Fed Up

By Robert Etheridge

The collapse of the American Dream for this husband and father forces him to crime to save the life of his sick child. He becomes a man hunted by the police and the mob. This story is fast paced action and adventure with a twist. You will find this story to be engaging and easy to read with a happy ending you will not anticipate. Give it a try. It will be fun!
Thanks for your consideration.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Etheridge
• Release date: Oct 29, 2008
• ISBN: 9781452429830

Robert Etheridge

Robert Etheridge: Thirty-seven years ago I began to walk the Middle Way.(The TAO) This journey has allowed me a glimpse into our world that is unseen by many. I am not a seer or a special person of any kind. I put my pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. Because of my Walk along the Middle Way I am able to see our world with a different perspective. Most of us see, 'Through a Glass Darkly', because our life experiences and emotions cloud our vision. I dedicate my books to clear seeing. Enjoy! Have some fun! Read them!

Book preview

Robert Etheridge

Fed Up

For Readers Everywhere…

Fed Up

Copyright 2009 Robert Etheridge.

Cover Art by: Stewart Hines

A Smashwords Edition

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Published by: Robert Etheridge at Smashwords.com.

SMASH WORDS EDITION MARCH 2010

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Chapter 1

Mesha Truman liked aunt Christine but not as much as she liked her daddy. She loved her daddy. Her head hurt now and when it hurt that way her daddy would hold her tight, tell her he loved her, tell her that everything would be okay. Then he would rub her forehead with his fingers, sometimes whispering funny rhymes into her ear that made her laugh. She missed him.

Aunt Christine stood over the stove, stirring a saucepan of Tomato soup. Mesha sat on the counter watching the bubbling red liquid. It had a sweet smell.

What has gotten into that father of yours? said Aunt Christine.

He had to work, auntie, said Mesha.

I know, sweetheart, said Christine. She wiped her hands on a paper towel. Jimmy told me you might have to spend the night with me. Is your headache better?"

It hurts.

Christine picked Mesha up. She held her to her breast and rocked her. With her free hand she gently stroked Mesha's head. I'm so sorry it hurts, said Christine. Jimmy said he would have some real help for you after today.

Mesha began to cry softly. Christine could tell she was trying to hold back the tears. She was doing a good job for a six year old.

When will I see Momma? she sobbed.

You know your momma has gone to live with Jesus.

Am I going there too, asked Mesha in her soft, lisping,voice.

I don't know sweetheart.

Christine could feel the tension in Mesha's frail body. It was clear the pain was worse. Christine sensed that Mesha's time was running out. Come home Jimmy Truman, she whispered. Come home.

Jimmy Truman lay on his back under the '72 Chevy half ton long wide bed pickup truck. He rammed the last of eight shells into the twelve-gauge pump shotgun then lifted the gun up to snap it in place in a special holder mounted in the channel of the truck's rear frame.

I just can't let Mesha die, he said aloud, his voice echoing in the garage.

Jimmy rolled out from beneath the truck then climbed to his feet. His eyes roamed over the ugly white truck. To a casual observer it looked like an ordinary pickup, similar to thousands of others that motored over the streets of Oklahoma City. He bought it years ago, built the engine, but never got around to the body and paintwork. Even though the title was still in the original owner's name, the truck belonged to Jimmy. Its balanced, four-bolt-main, three hundred fifty cubic inch engine produced well over four hundred horsepower even before toggling on the nitrous oxide injection system. Octane booster was a must for every fuel up. With a ring and pinion gear ratio of 3.73 in the posi-trac rear end the truck would run a hundred and thirty before engaging the overdrive.

The flickering radiance of a tiny T.V. illuminated a small area of scattered tools on the workbench. Superimposed in the lower right corner of the screen was a tiny map of Oklahoma. Multicolored Doppler radar imagery showed a line of heavy thunderstorms moving toward Oklahoma City from the northwest. A watch, issued by the National Weather Service, predicted high winds, damaging hail and the possibility of tornados.

It was a Friday in the early spring. This was the day. The storm would set off alarms over the entire area but most important to Jimmy, it would ground the police helicopter.

He reached inside his jean jacket and pulled out his old military Colt .45 automatic pistol He checked the chamber. It held a stubby, brass, .45 ACP cartridge. Its clip was full. Four additional full clips were in his jacket pocket. He opened the driver's door and climbed behind the wheel. He reached under the seat and lifted a second twelve-gauge Winchester model 1300 riot gun from its mount. He checked it. Like its twin on the framerail, the shotgun was loaded with one three-inch magnum 00 round in the chamber and seven 2.5 inch 00 rounds in the fixed tubular magazine under the barrel. He switched on the police scanner, adjusted the volume, switched on the citizens band radio then reached up to the sun visor and adjusted the sensitivity of the radar detector. All was in order.

