Now that wasn’t his real name of course. In fact, I don’t ever recall him being addressed by his given name. I came on a job that he was on and Chickenhead was all I heard him being addressed as, even to his face. He seemed to enjoy it. But, given that was as much sense he had, it really doesn’t come as a surprise.

He was the epitome of what you would you would consider a hillbilly. He fit the stereotype to the letter. Stupid, slovenly, crass, it belied the native intelligence that he truly possessed, he knew that the things that he pulled made him look dumb. He didn’t care. His intention was to shock. But he got saddled with the nick Chickenhead all the same.

I guess he got that colorful nom de plume by doing silly stuff. For example, laughing at inappropriate times, saying nonsensical stuff, or going into the portapotty and smearing fecal matter all over the inside, waiting for the reaction of the next unsuspecting person to try and use it. He would laugh hysterically when a person would lose their lunch over that.

To demonstrate that he wasn’t that unintelligent, he was made into a machine operator. This meant that he drove a Hi-lo and delivered material to the areas where the work was happening. Now you really don’t want someone who is unsafe or too stupid to learn the controls running one of these baby’s. It makes quite a mess when a Lull, Pettibone, or T-Rex smashes into a scaffold that’s up 50 feet into the air.

A machine operator also has the responsibility to mix the mortar for the men that he is servicing. Sometimes, they would shovel sand into the mixer, add water, and break open a bag of mortar over the grate that protected the operator from the paddles. Once the mortar was made, pour it into a tub and deliver it to where it was needed.

Occasionally, the mortar had to meet a specific specification for strength and each batch was tested. So a sample had to be saved from each one that was mixed. The only cost effective way for that to be done was for the sand and mortar to be premixed at the plant and delivered in large canvas bags. These were emptied into a hopper which had the mixer positioned under the chute at the bottom.

All the man at the mixer had to do was open the chute, after adding water, of course, allowing an appropriate amount of the mix to fall into the running mixer, and close the chute.

On this particular day, Chickenhead was manning the mixer. This was the only thing he was tasked with, since we had a large crew working in several different places on the job. It was all one man could do to keep up with the mixing since we had two hoppers set up, one for mortar and one for cement grout, as we were rodding and grouting the walls as we went.

The hopper over the mortar mixer ran out of mix while Chickenhead was filling the machine for another batch. He called over Rock, the other, more experienced, operator on the job to pick up a bag and refill the hopper.

Now, this operation necessitated that one man climb up the ladder on the side of the hopper to the top, directing the operator on the machine over the top, and then open the bag, emptying the contents into the hopper. All this Chickenhead has done with sickening regularity for the best part of a week.

This time was no different.

After positioning the bag, he tugged on the rope that released the opening on the bottom and the mix began to pour into the hopper and straight through into the mixer.

It seems that Chickenhead had lived up to his name and forgot to close the chute at the bottom.

Rock didn’t notice it, he was intent on the operation at hand. Chickenhead couldn’t see it, since he was on top of the hopper. Meanwhile, the mix was flowing merrily away into the running mixer.

The first thing that gave away that something was wrong was the sound. At first it started off as a growl, which attracted my attention. I looked up to see the mix filling up the mixer. Then the sound got louder as the machine became glutted with the dry powder and sand. At last it couldn’t take anymore, but because of the way it was geared it couldn’t just shudder to a stop, it had to make a spectacular exit, seizing up and tipping over onto it’s side. Meanwhile all the mix dumped onto the smoking hulk of the mixer, burying it.

At this point, Chickenhead climbed down, looked at the mess he was responsible for, closed the chute, and walked off the job.

As he was kissing his wife goodbye, I turned on the radio to one of the easy listening stations and listened to some tune or another. We got on I-96 and headed east towards the job we were working on. We were both Bricklayers working on an Elementary School in the inner city of Detroit.

It was a poor neighborhood, that had an old broken down school house which had been demolished to make room for the new building that would take it’s place. Bringing new hope for the futures of the children that lived in the area.

Our start time was 7AM. And we got to work on our respective places on the wall. Keith, our Foreman, was making sure that everyone had made it in on time, mud was on the boards and block was placed close so that the laborers could get it to us. So our day of labor began just like any other day.

At around 9AM one of the laborers, I forget who, came over and mentioned that Keith had told him that someone had flown a private plane into one of the World Trade Center buildings. To which I remarked in amazement that the person should have been able to see something that big. Little did I know that the second plane had just flown into the other tower.

