A bit of fiction

(I keep getting bothered by reality, here's a counter to that).

Bernard was a careful man. He was the proud and occasionally unscrupulous proprietor of Satan’s Bathtub, the most popular club/bar/restaurant on this side of the fence. When he first showed up and bought the old warehouse people had figured him for a new wannabe gang boss. When he started cleaning the place up for business though, they became curious.

Bernard had a knack for reading people and playing a crowd. He could tell what kind of music to play at any given time and truly understood the importance of a good groove. He was able to guess what kind of wine a rich politician’s wife would choose (not that they got many like that at The Tub) and he could convince a wild patron to put away his gun and have the person calmly sipping beer and discussing his or her deep psychological problems as if they were chatting about the president’s dog.  He could rile people up or make them laugh. He had a glib tongue and used his physical appearance and charm on men and women in equal measure, though in very different styles.

Bernard believed in using what tools you were given and being successful with them. People were his favourite tools. So when the hooded man came up behind him at the table where he was tallying the day’s profits and clapped him gently on the shoulder,  he rose politely and began assessing this new opportunity.  

“Mr. Houston,” the stranger said, “it’s good to see you again. We have considerable ground to cover in a very short period of time. If you would be so kind as to resume your seat, my colleague and I will join you.” A third person emerged from behind the curtain of the small stage in the corner. Also hooded, it was impossible to see his face at the moment.

Bernard smiled. “I’d recognize that dramatic entrance anywhere. So glad you boys finally caught up with me, it’s been a long time.” He sat down again. “Cigarette?” Both men accepted.  They sat together, looking like nothing less than a scene from a dreadful old movie about King Arthur. Bernard thought perhaps they should have gone with suits but it wouldn’t do at the moment to point out their out datedness. 

***

At around 5:30 in the morning Bernard was clearing the table of ashes, bottles and glasses. There might have been a faint trace of a frown on his normally smooth and ridiculously confident features. If one watched closely he might appear to pause as he walked through the door to the kitchen and place his hand on the door frame briefly. Only the empty air of the club would be able to tell what he said but if the building could have puffed itself up with pride and glanced around smugly, it would have.

quickweed

Yes, there really is a plant called quickweed. It's some of spring's earliest green around here; it self-seeds and will grow anywhere, doing well in good soil and holding on in poor soil. It sprouts so quickly and abundantly that other more useful plants don't stand a chance. I had a visiting friend, upon seeing the vegetation growing in front of the tractor in the doorway to the shed, comment that I obviously hadn't used the thing in a while. "Not fair," I rallied. "That's quickweed!" I'm still waiting for someone to tell me what it might be good for. I can't believe it doesn't have some long-lost herbal application. But the animals won't eat it, and although the bumblebees spend a lot of time humming around in the minuscule blooms, I can't help but think it's only because it's the most abundant flower within easy flight of their nest. Or maybe it's because they're bumblebees; sort of the working class Joes of the ever-industrious bee world. Plain yellow mustard to the honey bees' Grey Poupon. Bumblebees use bad grammar and swear a lot, but they get the job done. "Goddamn quickweed, " they say, "but it's a flower, ain't it? So let's get on with it. Hey, you gonna' finish that doughnut?" Salt of the earth, bumblebees.

So I pulled the quickweed in front of the tractor and tossed it out into the horse's paddock. For a startled second I thought she was actually trying to eat one of the plants, but on closer inspection I saw that I had pulled a dandelion at the same time and she was nibbling at that. Then I started the tractor and swung around to hook onto the manure spreader. I haven't used the spreader in a while and I wanted to make sure it still worked, what with sitting out in the weather and suffering from some mechanical neglect. I really need to start chiseling away at the horse's manure pile before winter. I never finished cleaning it up last fall, and it's beginning to take on personality. The quickweed likes it, of course. Great huge plants grow out of the edges where the manure is closer to soil and particularly fertile. So I hooked onto the spreader and dropped it into gear and took off across the paddock just to see if the beaters would turn and the apron chain advance without anything going "bang" and causing me to use language befitting a bumblebee. Everything worked well, at least running empty. But the real show was watching the horse take off across the paddock at about warp eight, bucking and kicking like a ... well, like a horse being spooked by a manure spreader. She wasn't frightened, of course, just needing an excuse to be an idiot, which she did magnificently. The joke is on her, I predict. She's pretty fat and poorly exercised, thanks to my neglect. She might be lame in the morning. She went off to her shed and stood there, puffing and looking big-eyed and alert.

I ran the spreader back and forth over a vast expanse of quickweed before I decided exactly where I wanted to park it. It has a soft tire which I need to pump up before I can put any weight on it. I flattened a lot of quickweed, but I know it'll spring right back up. You can pull it in the garden, and if you don't shake out the roots and expose them to the sun, it'll grow right where it lays, sending down new roots out of the stem where it touches the ground. I pulled a few more manure pile plants, just for fun. The horse came out of her shed and sniffed at them, but of course she didn't eat them.