present and I would not be
talking about me anymore.  I’m sure she was sorry she had asked about me.

“So that is why I am free Saturday
night.” I summarized, laughing uncomfortably at myself.  A moment passed. I
changed the subject.

“They really switch places every
night, eh?” I glanced at her.

She nodded, solemnly.

“You’re not messing with me?”

“Nope,” she said shaking her cute
little head.

“This is not Candid Camera?” I
raised an eyebrow.

“No!” she slapped my shoulder
playfully. “This is for real. You’ll see.”

“Where did you get these trucks?”
I asked. Like she said, getting serious.

“Fast Eddie’s on Chapman Highway,” she said. “He must have had about ten more just like the ones we bought.”

Fast Eddie’s AutoMart was known
for cheap cars and easy financing. Like most of the dealer’s on the Chapman Highway strip, his front line of cars was pretty, but don’t look too far beyond.  It
didn’t take too long to get past the rose garden.  His back line was total
junk. He bought them for $1,000 or less, true mileage unknown.  Then his staff
mechanic would slap the cars into running order and Eddie sold them for $2,995.
He would take $1,000 cash down and finance the rest on weekly payments until
the loan was paid or the car’s engine or transmission blew.  Most of these cars
were only fit for use as a DJ’s smoke machine.

“Do you think whoever owned the
trucks previously might want them back?” I asked.

“I don’t see why.  If the old
owner wanted the trucks, why would they sell them to Eddie?” She remarked.  A
good question.

Right then, she pointed to the
left at Grandma Tuttle’s house. It was pretty much what I expected.   A tin
roof farmhouse that looked about eighty to one hundred years old (I expect
Grandma Tuttle did too).  In the Chrysler’s headlights I could see the house
was either white or light green and it had a dark green raised seam roof with
no gutters.  It was a small two-story with a front porch that ran the length of
the house.

Pointing me toward a hanging swing
on the front porch, Tammy told me she would be right back. As I walked to the
swing, the old porch creaked under my feet. I sat, and looked up and down the
dark road.  There was not much zoning in this area of the county. There were
several houses and trailers of different types, sizes and values on this road,
Old Rutledge Pike.  Weird thing is, there are at least three roads in this area
called Old Rutledge Pike. I think the locals do this on purpose to help hide
from strangers and city folk. Most outsiders who come here are cops or bill
collectors.

The swing made a hushed squeaking
sound in harmony with the crickets.  In a moment Tammy came out with a cup of
coffee for me and a quilt and what looked like a walkie-talkie.

“That is the clunkiest cell phone
I ever saw.”

“It’s a baby monitor, Rust,” she
smirked. “Listen.”

I put an ear to the small device
and heard quiet and relaxed breathing.

“That’s a nice sound.” It was all
that came to mind. And it was a pleasant sound.

“Thanks, it took three minutes of
fun and nine months of suffering to make her,” Tammy laughed.

“How old is she?”

“Just turned two in July. Her
name’s Hannah.”

There was a pause.   Tammy hugged
her knees under the quilt.  I moved the swing with one foot. More crickets
worked their night magic.

“Do you really think you can get
both trucks for me?”

She puffed her cigarette as she
said this.

“If that other truck exists, I
will find it.” I tried to look reassuring. I had no idea what she was going to
show me at three seventeen AM. Hell, I was just happy to be alone with a
beautiful girl after midnight.

“What time is it?” She said.

“One thirty,” I said. “Less than
two hours to go. What do you want to do now?”

I picked this moment to slip my
arm around her shoulder.

“You got some ideas, I suppose?”
She raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I can think of a few
things.” I chuckled.

“Okay,” she said.

“Huh?” I was dreaming.

“I said, okay,” She said, drawing
close to my face and kissing me softly.

What happened next, as a
gentleman, I cannot repeat, but I will probably tell you all about it the next
time I get a few beers in me.  The strength of that old porch swing was
amazing.

Chapter
8

I was following a pair of tight
blue jeans, with Tammy inside them, down a short path to the garage. It was
shortly after three.

“What was that for?” I asked, not
wanting to, but having to ruin this for myself.

“What was what for?” Tammy did not
want to discuss it. After our brief porch swing episode we had held each other
under the quilt and talked about the weather, beer, Orby’s Place and pretty
much anything we could think of that did not involve sex or teleportation.

“I mean, why did you decide to
swing with me in the swing?”

“Well, I really need someone on my
side in this. I’m scared.” She shrugged and stopped for a moment.

“But, I was already on your side.
I’ve been hired to do a job.”

“It made me feel safe and wanted.
And besides, aren’t you even more on my side now?”

“Well, Hell yes I am.”

“Well then, there you go.” She
pulled me toward the garage.

What I saw inside could not have
been more mundane.  A cluttered garage with a black Ford pick up with front-end
damage.  The famous teleporting pickup truck did not impress.  It was very
dusty and one of the front tires was low.  I remembered Tammy’s story about her
husband driving into the trailer as I looked at the crumpled hood and driver’s
side fender. My mind snapped back to the reality of how silly this all was.

I had enjoyed myself. I had given
the little lady a ride home and she had in turn given me a ride on the front
porch swing.  But, at three seventeen, this sham was about to come to an end. 
When nothing happened, could I somehow unwind this without insulting her and
still be able to see her for a date.

