Mick's first job

A friend of mine’s son got his dream job. He got it about a year ago and is still as happy as a dog with two tails. I’m proud of him by extension of his father. This is the story of his first day on the job. 

A sign flashed a yellow oval of Hain’s Bail Bonds over a glass door, not lighting anything other than the East Wareham fog that made the evening more oppressive. The corner botequim seemed to provide the most illumination with the vape shop's CBD sign a minor second. It looked like any rundown strip mall on the periphery of an already off-season Cape Cod. Micky smiled under his face mask like the dimwit he was. He was finally here. The three day bounty hunter training course made it clear that he was not Boba Fett, John Wayne in True Grit or even Dog Chapman. But finally he would be part of the law enforcement community. It was just a McGuire family tradition to be a cop. 

The family tradition [or family cliche as it were] went back to two different waves of Irish immigrants. His grandfather and grandmother were from families of the different waves. They hated each other. Not grandma and grandpa. That was more like Romeo and Julliet minus the ending. Just families not liking each other for forgotten or stupid reasons. This had something to do with the potato famine and the US Civil War and probably some old clan hatreds going back to when Rome was hanging out. They came over, pissed off all the WASPs and became cops or firefighters with the occasional professional Boxer or Bishop. 

Somewhere in there Grandma became the future McGuire and years of family feuding was proven worthless against the strength of biology. That opened Mick’s dad to really piss everyone off. His dad, Jim, a career Marine married a Filipino lady, Maria, at around his third WestPac. Mick’s mother was half his father’s height but twice the Catholic. Grandpa, the long time New York City cop, didn’t seem to mind but grandma was always...weary? Grandpa was a Korean War vet so he used an acronym, LBFM, when talking about Mick’s mom which always made his dad laugh. 

Mick was not born slow. Maria was brand new to the US and Jim had just changed duty stations to 29 Palms. SSG Jim McGuire fell in on a Field Training Exercise with his new unit for 30 days. Mick had a bad fever and Maria did not understand that she could have called any phone number on base to get help. Hell, twenty percent of the spouses on base speak Tagalog. But what's done is done. The fever damaged Mick’s cognition. 

On base schools were small and not great for disabilities. Are any schools really great for disabilities? Grandma McGuire to the rescue. She may never warm up to Maria but she love, love, loved her grandson! She knew of a school for special needs kids two blocks away there in NYC. By this time Jim was stationed at Quantico so grandma McGuire hopped the train and brought him up for the first grade. 

She took a job as a lunch lady. That was a bit of a mixed bag? First Grandpa McGuire didn’t like the idea of his wife working. He was still in that chauvinistic mindset that women cops should be limited to fetching coffee. Second, Grandma McGuire still used terms like ‘spastics,’ and racial slurs in reference to the children, the children’s parents and damn near everyone else. Two different times there were ‘due inquiries to dismiss’ her but both times the board looking to fire her used terms like “cultural misunderstanding” and “anachronism” Truth be told, they were scared of her. 

I’m not trying to excuse any of it. I just want you to know it was a weird situation. Other than that, I guess there was a normalcy? Monday through Friday Grandma McGuire got him up for a breakfast that always had ham and oatmeal. They walked to school. He did well in class. Not as good as the kids that had specific learning disabilities but not as bad as the kids with behavioral problems. When they were home he watched cartoons for an hour and then the various cop shows, war movies and western anything that grandpa watched. 

The weekends were divided between sports and church. Grandpa would get a few beers in and tell stories about being on the force that shouldn't be shared with adults. Grandma McGuire would pay the international calling charges so that Micky could talk to his grandma and aunt back in the Philippines. At church, grandpa made sure they prayed for the Giants or the Mets depending on what time of year it was. It was assumed that Notre Dame had enough of God’s grace but they regret not saying a rosary for the Navy-Notre Dame game in 2007. If there was an episode of Sheriff of Cochise or Hill Street Blues, Micky has seen it twenty times. Same for Gunsmoke and Car 54 Where Are You. Dragnet...do you even have to ask? 

When school was out, he would be on a flight to spend time with his mom and dad. When he was 14 his mom took him to the Philippines for summer break. All he really remembered was that Manila traffic was as bad as NYC and he ate so much dried mango that he had the runs. Once when he was 17 he asked his mom what a LBFM was. She slapped him across the face, said “don’t ever say that again” and then “I don’t know what it means” and then proceeded to pour his dad’s whiskey and scotch collection down the kitchen sink. 

He wanted to grow up to be a cop like grandpa. He had a bike and a baseball mitt. He had friends and candy. There was probably some other bad stuff that happened that I don’t know about. But normalcy for a high functioning special needs kid. 

