6. Maynard Soloman Takes the Bus to a Strip Club

A gas station corn dog is the only thing in life that won’t lie to you. It’s a greasy tube of heart-stopping “meat” obscured from your better judgment by an edible sponge and speared by a stick so you know it’s dead. Delivers exactly what it promises.

Say what you will, but when humans perfected the corn dog, they proved their superiority over nature. There’s not much you can do with our animal rivals that you can’t get in a corn dog.

My mind measures these weighty topics as I clear the gas station parking lot. That’s when I spot ‘em. A gaggle of hoods loafing near my ‘bago. Almost makes me drop the dog stick. Be a gal-damn waste if I did. Bein’ on the edge of a big city like this means prices are somewhere around that cloud that looks like Elvis.

I down the corn dog in two bites as I clear the distance between us. I count the gaggle. One. Two. Three. Three shithead punks lookin’ to give a geezer like me some trouble.

Only I ain’t no sap ready to walk into a gazoomphin’. I’m a badger. The Ol’ Badger. And if these panty-waists want to tangle, that’s their problem.

 

I get to the ‘bago and flick the stick at their feet. I say, “If you Cro-Magnons ain’t got nothin’ better to do than loiter next to my RV like the gal-damn rocks in your heads, I got a job for you. Lay down on the ground. I need to test the clearance on the ‘bago.”

“You got a problem, old man?” the first shithead says. He sniffs like he’s scentin’ me.

“Yes, with the clearance on my RV. I just told you that, eggplant,” I say and start walking to the driver’s side door. Make a note for yourself. If you ever run into a buncha POSs like this, just blow ‘em off. They can’t stand it.

The shithead cuts me off, gets in my face. Now it’s my turn to sniff. Hmmm...hard to tell if he’s wearing crappy cologne or if a horse pissed on him after raiding an asparagus field. Kids nowadays, you never know.

“If you can’t tell, old man, there are three of us and one of you. So when I ask if you got a problem, you better make damn sure you show some respect,” the shithead says.

I laugh and step around him. “Counting that high without taking your shoes off must be a real accomplishment for you. I’d love to quiz your arithmetic, but I gotta scram.”

The shithead grabs my collar and twists me around. “You ain’t going nowhere,” he says.

The other two close in on me. Reminds me I shoulda bought two corn dogs, they were on sale. Damn.

“Now you listen close, old man. Downtown, you can sling rock all you want. But here, this gas station, this is our turf,” the shithead says.

Slinging rocks? Do kids still do that nowadays? I thought it was all video games and other blinking malarkey. I say, “If you guys are looking for my slingshot, you’re too late. It already snapped and hit me in the eye. I was breakin’ up two dogs fightin’ over my socks.”

True story. I’ll spare you the details, but you should know what I learned from that experience. Truck stops are not the place to do laundry.

The shithead shakes his head. “Don’t play dumb with me. We seen your RV,” he says and points to the side of the ‘bago. “Right there. It says, ‘Honk if you want crack.’”

This genius might be able to count to three, but he sure as hell can’t read. Because what it says on the side of my RV is “Maynard Soloman Investigation Services.” Oh, and a spray-painted penis. Gal-damn kids.

I start to correct this illiterate half-portion, but stop. Wait a minute.

Well, I’ll be dipped. This shithead can read, too. I’ve been gal-damn chiseled.

See, I paid some kids at that truck stop to touch up the ‘bago’s paint job. I took a quick doss in the cab, and when I woke up they were gone. Which was fine with me, by the way, because it meant I didn’t have to pay ‘em.

I hurried on outta there, so I didn’t check their work ‘til just now. They spray-painted, “Honk if you want crack,” over my business name. Little shits.

No wonder all those cretins were honkin’ on the highway. And here I thought it was because the ‘bago’s septic was draining onto their windshields.

Now these hoods think I’m running a mobile peepshow outta my RV. Thinkin’ I’ll sling my rocks onto the window and show people my crack. All for a honk? Shiste, I oughtta be chargin’ at least a nickel for a glimpse at my gems.

“Look, you fruitbats got it all wrong. I’m a private detective. Not private like penis. I’m more like a dick, you know? A private dick,” I say.

The three shitheads look confused. I explain it all over again. The first one cuts me off.

“Shut up, old man. Here’s a fact. If you sling your rock or your dick or whatever around here again, you’re going to be a dead old man. Understand?” he says.

“No problem. I can’t wait to never come back to this festering pile,” I say.

That’s the truth, too. I want to gun it through this forsaken metro. Don’t want to get stuck in big city rush hour traffic. Only stopped here for gas in case I wind up spending the night between bumpers.

The three shitheads mosey off. They look even more ridiculous from behind. Pants hangin’ down around their ankles and whatnot. I hope they trip on their faces. At least they’d have an excuse for mugs that ugly.

I hop into the ‘bago and start her up. I hear a knock on the door just as I’m about to pull out.

“Sorry, shitheads, but this RV don’t go to hell. I can give you directions, though,” I say as I roll down the window.

Only it ain’t them three shitheads. It’s a gal with thick, Coke bottle glasses.

“I’m sorry, but did you say you were a dick?” she says.

“And I’m sorry, too. I didn’t hear you honk,” I say.

“So you’re not a private detective?”

Ah ha. A client. I say, “No, I am.”

“You’re not?”

“Not what? I’m a private detective. Who in the hell are you?” I say.

“I’m someone who needs your help. I lost something,” she says and pauses like the words won’t come out.

“Out with it. Money? Jewels? Your right-of-way at a particularly nasty intersection?”

Finally, she says, “No. My daughter.”

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