Working on a construction site, you are cut off from the rest of the world. News comes second, third, or fourth hand. So when I was told that a private plane had hit one of the towers, I believed that it was a similar situation as the one when the Empire State Building had been hit by a US  Army B-25 bomber on July 28, 1945 in a low fog. There was nothing to hint at the true enormity of what had happened.

Coffee break was at 9:15AM. Ken and I went down to my pickup truck to get our coffee and snacks. We got out our folding chairs and I got out my radio to listen to the news. As we sipped our coffee’s we heard, what we believed was the description of the damage from the first impact. The station I had tuned in had linked into the live feed from ABC News and we were hearing the voice of Tom Brokaw. During Mr. Brokaw’s newscast, more guys started to gather around to listen then he said that both towers were burning. We talked about how the fire could have jumped from one building to another.

At this point Keith came around and said that it was time to go back to work. It was 9:30AM. I took my radio to my work station to listen to further developments. I was working on a door opening. I was concentrating on plumbing a bullnosed block with my level and missed the excited voice of Brokaw describing the collapse of the first tower.

At approximately 10:45AM I heard Tom Brokaw sobbing, this caught my attention. He then said that both towers were gone, I stopped in shock and listened more closely. Then the true horror hit me. I called out as loudly as I could “They’re gone! The World Trade towers are both gone!”

Robby, one of our sub-foremen, stopped and said “What?!”

“Both towers are gone! They just collapsed!”

“How?!” He began to walk closer and others on the job stopped what they were doing to find out what was going on.

I told them that, from what I understood, Two planes had flown into both towers of the WTC and now they both went down. Then I said, “I think we’re at war!”

Well, that was it. The crew all went to Keith and demanded to go home to be with their families, to which he agreed. So we all packed up our equipment, cleaned the mixer and headed for home.

Ken and I talked about the situation on the way back to his house. After dropping him off, I went home and switched on my television and watched the towers cave in on replay after replay. It was then I learned of the attack on the Pentagon, later about Flight 93.

So many lives lost then. So many lost since.

In total 3,497 people died in the attacks on September 11, 2001.

2,735 civilians in the World Trade Center died

87 passengers and crew members aboard American Airlines Flight 11 that hit the North Tower

60 passengers and crew aboard United Flight 175 that hit the South Tower

343 New York City firefighters and rescue workers and 23 New York City law enforcement officers,

47 Port Authority workers and 37 Port Authority Police Officers, lost their lives when they rushed in to save the victims in the World Trade Center

36 passengers and crew aboard United Flight 93, who gave their lives stopping four hijackers over Pennsylvania

64 passengers and crew aboard American Airlines Flight 77 that crashed into the Pentagon, killing them and 125 people in the building.

May they all rest in peace.

As for the good for nothing men that carried out this crime, their number is not included in this list. they do not deserve to be numbered here.

Now the Loop Road can be found on a map, sometimes, sometimes not. To give you an idea where it’s location is, get out a map of Florida and follow Hwy 41 as it changes direction from North & South to East & West in Naples. Naples is on the Gulf side, south of Ft. Meyers, in case you need a little help. As you follow the map, just shy of the midway point between Miami and Naples you may, or may not, find a thin squiggly line that meanders south for about 5 miles into the Everglades. It then turns northeast towards Homestead. If you find it on the map, good for you. If not, get another map. I’ve found that about 1/4 of the maps I look at have the Loop Road on it.

Now this road really doesn’t go to any special place other than a world of Alligators, Snakes, Gar Fish with mouths full of teeth that would make an Alien proud, and various and sundry other critters that would occupy a swamp. Why, shortly after I married my wife I took her on a tour of this place and had an Otter cross the road in front of us. It was bigger than a German Shepherd. Not kidding. There are wild Orchids and Air Plants, gnarled old trees, and Spanish Moss. Water is everywhere, as you would expect in a swamp.

As to why this road is there, I really haven’t a clue. It was built and paved for some forgotten reason and neglected to the point where you really have to be careful of the potholes large enough to swallow a couple of Smart cars.

The last business that had anything to do with the road was on the corner of the Tamiami Trail (Hwy 41) and the Loop Road.

