Bug on a Hot Plate

By Ronnie Remonda

George Neff returned from WW II to find a world he no longer understood. His girlfriend is married, most of his friends are gone, and his folks no longer understood him. So he takes to the open road, moving with the seasons and working odd jobs, not wanting to be from anywhere or care for any body. George meets Bo while working at a job, cutting pulpwood, and the two strike up an unlikely friendship. They continue to bum around the country together, until they come to the town of Warren. Warren changes their lives. Here they find people who accept them, and believe in them. Here George finds out that there are still things in life that are worth fighting for, while Bo faces his worst nightmare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 14, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462078882

Ronnie Remonda

Ronnie Remonda has lived in North Central Florida for the last eighteen years. Before that he lived in a small community in upstate New York. An avid writer for the last ten years, he has written numerous short stories, and has several novels in the making. His stories are sometimes humorous, sometimes graphic, but always with a human element that is flavored with just a touch of cynicism.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The plane came out of nowhere! It was so close he could see the eyes of the pilot. A burst of fire came from the wing guns, tearing a line of destruction down the left side of the big B-17’s fuselage. George swung the gun around and squeezed the trigger. The huge, .50 caliber gun retorted with a volley of rapid fire that shook his arms and shoulders until they were nearly numb. The fighter’s fuselage burst into flames, as the plane spiraled downward, out of control. George saw no parachute. Almost immediately, another fighter appeared, this time to his left, at five o’clock high. He swung to the left, and squeezed off a short round. The plane dove to the right and down. As his tracers cut a path over it’s right wing. Bastard! he yelled. It appeared again, now to the right, low and climbing. He could see the black and white Maltese on the underside of its wings as it leveled off, its wing guns barking, sending a stream of bullets just above his head. He swung the gun wildly, his hand on the trigger. The adrenaline coursed through his veins, causing his heart to beat out of control. He cut a swath across the fighter’s path. It pulled up and faded off to the right, it’s tail section in flames. Just then he heard an explosion! The huge, B-17 Flying Fortress shuttered like a dying swan. She started down, flames streaming from what used to be the cockpit!

Everybody out! came the orders through the headphones. George never knew from whom.

He unfastened himself from his harness, and climbed out of the blister of the tail gun. He stopped, briefly, to help the belly gunner up from his turret. Struggling to keep their balance, they both hit the silk. The whining of the plane screamed in his ears, as it plummeted steadily earthward. He counted the chutes. There were only six, including his. The plane began to break up as the whining began to take on the tone of a ringing bell.

George Neff opened his eyes and looked around. The old alarm clock on the chair beside his cot was ringing loudly. He slammed his hand down hard on top, and it stopped. George rubbed his eyes. The sun had not yet risen, and the room was bathed in the twilight haze of moonlight. To his left, he could hear Bo’s familiar snoring: deep, throaty growls, followed by a sound not unlike that of a wounded puppy. He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. They came away wet. He felt his pillow. It was soaked with sweat. He needed to stop having these bad dreams. The war was over. He was back home now, and safe in his own country. So why didn’t he feel safe?

George walked across the room to where Bo slept, sprawled across his sagging cot. Arms and feet were everywhere, hanging off the cot in twisted profusion, as if an adult had been placed in a child’s crib. He approached the huge man, cautiously, shaking him by his foot. On occasion, while not fully awake, Bo had been known to strike out with a huge arm that could easily break a man’s leg. Bo grunted and snorted, then opened his eyes. His mouth’s open gape turned into a silly grin, as his eyes focused on George’s familiar form.

Hi Georgy, he said, in his slow, familiar draw. Bo’s real name was Ralph Bode, but people who knew him just called him Bo. It seemed like a natural thing to do. The name seemed to fit.

Get dressed, Bo, George ordered, slapping the big man’s feet. We need to find us some work in this town. We’re about out of dough. I think there’s a little flour left in the can. If it ain’t too buggy, ya want some pancakes?

Sure Georgy, Bo said, his big feet now resting on the cracked, wood plank floor, the center of his bunk stretching nearly to the floor under his weight. I’m powerful hungry.

You’re always hungry, Bo.

The room they lived in was small, tucked away in the back of an old, two-story house. There were seven apartments in all. They were mostly one-room utilities. The cold-water flat that George and Bo now rented was fashioned from what had once been a back porch. The floor leaned, noticeably, toward the outside wall. The windows, extending across the back and one side, were covered with one continuous piece of rusty screen that was fastened to the inside with carpet tacks. Ill-fitting windows, the outer edges rotted black from lack of paint, their glazing cracked or missing, were held open with lengths of rusty furnace chain, strung to the overhang. The only plumbing was an old, rusty, bathroom sink that was fastened to the inside wall. Its trapless drain ran straight through the floor, lending to the impression that perhaps that was as far as it went. The toilet, consisting of a two-holed privy, lay fifty feet behind the house, and was a favorite haunt of spiders, scorpions and guinea wasps. The room was small, maybe ten feet by twelve, with a dresser, a small table, two mismatched chairs, and two cots, occupying most of the available space. Across the back wall was a long, high shelf, and near the corner, a five foot length of pipe, fastened to the wall at one end, and suspended on wire from the ceiling at the other end that served as a clothes rod.