Jimmy took a deep breath, held it for a moment then released it. He started the engine. Its carefully muffled exhaust rumbled with quiet power. Depressing the red button on the remote control he opened the garage door and backed out. A new era in his life was about to begin.

Since I was a child I've tried to do the right thing, the honest thing, he said aloud. God knows I have tried.

He backed out onto the road, closed the garage door, pulled the selector to drive, and accelerated away. He wrinkled his nose at the dust that came in through the open window. He sneezed. In the distance, he could see a building black cloudbank. The smell of rain was in the air. When he turned onto state highway three, he drove northwest with the flow of traffic.

After he passed Piedmont road the traffic thinned out. The highway lay open ahead of him through countryside awash in sunlight, tinted by the brilliant greens of spring. Open fields stretched away on both sides of the road. Jimmy kicked the truck up to sixty-five and set the cruise control. He felt the rough texture of the leather steering wheel cover beneath his fingers. His thoughts went immediately to his daughter, Mesha.

Examined by three doctors over a period of several months and finally by Doctor Spence, a specialist, Mesha's diagnosis was shattering. After much testing and several visits to various labs, Doctor Spence took Jimmy aside while Mesha waited in the next room.

I'm sorry Mr. Truman, said Dr. Spence, his voice cracking with emotion. Mesha has an aneurysm in her brain. If we can locate a brain surgeon who will operate right away she has a chance. If not, she will die.

Jimmy absorbed the blow in silence. Mesha had been sick for a long time but just within the past few days she was much worse. He could not remember the last time he cried but he cried then, without shame.

Doctor Spence watched with tears clouding his own eyes. I like you Jimmy, he said. I can see you love Mesha. You do not owe me anything I just wish I could help but I am not a surgeon. I just do not have those skills. The surgeons I contacted would not consider a charity case. I was told that there was too much liability involved.

Rage boiled inside Jimmy at the thought of Mesha suffering because a doctor was worried about liability. He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand.

Why are you crying daddy, said Mesha, a lisp in her voice. Startled, both men turned toward her. She had entered the room unnoticed.

Oh, said Jimmy, catching his breath. It's nothing sweetheart. Mesha fixed her solemn brown eyes on him. I will be okay, daddy. I am not afraid. Don't cry.

The memory was like a knife thrust. Jimmy slapped his palm hard against the dashboard.

Damn bureaucracies, he said. Six months earlier his health insurance would have paid for the operation. Jimmy remembered the day Mr. Mercer, the new boss, called him into the office.

Clean-shaven, Mercer wore a tan three-piece suit. His black hair was slicked back. He bounced the tip of his ballpoint pen on the glass desktop as he watched Jimmy take a seat. Behind and to the right of Mercer stood a burly giant of a man from the warehouse named Johnson. His eyes met Jimmy's with a cold even gaze.

Truman, said Mercer. I am sure you are aware the company has changed ownership.

Yes, replied Jimmy. We sold out to the Japanese. My father fought them during the war.

Right, but its a different world now, isn't it? said Mercer, not waiting for a reply. This is not personal, I assure you. He paused, looking directly at Jimmy. We won't need you after today.

Jimmy was silent. Seconds dragged by. Seventeen years of service, gone, just like that? he said.

I'm afraid so, Truman.

Just one week before I am vested for retirement too, said Jimmy. What a coincidence. Jimmy thought immediately of Mesha. He needed his health insurance. Rage swelled within him. He leapt to his feet, moving toward Mercer. Johnson stepped between them. Before Jimmy could stop himself his right fist caught Johnson beneath the chin. His head snapped back. The big man's knees buckled. Jimmy hit him again, between the eyes. He fell face down to the floor. Fear twisted Mercer's face. Jimmy saw him reach for a button on the side of his desk. Jimmy slapped Mercer's hand away, grabbed hold of his tie and pulled hard, dragging him across the desk. A lamp toppled, shattering against the floor. Nose to nose with Mercer, Jimmy saw the terror in his eyes.

I gave the best part of my life to this company, said Jimmy. You think you have the power to ruin me, Mercer. I could kill you now if I wanted to. Mercer’s face was deep red. His eyes were bugged out. Jimmy realized he had lost control of himself. With great effort he forced himself to release Mercer. He would not allow his anger to go any further.

Mercer swallowed then sat down hard in his chair. He adjusted his tie. Johnson sat up on the floor, rubbing his jaw.