It was in an old 2 story house. The siding gray and unpainted for years, perhaps decades. The bottom story was a general store, set up to attract folks driving to or from one side of the state to the other. It offered such services as swamp weddings and other stuff designed to part la Torista from their money. The couple that ran the place were old Florida Crackers, as gnarled and wizened as the Mangroves that surrounded it. From them we learned the name of the road, since it wasn’t marked on the map and there weren’t any street signs other than the battered and bullet riddled Stop sign.

If you want to see a picture of the place, it was featured in the film Gone Fishin’ with Joe Pesci & Danny Glover.. They dressed the old place up somewhat for the film and after they were done with it, demolished it. There’s nothing more than an empty lot there now.

I’ve been there a few times, but the time I remember most clearly was when Toddy came down to visit Bobby Lee and me from Michigan. We all decided that we would take a roadtrip and show Toddy the sights. After stopping in Ft. Meyers to visit another old friend that had moved to Fla from MI we headed towards Miami with the plan of going down the Loop Road, doing a little fishing, and then, once we hit I-95, going up to my parent’s place in Lake Worth to visit
them.

I’m sure that we had intended to take less time in Ft. Meyers and spend a little less time fishing some of the Gar fish filled areas that we stopped at but time slipped away. Darkness began to settle in upon the land.

We had found a trail next to a canal that went deep into the Mangroves. Toddy being the adventurous sort, decided that he wanted to explore the area. I agreed to go with him but not before I had gotten out my six gun to take with us, just in case of trouble and left Bobby Lee with the vehicle. He didn’t want any part of it. Truth is, he wanted to be close to the cooler full of beer.

As we walked down the pathway the darkness closed in on us. The limbs of the trees above us were so interwoven that no light could penetrate. It was as though we had walked into a cave. The blackness so inky that I became concerned that one of us might stumble into the canal next to us. Of course, neither one of us had thought to bring a flashlight.

About a hundred yards in, I was just beginning to voice my doubts about continuing when a scream filled the air. Mind you, I grew up next to the edge of a swamp. Seen and heard a lot of different things in my explorations of it. However. this sound was like nothing I had ever heard before. It was followed by snarling, guttural sounds and the breaking of branches. Toddy and I
were frozen in our tracks trying desperately to see or identify what the hell this thing was, to no avail. I’ve been in some dark and dangerous places in my life before, but to say I was scared shitless would be about right.

Finally I looked at the shadow of the revolver in my hand. Even though it was a .45 Colt with some pretty stout loads, I felt like it was a toy. Like it really wasn’t up to what we were being confronted with. I turned to Toddy and said “Let’s get the hell out of here!” He agreed and we beat a hasty retreat.

Once we made it to the road, Bobby Lee asked us what happened. We asked him if he heard anything, which he denied. We then explained to him what had happened and he laughed at us.

We loaded up the Truck and went back the way we had come. Our intention had been to take the Loop Rd to the end but, not knowing what to expect, we didn’t want to take any chances about getting stranded off the beaten path overnight.

We got to my folk’s place about midnight. First thing I did when we got there was to go into the bathroom, strip off my drawers, put them in a plastic bag and throw them away .

I lied about the shitless part.

It was the dead of winter. A colder than usual season that year. So we all piled into Bobby Lee’s Dodge Colt and drove off towards the theater we had chosen. Now this theater was an Art House in Oak Park about 20 miles away from where we all lived. We really had no choice, since the film was in limited release in our area.

I know that most of you don’t really know what a Colt is. Let me try to give you a mental image. It was a sub-compact car only slightly larger than a Smart car. It had 4 doors, but to cram 5 men in their mid 20′s into it was something akin to a circus clown car. You just don’t know how it was done. Add to this mix the ever present suds of the gods and you just might have an idea the hilarity that insued. Just keep in mind that it was a simpler time and MADDness hadn’t taken over the world as of yet.

Upon reaching the theater, as we were walking in, who should we meet coming out but Bobby Lee’s mate, Kim.

Kim was a buxom blonde, the kind that made BL weak in the knees. She was the one that managed to snag him.

She was with her friend ,Sandy. It was an unexpected surprise running into them at the time. Not so much reflecting back on it.

After saying our hellos and good byes we entered into the theater as they seemingly left. We paid for our tickets, found our seats and settled in for the show.

