Art The Cook

“WOMP.”

The meat cleaver thumps into the Chicken neck, cutting it clean as the blade embeds into the chopping block.

Art the cook freezes, distracted by his girlfriend doin’ her thing. He’s glad that all his fingers are still there.

Sweat beads down a bald head, 3 deep clefts on his forehead, down his smudge of a fat, clay face, a crushed ex boxers nose, down three folds of neck, into his massive barrel chest.

He groans as the ole woman on her knees under the chop block continues so suck on his ancient Johnson. Mava can still give a blow job with the best of them.

Art, in love with Mava Cox, both in their sixties, both seen the better parts of amazing, wild, violent lives and can still fuck like loco puppies; which they still are in their minds.

Art is five foot-six, 200 lbs of a powerhouse of a man. Has tattoos on his Popeye forearms and fingers like vice grips, scars covering a boxers beat on face, thick eyebrows over a nose broken more times than he can remember. He is one tough and crusty hombre.

Having lived everywhere, he’s an ex Merchant Marine. 25 years, India, Manila, Jakarta, Indo-China, Malay, and, then even more foreign locals where the folks didn’t speak English like San Antoine and Nogales. Eventually he got tired of all the relocation bullshit.

Five years earlier, like most world drifters Art had grinded in, found Inferno Flats and the arms of one sexy lady. Finally, he had found home.

Art, spent years lookin’ for a home, some altered state milieu where his odd talents could be appreciated.

Tired of brown, yellow, black folks that ate bird beaks, snake guts, monkey brains and drank their own piss, he yearned for a Texas Fried Steak. The Cox outfit needed a cook. Mava needed lovin’.

Thus two lost wrinkled ships met in the middle and thus the Fairy Tale had begun.

Bar fight, Nuevo Laredo (The Mexico Side) he had killed two oil workers with his fists. Escaping across the border he wandered for a spell, stumbled into Inferno Flats. Well, the rest is history.

Art was good to have around. In Mava’s sketchy violent world it was like having Sonny Liston waitin’ in the wings with a meat cleaver for a gal never knew when she would need help in a mixed up world.

In a world of fake tough guys, Art, was the real deal.

So as Mava sucks him off, gobble, gobble, gobble, gook, Arts small, black bead eyes sees Billy crash through the door as he strolls between the separation between bar and diner.

Art, knowing his beau was lookin’ fer the huge kid, mumbles. “Mava, its Billy.”

His eyes begin to roll into the back of his head.

More gobbley, gobbley, gooks. Art groans, peeks at the lacerated chicken; more fajitas on track for the bar tanight.

“Mava, its Billy. Yer lookin’ fer him, right darlin, asaaaah!”

Contact, Art’s words bluff into the old love machines ears. She stands, smiles, seas of wrinkles, sharp twinkle blues, fluffs her white hair; shy young girl. Art stuff his slong back into his checkered chef pants.

“Zip.”

She’s gazing with love at5 her hero, their two crazy kids in the last troughs of love.

Silent communications pass between them. Mava, business women, winks. More later my hero floatin’ in her blues. Art blushes, turns to the grills, sizzle, sizzle, pot, pans, boilin, chicken, slats of steak blackening on the black iron, grits cracking. Grits was his specialty. Mava out of the kitchen sees Billy in the bar. She moves towards him.

Oil men, a half dozen, nursing beers, two of them see Mava, tilt empties at her, whispers from the men seeing Billy in the bar.

Mava, cooler lid, slides it back, four more Pabst Blue Ribbons, delivers them to the men, gets.

“Thankys.”

It’s still early, Formica chairs, table tops and some bikers, not drunk yet, nursing drug hangovers, mindin’ their own bidness. There are few folks that really know what is really going down at Cox; better that way.

Billy is bashing his thumb against his Bic lighter. He gets frustrated by complicated things, sparks, groans from the monster kid. Art is in the kitchen, four plates under the infrared.

“Ping.”

Silver bell on the slat, Mava turns and scoops up the plates, slaps them on the table before the men, smirks, turns back, winces watching her son. Flame, smoke, Billy has mastered the lighter, bright boy, turns, screams from the bar.

“HEY MA, WHAT FER DINNER.”

Mava winces as she cracks an embarrassed smile at the oil men. Sue passes near the bar, she’s the barkeep. Mava groans, the place, a Freudian character study in pathos, driving her mad. Soon she will be out, maybe. Sue gets another swat on the ass, giggles and moves behind the bar ready to get cracking; ready for the night.

Cox bar is a hard core mix of head cases, cement heads. Bikers, Mexicans, criminals, folks needing disappearing, tough oil guys, border line biker garbage, not known to be the best decision makers on the planet. Sue, is tough, street wise and everybody knowed not to fuck with her. She guards her man, her turf with abject violence.

Showed up one day, on the run from Barstow, desert gal, on the run, violent husband, drug addled thug, personal punching bag for Earl, trucker, meth addict. She had scooted, most of her teeth intact. Through time, attrition, she had morphed into a bartender, enforcer, ball bat, shotgun behind the bar and finally became Billy’s main squeeze, only squeeze. She saw to that.

Tough, 35, sexy cookie, could handle a 12 gauges twin barrels like other gals could apply their eye liner. Good with a baseball bat, 44 inches, unruly boys, biker girls, cracks in the head, drunken psychos that somehow forgotten the Cox bars rules:

RULE # 1: Behave, cause if you don’t the slink bitch with the ball bat is gonna use yer cabasa as a piñata or air yer spleen out with her scatter gun.

