Serpent’s Tooth

A Cautionary Tale by Riley

Knew this guy, still do I guess, if he still lives. More and more pass these days and you don’t even hear. He was in on the North Sea back in 1970s - 1990s, minded the checkbook and wound up with a good reputation, a destroyed marriage and a Son. I worked with him now and then, never as much as I would have liked to, for he was a pleasant man to work with. A very nice, smart, Lutheran, tall guy from Wisconsin, who loved rock and roll and guitars.

He had one of those places down in Florida, all stucco-Spanish, up under big-leaved trees. An example of every pest known to man lurked in the ditches and tall grass. Maybe five acres, just off the main road. Just enough to be too much for a man who spent 250 or more days a year offshore to manage. He’d broken up with the Wife and she’d moved on, except she really never did. She got so that he was moved to go to court to get possession of his boy for his own good, but boys get a lot of their traits from their Mothers. He just didn’t have the time for a Son.

He had a locked room in his house, stuffed with tasty guitars: Jimmy Page guitars, Elvis guitars, bare-bones Fender Telecasters, the varnish long ago worn through to the wood out in some honkey-Tonk back in some woods north of Mobile, inlaid Gibsons and all the rest. It was the sort of collection a man cranking out a half million a year could amass, and it was what he thought of when he thought of home. He never clicked with his boy, not enough anyway.

Careful how you breed there, randy man. He had current girlfriends living there, and in some cases hired illegal kid watchers, all doing the Mom job on this young lad, while Mom was out greasing up the bitch-pad on some thug’s Harley. He also had the County coming around, the diversity lard but hard-ass chump-hire who hated him from the moment he spoke. He spoke well, you see. Made her feel dumb. Pissed her off. She made him her hobby. The situation was bad alright, but she saw it as such for all the wrong reasons. More inspections, and more demands, as this woman worked overtime to ensure his scene would fail. A half million a year will buy a lot of toys, but peace from the high sheriff and police costs a lot more.

His house became a party house for his Son and his friends, and the Mother would check in, accompanied by some road warrior opportunist, just to see her cub was safe. Really nice guitars started showing up in local pawn shops. The drug crap. He spent his month off running guitars down, all through Florida, Alabama and Georgia. He got perhaps half back. His Son was locked down on some felony. Diving contractors were thinking he was too hung up on safety issues.

The emails bounce back and the 'phone don’t hook up. I picture him sitting in the mouth of a cave, clutching his head with both paws, looking out over the desert moaning “what is it that you want from me?” Or maybe he’s with someone, happy for now and coping. One never knows, and for now wondering will do. I’m sorely worn out from mourning lost brothers.

Riley
September 29, ‘18