Bobby Lee and Toddy loved their beer and they smuggled a few bottles in to enjoy through the film. These were no wimpy bottles like they have today. What with their twist off caps and such. Nope, these you had to open with a church key and they were long necks. Secreting them on your person was a bit problematic if it was warm out. But this was winter and Carhartt jackets were bulky with plenty of deep pockets. So it was easy enough to bring in as many as 6 bottles. But they settled for 4 each.

Something else that they didn’t like to do was get up in the middle of the film to go to the Men’s room. Which is kind of a problem if you have a bladder the size of a walnut like they did and consume as much brew as they liked to do. So what can be done to solve this age old problem?

They had developed a system and practiced it to such a fine science that this no longer was a dilemma. Since they brought their own containers in, they could serve a dual purpose. They urinated into the empties. You may wonder, since the orifice on a long neck is so small, did they miss or have some seepage? As I said, they were well practiced. To say that their targeting was highly cultivated would be an understatement. They could literally squirt through a Cheerio at 10 paces. Nary a drop was spilt. Darkness was an advantage under these circumstances, so a movie theater during the showing of a film was the perfect place to practice this arcane art.

The film progressed and came to a conclusion, the lights came on and the refilled bottles were left for the clean up crew. And we sneaked out as stealthily as we could. As we walked out towards where the car had been parked we discovered that it was no longer there. It was 11PM at night. Bobby Lee called his wife and was told tough shit, he and by extension, we, deserved it.

Since we didn’t have cell phones back in the day, we had gone back into the building to make the call and stay warm, it was zero degrees Fahrenheit after all. As we were standing wondering what to do, one of the girls from the clean up crew came out holding a beer bottle saying “Hey, look at what I just found and it’s full!”.

We eyed each other but didn’t say anything as she sniffed the business end of the bottle.

“Hmm…”, she says, “It smells like Vodka”.

We all cringed as she took a sip from the bottle. “It tastes salty” she declared.

It was at this point that Bobby Lee announced that he wasn’t going to hang around, he was going to hitchhike home and promptly walked out the door, went to the curb and stuck his thumb out. We followed.

Eventually we were picked up by a guy driving a pickup truck. It was colder than an icebox, but beggars can’t be choosers. Bobby Lee and Tommy rode in the cab, the rest of us in the back. I couldn’t feel my fingers and toes by the time we got to our area. When we got to Bobby Lee’s place, our jaws collectively dropped. The Colt was sitting in the driveway.

What happened after that is subject for another tale.

Nothing is so prized in the Michigan north woods than a Whitetail Buck. Men will threaten and fight over who shot even the smallest of spikehorns. Word of a big buck being taken flies with the speed of light. Folks will come for miles to admire such a beast. So the word of a buck that resembled the Hartford Elk in size being taken reached the ears of our deer camp.

A scouting party was sent to assess the animal during daylight. Toddy and Bloop were among those that went to be impressed. And impressed they were. It was an eight pointer, but the body was massive. As it hung from the cross beam, which was 10 feet high, of the buckpole, the head was touching the crossbeam and the rump was touching the ground making it look like the carcass was sitting.

It was all that was talked about in camp well into the night. Of course drinking was involved and it wasn’t long before a plot was hatched. Being as carefully planned as a bunch of alcohol besotted minds could manage, Toddy and Bloop set off on their caper. Their wheelman was Presly, an old former Marine, driving a Jeep.

The plan was to injun in in the dark, cut the body down and spirit it away. Of course, such a strategy is fraught with danger. First off, there is the chance of getting caught, which would be bad enough. But the man who had harvested this particular animal was employed by the MI/DNR as a Conservation Officer, so the odds of being arrested, in the very least, were excellent. Getting shot was a good possibility. Secondly, the location of the cabin was within sight of a major highway, where the lights of a passing vehicle could illuminate the buck and anyone around the area. Thirdly, it was a full moon, the light of which was brilliant that night.

But, undeterred, our intrepid crew continued with their design. Pulling up with the lights off so as not to be seen. Toddy and Bloop jumped out and went into the tall weeds. As they came closer they crawled on their bellies like reptiles until they were under their objective.

Looking into the window of the cabin, in a well lit room, there were four men playing cards and drinking. Joking and laughing, their voices were very clear. Bloop stood being careful to use the carcass to block any view of him and reaching up with a knife, cut the rope.