Just leave, Truman, said Mercer. It ends here. There will be no charges.

With clenched teeth, Jimmy stormed out of the building. That same day he received his severance pay and a notice that his health insurance would cost him a thousand a month if he wished to keep it. He could not afford it.

Now, as he drove along the highway with his .45 in his pocket, Jimmy remembered the day he tried to get help for Mesha from the state. A kind lady from the Department of Human Services had taken him aside.

Mr. Truman, she said, pulling down her glasses and looking at him directly. I don't usually tell it like it is. It can get me into a lot of trouble. You listen to me. Because of your income history you don't qualify for state help. If you want help for Mesha there are two sure ways. First, you could abandon her. Second, you could have yourself charged with child abuse. Either way the state would then take care of Mesha.

That is out of the question ma'am, replied Jimmy. How could I be sure she has the best care? Besides, we need each other.

I understand, she said. Good luck.

As Jimmy remembered these things, he felt the anger grow stronger within him, like a spring being wound tighter and tighter. A black cloud of rage dimmed the light of reason.

So much for the American Dream, he said aloud.

He remembered the day, not long after he was fired, when his wife, Sherry, handed him the notice from the Internal Revenue Service. It is the final notice, she said. They say we owe a hundred thousand dollars, Jimmy. She covered her mouth with her hand. What can we do?

That's crazy, said Jimmy. It has to be a mistake. Max said it was all taken care of.

Jimmy tried to call Max, his accountant. The phone was disconnected. Several days later, he learned that Max was charged with fraud. The man had disappeared.

Jimmy tried twice to hire an attorney. When they checked him out, finding he was destitute, they both declined his case. During the following months the IRS froze his bank accounts, seizing his home and personal property. Sherry grew distant. She became depressed for increasingly longer periods. She stayed in her bedroom, seldom coming out. One day, after returning home at dawn from his job as a janitor, Jimmy found Mesha asleep in her room. Sherry was gone. Jimmy thought she had gone to the grocery because their old junk car was not in its parking space.

As Mesha slept, Jimmy sat staring into the darkness of the tiny one bedroom apartment. Minutes later there was a knock at the door. A uniformed police officer stood there. She held her hat in her hand.

Are you Jimmy Truman, she asked.

Yes.

I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Truman, she said.

Your wife has been killed in a traffic accident.

Killed, stammered Jimmy. How did it happen?

She hit a bridge abutment at high speed. She was dead at the scene.

Jimmy stared at her, stunned to silence.

I'm very sorry.

She handed him a card. We can furnish crisis counseling for you. Feel free to call. The case number is on the card

Thank you, said Jimmy, examining the card.

After she walked away, Jimmy stood for a long time in the darkened entryway. Sherry had committed suicide. He was sure of it. Now, as he cruised along the highway, he could feel rage swell inside of him. He feared it. He remembered that same rage from a day when he was thirteen. A fight between another boy and himself ended when the other boy's father pulled Jimmy from on top of his son. The boy was hospitalized.

Jimmy's mother, a devout Christian, believed in the gifts of the spirit. She made Jimmy attend church. He well remembered her words that day. Don't forget the golden rule, Jimmy, she said. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

The rage that was in him now was ready to explode. He let that anger out in the war but in the following years he kept it under control. Now, he could feel that control slipping away. Right and wrong were blurring together, losing any meaning. He would get the money to save Mesha. His life really did not matter against that. He was keenly aware that this day could well be his last, the end for him and for his little girl.

Crackling static from the C.B. radio preceded a familiar voice. Hey, Gear Head, blared the voice. Are you out there Gear Head?

Jimmy unsnapped the microphone from the dash. He keyed up. A red light flashed on the C.B. radio’s 250-watt bilinear amplifier. Gear Head here, he said. Is that you Bear?"

Ten Four," came the static filled reply.

Be there in two minutes, said Jimmy. Is everything together?

It is all together and waiting.

Copy that.

Jimmy allowed himself a smile. Bear was a real friend, a man you could depend on.. Jimmy exited State Highway 3 onto a gravel road. He followed it for a quarter mile then turned in over a cattle guard onto a narrow road that wound through the trees. Bear's travel trailer was nestled under the shade of an oak tree. Bear stood beside the tiny trailer with a duffel bag on his shoulder. His hulking figure made the trailer seem even smaller. He was all muscle with just a bit of fat on the outside. His brothers of the Seminole tribe called him Bear because of his size and strength. His real name was Raymond Ballard. Half Indian and half Caucasian, his braided black ponytail made him look more like an