At 19 his world crumbled. His Grandma died unexpectedly. The funeral was a week later. His parents came up from Blount Island Florida where Jim has been working as a civilian. It was the first time he saw his father cry. Two months later he did poorly on the ASVAB. He could still get in but he didn't have the score to be Military Police. Grandpa knew that if he couldn't get a waiver to become a National Guard MP, none of his contacts could even get him a Auxiliary Police gig north of the Mason-Dixon line. 

Serendipity led a phone call to grandpa while they were watching Wanted Dead or Alive with Steve McQueen.  The episode was The Partners where Wright King joins McQueen to become a sidekick bounty hunter. Grandpa took the phone to the bathroom and closed the door. It was something he did when he got calls about open cases and the like. They had decreased throughout the years, he still got them once a month. The irregular part of the call was when he came out. Usually he would go to the closet and pull out old log books or newspaper clippings.

“Mick? Would you like to try bounty hunting?” grandpa asked as he tried to untangle the phone cord that reached from the kitchen to just about everywhere else in the apartment. 

“Yeah, OK,” Mickey replied, obviously not having heard the question. 

“Mick?” grandpa having gave up on the phone cord, stepped into the living room to look at Mickey.

Mickey looked like he wanted fries with that or that he wanted to see the desert menu. Its always questions about food at this time of day. He processed the words, having to first recall them and then understand them. Finally, “Bounty Hunter?” 

“Yeah, an old friend could use some help” 

I won’t bore you with the rest of the conversation. Basically a friend of grandpa’s is a bondsman near Cape Cod. They spent time looking for training seminars. So you know, the state regulations on working legally as a bounty hunter are drastically different. One of the more laxed is Massachusetts. So skip ahead of the training, tearful goodbyes, a less than pleasant series of COVID weird Greyhound bus transfers, and a sad mix of Cape Cod mariner decor with run down meth head chic.

The glass door was heavy and loose on its hinges. A single ineffective bell pinged below the handhold and the open sign fluttered on its suction cup hook with the change in air pressure. The small vestibule turned into 1980s carpeted stairs going up, marked by stains and burn marks from errant cigarette cherries. Mickey paid it no mind as he made his way up to an open door. While there was more light in this office, the amount of cigarette smoke was thicker than the fog outside. Everyone at the 8 desks seemed to have a filterless in some state of smoldering.The smoke itself smelled of not just tobacco, though. There were smells of lemongrass, pine needles, sage. There were also bundles of dried garlic hanging here and there from the ceiling. 

Of those staff that were at desks, aside from the cigarettes, appeared a varied group. There was a lady that in time he would find was the last of the Nauset Tribe, if only by a little. She wore a flannel shirt; a denim coat draped over the back of her chair. Her hair touched mid coat, long and thick. There were two bearded fellows that sat across from each other laughing, one Jewish and one Egyptian. There was an older black lady that looked like Tyler Perry tried to make a Miss Cleo/Dion Warwick commercial but went campy...you can only put so many chicken bones in your desk decorations before it just looks like an advertisement for WingStop.  There was a fellow Asian man, though Mick was only sure he was not a Filipino, that wore a kind of capri pants and draping robe that reminded him of Jedi in the prequels. In one hand he had his cigarette but in the other was a chain of wooden beads, a fat rosary? The last two stood up and made their way to Mickey.

“Mickey…I’m Sam,” the name was said like seeing a forgotten old friend at a 20 year high school reunion. The man saying it looked like Charlie from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Slightly more rat faced and wearing a leisure suit that might be wardrobe from The Partridge Family. He didn’t look like one of Grandpa McGuire's old friends. He offered both hands for a vigorous handshake. The second was a young lady dressed in a simple Kurta Tunic that was a little dirty. She wore jewelry that is commonly associated with Bangladeshi women but in dull iron instead of the flash vibrant gold. She did not shake his hand. She did not make eye contact. She looked like an extra if a goth crowd tried to make a bollywood movie?

“Good Afternoon sir,” As this was Mickey's first job, his pride quickly turned to mild anxiety. It hit him that he was always with family nearby. Now his world was strangers. 

“You’re just in time. This is Vijila. We have a tip and so we can talk on the ride over,” Out of what seemed like nowhere, Sam handed Mickey an over-under break action shotgun with amazing etch work from the tip of the barrel to the wood shoulder stock. Sam pushed Mickey out the door and down the stairs. He made small talk and laughed, but Mickey could not recall the topics even seconds after spoken. 