“So this is it,” I said, staring
at the shabby little truck.

“I know what you are thinking, but
you will believe me when you see this.  Please stay.”  She looked at me with
pleading eyes.

I hadn’t mentioned leaving but it
had crossed my mind.

“So tell me what’s gonna happen?”
Me, playing along.

“Well, there is this shimmering
aura that appears, kinda ghost-like, around the truck.  Then it sort of
shimmers slow, then faster.  When it shimmers real fast it makes a sharp
crackle, like a loud electric spark. It’s bright, so you have to look away. 
Then when you look up the other truck is there, just like that.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Have you written any notes back
to these guys?”

“No, I don’t want to deal with
those assholes.  I just want the trucks for myself.” She gave me a serious
look.

“Can I have a kiss while we wait?”
I asked, teasing her.

“Didn’t you get enough already?”
she blushed. She stepped over and gave me a peck and an awkward hug.  The kind
of hug a cute girl gives an old uncle. Tammy broke the brief embrace and lit a
cigarette. She leaned her tired head back and exhaled before she spoke.

“When I was a kid my momma passed
away, cancer took her.  Gramma Tuttle says I should know better than to smoke,
but I can’t stop.  If I put ‘em away all I can think about are french-fries and
ice cream and anything Little Debbie makes, you know?  I guess everybody has
something.  I really don’t drink much and I don’t do drugs. These things are my
little vice.” Tammy chuckled a little, though nothing was really funny just
then.

I was watching her rest against
this truck that was supposedly about to do something.  I found myself thinking
snobbish thoughts about what I could do with this girl. Sort of a ‘My Fair
Lady’ type thing.  I could hear Tammy saying ‘I’m a good girl, I am’ in her
drawl. I shook my head. I couldn’t change her.  I also thought she was a little
young for my forty-one years.  I’ve heard half your age plus seven years was
the benchmark beneath which you were subject to the ridicule of your peers. 
And sometimes envy, if the girl in question was hot enough.  That made my
minimum age twenty-seven.  Tammy was twenty-two and, with her youthful looks,
could still make a high school cheer-leading squad.

“…that was before Grandpa Tuttle
passed on. Anyway, now I think Grandma Tuttle kinda likes me staying here. 
Little Hannah keeps her busy and maybe makes her feel young.” Tammy looked at
me. Shit, I missed a bunch of what she said.

“I see,” I said, while scratching
my devil beard and looking thoughtful. Tammy looked at her watch.

“It’s about to happen, you need to
watch the truck now.” She stopped leaning on it and stepped back. I too took a
step back, although I doubted anything would happen.  I was already thinking of
how I might ask to come over again tomorrow to sit with Tammy in her Grandma’s
garage.  They don’t call it a truck bed for nothing, you know.

We stood silently for a moment
until I could swear that truck did start to glow a little bit.  I glanced at my
watch, three seventeen by the dim light in the garage.  I looked up and a
freaky feeling swept through me. Something was happening.

The truck began a slow pattern of
white flashing that grew out of the bluish aura surrounding it.  My pulse
quickened as this flickering increased its speed. My bladder tightened, and the
flicker became a steady white light so intense that it crackled.  It brightened
further like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel that near-death
people claim to see.  I closed my eyes and still saw light through my eyelids.
The sound was that of a giant bug zapper working overtime on a hot June
evening.  Then it stopped, leaving nothing but the ringing in my ears.  My
vision cleared and I focused on the truck, the light had gone.

What I saw defied any explanation
I could think of. The truck had somehow repaired itself.  The fender and hood
were straight and the paint was free of blemishes.  Right then I noticed that
the truck was blue and I really began to lose it.  I looked at Tammy as if this
was what I expected and did my best to try and appear sort of bored with the
whole thing.

“So that’s it, huh?” I had my
hands in my pockets and was gently rocking from heel to toe, trying to
comprehend what I had seen. I felt a little light headed.  I had been shocked
by what I had seen, and shocked that she was telling the truth.  This girl
really had something.

“Now do you believe me?” she
asked.

“Yup,” I said, at a total loss for
any words. A few seconds passed quietly.

“I need to get both these trucks.
I cannot hide here forever.  Eventually, these guys are going to get both
trucks if we don’t do something. You have got to think of a scheme or a plot or
something.  This is my ticket out of this life.  Without Gramma Tuttle, I got
nothing and she ain’t getting any younger,” she was looking at me now.

After I got it together, we talked
about a strategy and decided we would stage a mock drop off to draw out the
criminals, or at least their errand boy. I needed somewhere to start. It was so
late, and I definitely wasn’t thinking clearly after having sex for the first
time in months and seeing these two trucks switch places.

I could only manage a slightly
dazed kiss on the cheek and I got in the LeBaron and started the engine. Tammy
stood by, her hands on my door.

“Why three seventeen?” I asked, not
really expecting an answer.

“Could be the inventor’s birthday,
March seventeenth? Oh, and that’s St. Patrick’s Day,” Tammy shrugged and turned
to walk back to the house. She waved her small hand at me over her shoulder.

On the drive home, I thought about
what had happened. After the trucks had switched I had given the truck a quick
once over.  Nothing unusual at all.  I had opened the door and the truck
contained a note the same as the one Tammy had shown me at Orby’s the night
before.  Tammy was going to miss her Sunday deadline for producing the truck.  
I needed to think.