The body fell down with a thud pinning Toddy underneath. Bloop dropped, once again, to the ground and they waited to see if any reaction to the noise would come from the men inside. Unmindful that anything was amiss, they continued to play their game.

Cursing under his breath, Toddy extracted himself from the bulk on top of him, he and Bloop then began dragging the body of the deer away.

The weight of the animal made the going very difficult. Inch by precious inch they dragged their prize in silence with the exception of the grunts of their exertion. Once they had gotten it far enough away where they wouldn’t be seen, they stood and dragged it the rest of the way to the getaway vehicle.

Now, dear reader, let’s be clear about this. This was a Jeep. This was not a Cherokee, not a Grand Cherokee, not a Jeep pickup truck, this was a Jeep two seater with a small storage area behind the seats and this was going to be occupied by one of the raiders. There was no room to hide a deer that weighed 200+ lbs. So they threw the carcass across the hood, tied it down and sped off with their lights off into the moonlit night with their ill gotten gains.

The next morning they drove by to the sight of six men scratching their heads trying to figure out how a deceased animal had come back to life, cut itself down and walked away.

Perhaps we should be on the lookout for zombie deer.

Morgan was Dick’s sometime partner in business. The product of the pairing of a man who was himself the child of Ukrainian immigrants and a woman who was a redheaded Irish Hillbilly. He was the older of the 3 boys, Toddy being the youngest. As the firstborn, Morgan had this aura of entitlement. His folks were somewhat rich, making their fortune in real-estate and rental properties. But the Father was a simple man who continued to do masonry repairs, concrete work, and taught his sons the value of hard work. And expected them to stand on their own 2 feet.

Morgan’s arrogance and business practices earned him the nick The Young Pirate. This went beyond the fact that he was named after the 18th Century raider of the same name. He also loved to poke fun at people in sly and sometimes not so sly ways, fancying himself a great wit.

On this occasion Dick and the Pirate were doing a job in South Lyon. South Lyon at the time was a farming community that was just beginning to undergo the transformation from rural to suburban. They had hired Bloop for labor for the day but the weather was not cooperating in that it was raining and the work they needed to do could not be done under such circumstances. So they decided to go to the South Lyon Inn to shoot some pool, drink some beer, and see if the weather would improve.

A few fellas had trickled in while they were there and one of the men figured he would try to win the table from Morgan, who was something of a poolshark. After a couple of games Morgan couldn’t resist and began to tease his opponent. As time went on the gentleman was steadily losing his cool. Morgan was really enjoying himself since he loved to torment those he thought were his inferior. Dick was also getting in on the act. What they didn’t notice was the friend of the guy had slipped out and had made a phone call.

Slowly the bar had begun to fill with others, some pretending disinterest in the goings on, some watching the game. Morgan relentlessly needled the fella he was playing with, Dick throwing in a few verbal jabs here and there, yukking it up. Bloop, on the other hand, was sitting quietly, sipping his beer and shaking his head from time to time. This was not the first time he had seen this and he did not take any enjoyment out of it.

Suddenly the object of Morgan and Dick’s jeers had enough and challenged Morgan to a fight. Morgan laughing because he saw no problem dealing with the man who was smaller than him, asked here or outside. Turns out that here was the preferred choice.

Not much could be gleaned from Bloop’s narrative. One of the men walked over to him and said “You just sit there, this don’t concern you.” And the whole bar descended on Dick and Morgan. Two construction workers vs. a barful of farmboys wasn’t much of a fight. From the way Bloop told it, there were some boys there that were huge wearing nothing but overalls, diving into the melee. After Richard and the Pirate were rendered senseless, they were thrown down the stone steps facefirst onto the sidewalk. And Bloop was told to get them out of there.

For several weeks afterward, Dick and Morgan were not to be found. They wouldn’t answer the phone, answer the door, nothing. It was as if they had dropped off the face of the planet. They were trying to hide the fact that these two tough guys had gotten their ass kicked simply because they didn’t know when to keep their mouths shut.

I couldn’t think of 2 more deserving recipients of an attitude adjustment.

For a couple of years we rented a cabin outside of a small village named Yuma. The elderly couple that rented the place out to us had no idea that deer camp for us was a revelry that lasted for a least a week. Boozing, bar hopping by night, sleeping in the woods by day. Many a buck survived the season tip toeing around our slumbering, stupefied bodies. At least a dozen of us would make the trip. One year we had as many as 20 guys in our camp. Such are the circumstances of the following tale.