Once outside Vijilia, took the lead through the parking lot to a white commercial van with no markings besides the Ford emblem and the Massachusetts licence plate. Sam opened the sliding side door as Vijila crawled into the driver seat. For a split second Mickey thought it was funny as he went to ride shotgun while holding a shotgun. Sam continued talking while Vijila drove in silence. 

Sam spoke of Grandpa McGuire like they were on the force together. It was weird. This guy looked younger than his dad. Fifty-ish? Vijila’s driving was almost robotically exact.  Also unnerving. Sam never seemed to ask Mickey any questions and Vijila didn’t seem to acknowledge his existence. Mick did take the time to check if the gun was loaded. He’s pretty sure he asked if he should have more shells but didn’t recall an answer. Finally they pulled into a parking lot that was closed for the season or maybe COVID water park. The van was facing across Cranberry Highway to a 2 star hotel.

It occurred to Mickey that this is the motel his grandfather had booked him for the next month until he could find his own place. Room 127 had two suitcases unopened on the bed and nothing in the mini fridge. But they were not here for that. They all hopped out of the van. Vijila got in the back of the van and was searching through some burlap sacks. Sam gestured for Mick to follow and proceeded to cross Cranberry. 

The brandished shotgun made Mick self conscious so he made every attempt to obfuscate it with his body from any incoming headlights. Proud but clumsy and shy. By the time he crossed, Sam was already walking out of the front office with a key in hand. Mick still felt out in the open standing in the parking lot and was considering ducking into his room. Sam seemed to stand in the way.

“Ok, Vijila will be doing the work on this one in the back of the motel. I’ll be watching the front. I want you to go with her and watch her back. The guests that are in their rooms have been informed that there is a fugitive recovery in progress and to stay in their rooms. You guys will be in the back of the motel so you shouldn’t see anyone as is. If you do, shoot! It's a rock salt load so it will hurt but not kill. Any questions?” but Sam didn’t give Mick a chance to ask before pushing him in the direction of Vijila who was now making her way around the back of the motel with a slung backpack. 

He caught up. She continued to ignore him. The back side of the motel stretched for maybe 20 feet and then sloped downward rather drastically. There were years of litter either blown in or dropped off by drunks and vagrants. The grass was wet and the loamy fine sand sunk more than expected with each step. Floodlights on a passive infrared turned on as they approached an open picture window. Below the window was a freshly discarded but old mattress with sheets piled atop.

When they were close enough Mick could see blood stains on the sheets. It finally hit him like a flyswatter hitting a horsefly. Not enough to crush him but enough to make him dizzy and sick to his stomach. Working in law enforcement meant someone was a victim of real pain. Was this what he wanted? He had to sit down. The wet grass instantly dampened his underwear.

Vijila looked up from her bag which she had placed near the mattress. She placed her hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. She wobbled her head left to right slowly. He wasn’t sure if she had a sore neck but it gave him a sense of comfort and focus. It was the focus he truly needed to step up to the job. A job he had dreamed about his whole life in one way or another. 

At that very moment an extremely ugly, saggy breast, a black tongue, rough lipped Indian woman jumped out of the mattress with the jolt of an Evil Dead movie. She was naked with claw-like hands, and scruffy, long pubic hair but he focused instead on her feet being turned backward at the ankles. It just looked like it hurt? 

The shotgun sounded off from his hip just safe of Vijila. The ghost vanished with the fire and salt that covered Mick’s field of vision. Vijila rubbed her ear like she was cleaning it of wax and then she smiled at him. She walked over and pulled out a folding shovel.

It took most of the rest of the night but she eventually had an excavation the size of the mattress and about three feet deep. She buried the mattress. The spot was then sown with mustard seeds. She packed her bag back and then grabbed Mick’s hand to lead him back around to the front of the hotel. Sam was still in the motel parking and chatting away on his cell phone. 

“How’d it go Mickey?” For once Sam seemed to pause so that Mick could answer but Mick’s mouth just dropped open. No single thought could rise past the shock and develop into a phrase. 

Sam took Mick’s chin, “That was a Churel. A ghost of a woman who died during childbirth. She needed to be sent back to the land of the dead. A Churel rises from her grave at nightfall and seeks to return to her family but when she sees the minute grains of the mustard scattered abroad and stoops to pick it up, and while she is engaged, the sun rises and she is unable to visit her home. The mustard blooms in the afterlife and the sweet smell pleases the spirit...keeps her content, so that she doesn’t want to visit her earthly home. Do you understand?”

“Was Grandpa McGuire really a cop?” Somehow that was all that could come out.

“Yes, he was an excellent cop,” Sam open hand pointed in the direction of the van across the street.