RULE # 2: Refer, to Rule # 1.

No RULE # 3, cause that one went basically like this:

When all else fails, the guy in the kitchen, lookin’ like a cuddy Orangutan, wearin’ a white apron with a meat cleaver in his gnarly hand comes into play.

Though Sue could handle herself, the Ace was Art, backed up by Billy or his psychotic sibling Arvan, which kept the heathens, no matter how fucked up they were from burnin’ the shit box down. Unlike Congress, it had checks, balances, a kinda homicidal honesty ya would never find in that vaulted corrupt society.

The bar turns a profit, is a good ruse for Billy, Mava to run their other special business. The fact it makes some coin was an ancillary fringe benefit. Sometimes having the only game in town is a good thing.

As Bonnie had found Clyde, Sue has found Billy.

Sue appreciates anything, especially a home, love, if ya could call it that. She fit’s the usual MO of a fucked up life.

Drug addict mother, no education, except the one she got from the street. Raped by a daddy that loved her, she’s smart though, has no fear, cept Billy’s crazed mother. She takes her love where, when she can find it.

She works hard, is a fucking jealous wolverine, everybody knowed that. God have mercy on any slut ever have an eye wander Billy’s way. In a one act play of lunacy, Sue plays a marginal character role in the Cox’s insane Orwellian production to perfection.

Preparing the bar, for the night, Sue stares out through the bar/cafe separation. She sees Billy smoking, her heart swoons. Maybe she will buy the Alpha stud a lighter fer his birthday. Eyes dart at Art, ashes falling into a plate of meat, bake potato thumb meshing them in, swatting at a fly and, then back to work cleaning glasses, racking the glass on the rack. Yep, shot gun under the bar, has two red and copper caps in it, ball bat racked, things lookin’ pretty good fer the evenin’ festivities.

“MA, WHAT’S FER DINNER?” Billy booms.

Oil men smirk, Mava winces, gathering up empties fer the plastic dish wash box.

Mava, sharp blue eyes, face wrinkled to death, face burnt from the sun, grimaces, sweetly says. “Don’t knowed sweetheart.”

Mood swing, like a Quaalude junkie waking to a morning of a line of Cocaine, she tilts, screams.

“WHY DON’T YOU GET YOUR LAZY ASS IN THE FUCKING KITCHEN AND FIND OUT?”

Moods swings again, sweet, motherly like, oil men giggling, she pearls. “Darling.”

Billy, looks at her, grins white as perfect as genetic allows, says. “AHHHHHH, MA, I love ya.”

Same time Billy hops the connector bar counter, high-fives Art, grabs a fist of fried chicken and without missing a beat jumps back over. He moves out like Edwin Moses into the bar. Sue, face gleaming, washin’ up, watches the beer cooler slide back. Billy takes a beer, twist, foam, fizzle, drinks a Pabst Blue Ribbon dry. There’s nothin’ that boy don’t do that don’t drive her to a tizzy.”

Mava’s jaws grind as one of the high derrick oil workers over at Mobil Oil, over in Harley Ville grins.

“That boy seem ta be gettin’ bigger all the time?”

Mava grimaces, smirks.

“Only thing gettin’ bigger on Billy is his dick, and it’s doin’ all a the thinkin’ fer “I’m.”

Angst washes over her, men laugh. Not fer the last time does she think maybe she’ll have Art murder her son.

Mava turns, unfinished business with Art under the choppin’ block on her mind. An oil man’s voice turns her back.

“How’s that boy a yer’s, Jason doin?”

Genuine concern, love, washes over her sagging face. She falls to deep thoughts, several beats pass. Her eyes seem to glaze over as if a sheen of kindness envelopes over her.

“Jason...is Jason.”

Nods from the four men and, then the poignant moment is shattered as Doc Earl stumbles through the door, weaves and Mava sighs.

“What fucking now?”

Doc Earl, deep blue lips, eyes manic, jerks around like a turkey trotting around the pen. Mava winces, inhales as the oil men nudge each other, totally amused.

“YA need somethin’, Doctor Earl?” Kindness in her voice.

White hair flying to the roof like he just stuck his finger into a light socket, he croaks. “Biiillllly.”

Groans, moan’s from Mava as she says. “Billy in the bar, Doc.” She points off at the separation between bar/café, “Thata way, Doctor Earl.”

With his eyes rolling around his head, Doc Earl takes a few vaulted stops, jerks and disorientated he looks nuts as Mava moves to him, smiles and, then gives him a gentle shove.

Like a friction toy, he shuffles into the bar.

Oil men shuck giggles, whispers, Mava glares at them; smiles washed off of their faces. Mava, feeling stressed, moves into the kitchen, hesitates and turning, she looks out a back window into the night.

Some fifty meters from the main complex, a couple of black stallions, a barn, air conditioner stuck in the wall, lodge pole fence, eating wheat, a full moon glistening off of black pelts, drinking water from troughs and enjoying the beginning of nights cool stand around.

A look, beside’s frustration and anger no longer fills her face, sadness, concern, as she simply stares off at the barns and corrals. Shaking her head, she turns. Art is in the kitchen, she smiles at him and, then moves to him, needing his love bad for the evening.

She feels like she is going insane.