Drewski is a Navy man. He had served as an aircraft mechanic on 2 aircraft carriers so he is and always will be a stickler for the rules. His brother Bloop, on the other hand, was his opposite, as brothers often were. As straight-laced as Drewski was, Bloop was a long-haired hippy. But they did share one love, and that was Deer hunting. So each year they ended up in deer camp together.

Bloop and a couple of his buddies were at the Yuma bar. They had been drinking pretty hard and partying with the ladies who frequented the joint. These women loved to drink and it was at this time of year that they were able to drink for free because the Deer Hunters from down state were looking for a good time away from home. So there was dancing and whoopin’ ‘n hollerin’ well into the wee hours ’til closing time.

Bloop, Greg, and Marty staggered out to the car, only to find that the battery was dead. They were the last one’s at the bar and couldn’t find anyone with jumper cables to give them a jump. At any other time this wouldn’t be much of a problem, but this was late November in Northern Michigan and the temperature sometimes get pretty cold. On this night the temps were in the low teens, with jeans and sweatshirts and light jackets, they weren’t dressed for the cold.

Shivering in the car Bloop volunteered to walk the couple miles back to camp to get help, to which Greg and Marty agreed. If they had been sober, knowing Bloop like they did, things would have been a little different. But they were far from that state so…….

Bloop staggered back to camp and walked in the door of the cabin. The heater was on, everyone was asleep and he was pretty damn cold. He was also tired, so he grabbed a blanket curled up on the floor and went to sleep. No one paid any mind simply because we were all trying to sleep it off ourselves.

The next morning Toddy woke up and saw Bloop still blissfully asleep on the floor. He noticed that he was sleeping rather close to the heater. So close, in fact, that the blanket he was using was beginning to smolder. Grabbing his leg he dragged him away from the heater. Looking around, as he was making the coffee, he noticed that Greg and Marty were missing, so he tried to wake him up. Waking Bloop is a feat, it’s kind of like trying to wake the dead. In fact there are times when I believe that you would have more success in that endeavor. Screaming and loud noises have no effect. Water thrown on him is merely a waste of water, even rough physical shaking is to no avail.

As the others were waking and scratching suddenly there came a loud beating on the door. Drewski opened it to find a State Trooper standing on the porch.

“Excuse me, but these two gentlemen say they are staying here, and that one of their party is missing……”

Peeking around the Trooper was Greg and Marty. It seems that they had waited for help shivering in the car all night until dawn when the Trooper pulled into the parking lot and asked them what they were doing. Apparently, after explaining to him what had happened, they voiced their fears that something had happened to Bloop. How else explain why help hadn’t come?

Suddenly Marty spied Bloop sleeping on the floor, and the expletives began to fly. Then he ran over and kicked Bloop as he lay sleeping on the floor. Miraculously this awakened Bloop and he began to curse back. The Trooper asked if everything was okay to which Toddy told him that this goes on all the time. The Trooper then said he had a call and told us good luck. Meanwhile, Greg and Marty where threatening Bloop with great bodily harm, someone yelled take it outside. And out the door they piled.

As all this was going on Bobby Lee and Toddy’s older brother Morgan was sitting at the table laughing at the free morning’s entertainment. As he was watching all this transpire he was beginning to smell an odor that, at first he ignored, but it became more pungent the longer he sat there.

At this point I must explain to you dear reader, that Bloop had a problem with sleepwalking, especially when he was under the influence. He had no control over what he did and sometimes the things that he did were most inappropriate. In this case, while he was sleeping he was struck with an urge of a scatological nature. And, as he was sleepwalking did something that was most inappropriate. He had crawled under the kitchen table and dropped a load, took a dump, pinched a loaf. It was this that Morgan was smelling. Worse, his feet were in it. Fortunately for him, he had his boots on. Morgan, having a weak stomach, immediately threw up. Then ran screaming out of the cabin threatening to kick Bloop’s ass tracking feces all the way.

As if  by some signal, everyone began yelling, screaming and packing their things. It only seemed a few minutes and almost everyone was gone. We made Bloop scrub the floor before we allowed him to leave. He was muttering under his breath as he was doing it. But it seemed as though he had a sly grin as he worked.

It wasn’t long before the story started going around. And Toddy gave Bloop a title, thus the legend of  The Mad Shitter began.

One day Bobby Lee and I stopped by her house, which was a single-wide mobile home. It, being Florida in the summer time, had been pretty hot and humid and we were hoping to be invited in since her place had air conditioning. But, no such luck. She owned a dog, a long haired, shaggy female, with a pretty sweet disposition, which she kept outside in a doghouse. The name of the animal escapes me at this late date, so I will call her Pookie.

Bunny, had a request, would we be so kind as to shave her dog? It had been so hot and the dog had such long hair, she was afraid that it would overheat. So she wanted this done to help keep the dog cool.

Now the proper tool for this job would have been a set of electric clippers. The depth should be set for about 1/2 to 3/4 inch so that the dog had some hair and wouldn’t sunburn. We didn’t have the proper tool. Instead we had a pair of scissors and a safety razor.

Now let me remind you, dear reader, that Bobby Lee and I were firm believers in the breakfast of chumpions. And, of course, we were a pair of wise guys. Now if you’ve had any experience in the world, you would know that this is a bad combination if you are looking for serious minded people. On the other hand, it’s perfect for hilarity seekers. If this is what you are looking for, we did our very best to not disappoint.

As I began the task of shearing Pookie, Bobby Lee leaned over and whispered to me. I chuckled and agreed. After, clipping the fur as short as I could on the dog, I got the hose out and wet her down. Then I asked Bunny if she had some dish detergent which she went and got, handing it to me. I lathered Pookie down pretty good. Then I got out the safety razor, and began to shave the dog. Yes, that’s right, shave the dog. Now with a safety razor this is a job that must be done with extreme care, otherwise Pookie would be covered with a lot of cuts. But, an hour or so later, and with only a couple of nicks I managed to get the job done. Pookie was cleanly shaven with the exception of the 3 inch wide Mohawk running from the top of her head to the base of her tail.

Then Bobby Lee said “Hey Chet, we gotta go. We’ve got to meet that guy, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right” I said, and we fled the scene even as Bunny tried to protest Pookie’s appearance.

To be quite honest, I don’t regret doing that. The fur on that poor animal was so matted and tangled that it was an improvement to have her look like a plucked chicken.

I still can’t figure out why those kids didn’t like me, though.

Then he met Rondi

Rondi was 10 years younger than Bobby Lee, with all the good looks that a young woman has at the age of 22. She set her sights on him, and went for it like a deer for a salt lick. Ordinarily he would woo her and then drop her like a bad habit but she had something going for her that was his one weakness. She was a blonde. Blonde hair on a woman was Bobby Lee’s kryptonite. One look and he just got weak in the knees and couldn’t help himself. Fortunately most females, once they got a load of his act, got the hint and drifted off for better pickings. The problem with Rondi was she was no quitter.  She was raised on the farm and was used to handling big critters, like horses for example. She was no stranger to the carrot and the stick method of animal husbandry. And she used it quite skillfully on Bobby Lee.

He became so enamored with her, that it started to look serious. He was a cement contractor and had gotten a pretty good job with a local Country Club in Sun City Center. The job entailed the construction of a swale for water runoff to control flooding. Every day, like clockwork, Rondi would show up with lunch. This would consist of  a couple loaves of bread, lunch meat, some fruit, usually bananas and, the nectar of the gods, BEER! She would also bring with her a stack of tabloid newspapers. It just was not a good day for her if she could not read the latest dirt on the hoi palloi in Hollywood. She would sit on the ground while we ate lunch and read, outloud with commentary, to us. We all looked at each other with sideways glances as she read. Of course we all thought she was nuts. We also thought the same of Bobby Lee, but that was his natural state.

Most evenings after work we would go to Miz Dorman’s sandwich shop. This was a little place on 674 just west of Sun City Center. It was a place where you could unwind. Play pool, videogames, eat sandwiches and drink beer, all served up by Miz Dorman. a nice
woman in her mid-50′s that started the business after working hard, saved her money and went for the American dream. She was later busted with her husband smuggling marijuana into the U.S. from Mexico. Quite a large amount so I was told. But I digress.

The place was occupied by the usual gang, Duke (yes that is his name) and his wife, whom we called the Duchess (she loved that), his cousin Michael Lee and, on occasion, Duke’s sister Debbie. They were poster children for Florida Crackers, with enough inbreeding to be their own grandparents.

We had been there for a long enough period of time that Bobby Lee and I were feeling very relaxed when Rondi walked in with her sister. She pretended to be surprised that we were there. But with Bobby Lee’s blue Jeep pickup truck parked conspicuously out front, it was hard to believe her. It wasn’t long before she was buying all the beer for us. I started tapering off after a while, somebody had to drive us home. Bobby Lee was going full throttle with the bottle as Rondi was talking sweet talk to him and I was playing pool with Michael Lee.

Suddenly, Bobby Lee, called out to me, “Chet! Is it too late to find a Justice of the Peace?”

“Say what?”

“Yeah, Me and Rondi are gonna get Married!”

Looking at my long time friend, I could tell that he was on the deep southern side of toasted. I knew I had to save my best friend from making a mistake that could possibly be as bad as his first marriage, which only lasted 6 months.

So I walked up and said, “I donno”, scratching my head, “I think it’s kinda late to find a JP. I mean, look, it’s already dark out”.

“I’ll tell you what”, taking his arm, “let’s go home and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll be nice and fresh in the morning and we can find a JP then”.

Ignoring Rondi’s dirty looks I hustled Bobby Lee out the door and into the pickup truck. Starting the engine I drove calmly onto 674 towards home.

The next morning I got up and made a pot of coffee. It was a beautiful day out. Sun shining, birds singing. Just the kind of day made for a wedding.

The smell of brewing coffee woke up Bobby Lee. He came stumbling out of his bedroom, scratching his behind with one hand and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the other.

I poured him a cup of coffee, and after handing him the cup I clapped my hands together with a smile and said, “Well, you ready to get married?”

He looked at me like I had just stepped off a flying saucer and said, “Are you kidding?”

Now in case you are unaware of what a carnie is, it is a person who works in a carnival. Those traveling sideshows that you see spring up overnight in a parking lot. With rides like the Tilt-a-whirl, the Wild Mouse, a Ferris Wheel or similar rides. There are games like pitching rings over milk bottles and attractions like the world’s smallest man, or the snake woman. All of these people that appear in these shows, run the games or work on these rides are carnies.

Now when I was there in the 80′s living in Ruskin, Gibtown was just a short drive north. Bobby Lee and I would go to the Thriftway in town to purchase that nectar of life made with hops and barley. We would meet a number of the denizens of this wonderful place. Sometimes we would drive around the streets and marvel at the animals that were kept at the homes of those that lived there. There was one chimpanzee, old ,gray and grizzled, that was chained to a post in the ground. He was a real performer. If you pulled up in your car and applauded, would do back flips and other tricks. Put on quite a show. You could also see monkeys, bears, lions, and tigers sometimes uncaged. As wondrous as the animals were, the people that lived there were more memorable. I met the Lobster boy, Melvin Burkhart (the Human Blockhead who pounded spikes into his head), Jo Jo the dog faced boy among others.

The local watering hole is the Showtown Saloon a place Bobby Lee and I would go for a drink. I met the woman with 3 breasts there. Unlike some with the third gland in an odd location, she was well proportioned and the third was centered perfectly between the other 2. Now don’t ask me how I know this, that is a story for another day. When asked how she felt about it she said that she loved showbusiness and when she retired she was going to have the odd girl removed. Personally, I hope she didn’t, she was beautiful the way she was.

Other attractions was the Giants Camp where you could get a great meal at the resturant there. There is also a Phosphate mine that can be seen from Hwy 41. Now Phosphates are used quite extensively as a fertilizer. Keep in mind that, at that time, that area of Florida was agriculturally oriented. So phospates were quite important. The unfortunate side effect of phosphate mining is the enormous mounds of gypsum that gets piled up. The gypsum cannot be used, so I’ve been told, because of the low level of radiation in the stuff. So there is this huge mountain a couple of hundred feet high of gypsum visible from the highway.

One day as Bobby Lee and I were driving around drinking beer (please don’t tell the ladies at MADD, I don’t want to deal with the hysterics and I’ve since quit drinking) and enjoying the sights. We happened to drive by that gigantic pile. He was in rare form (well, not so rare if you know him) that day. Tipped his beer up took a deep drink, waved at that great summit of gypsum and yelled, ” Look, Chet, look… it’s Geek’s Peak!!!!!”

I spewed the mouthful of beer I had all over the windshield.

We’ve called it that ever since.