George opened the dresser drawer and removed a hot plate he kept there from prying eyes. He felt that what the landlady didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Besides, he couldn’t afford the six dollars a week for a utility apartment. There, he would have his own stove, and would be allowed to cook. He set the hot plate on the table in the center of the room, and hooked the extension cord into the only outlet, located on the side of the naked bulb that hung from the ceiling. As he plugged in the hot plate, the bulb dimmed. Getting the landlady to supply an extension cord was a little like pulling teeth. He had to convince her that he needed it for his electric shaver. He hoped she never found out that he didn’t own an electric shaver.

George went back to the dresser and removed the can of flour, or at least what was left of it. It was three quarters gone. A large roach crawled from under the can, and ran across his hand. He flicked it off with his finger, and it landed, stunned, in the middle of the hot plate. The burner was just beginning to glow, and the bug jumped about, as if being yanked about by some invisible string. Running blindly in circles, it twitched and bounded, as if its makeup consisted mostly of popcorn. It stopped, abruptly, as the burner glowed red. It sizzled, and finally, it popped!

There! said George, laughingly, as he plucked it’s lifeless carcass from the burner with the corner of the spatula, that’ll teach you to mess around with my food.

Bo looked horror stricken. Poor bug, he said.

Damn, Bo! It’s only a cockroach. They’re dirty. They spread disease. You’ve seen me step on a hundred of em.

I know, Georgy, he said, in his slow fashion, but that was not a nice way ta go. There were tears forming in the big man’s eye.

George had mixed some self-rising flour, some salt, and some water into a workable batter. He never once checked for infestation. If there were bugs, he didn’t want to know. He picked up an old coffee can. It was half full of bacon grease, left over from better times. Walking toward the door, he scrapped the green mold from the top, and flung it out into the yard. He walked back and greased the pan. Smoke billowed up, and was sucked out the windows by the morning breeze. He hoped it wasn’t going into the old lady’s window. There was just enough for eight pancakes, of which he ate two. There was nothing to put on top. The little bit of encrusted sugar, left in the cracked coffee cup that they used for a sugar bowl, would be needed for their tea. He had already put the water on to boil. The two remaining tea bags had already been used twice. George worked them, and squeezed them, to get two more cups, before, reluctantly, throwing them away. He washed up the iron skillet, the two plates, the bowl, and the two porcelain cups, that constituted most of their kitchen utensils. He put them away in an old, leather, overnight bag. He put the hot plate, the can of grease, the saucepan, and the makeshift sugar bowl into the top drawer of the dresser. There was more room in the dresser than they needed. Four shirts, a couple pair of pants, six hankies, and a dozen pair of socks, between the two of them, didn’t require much drawer space.

A rolling stone gathers no moss, was an expression that fit them well. They never stayed too long in one place. They traveled light. Most of the time they would move on because of Bo. At first, people were afraid of him, this huge giant, with his wide shoulders, and his sunken eyes. This was as it should be. As long as people left them alone everything was fine. Bo was dumb, but he was strong, and he was a good worker. With Bo’s brawn, and George’s brains, they could handle almost anything. They made a good team. It was when people got to know Bo that the trouble began. Under the surface Bo was nothing more than big, dumb pussycat. George could never understand why people found so much pleasure in picking on a poor, dumb beast like Bo, but they did. When George wasn’t around, they would torment poor Bo into tears. If he was, there was usually trouble. It was best not to stay too long in one place.

Breakfast over, they walked outside to greet the morning. The sun was just peeking over the trees, and there was a slight breeze from the south. The sky was a soft shade of purple and George knew it was going to be a nice day. They walked out of town and down the main road, where George had spotted an auto scrap-yard, about six miles out. He had seen it from the window of the bus that had brought them into town yesterday. It looked promising, with rows of cars as far as the eye could see. There were old stoves, refrigerators, and broken-down farm machinery, scattered, helter-skelter, among the old Model T, Essex, Pachard, Hupmobile, and Studebaker cars and trucks. It was the kind of place people flocked to when they needed parts, and hadn’t the money for new ones. It was the kind of place that generated business. The kind of place, George figured, Bo and he could find work.

When they arrived, the old man, T.C. Black, who’s name stood in big, red letters atop the large barn in the front of the property, was helping a man unload a truckload of scrap steel and iron. George walked up and introduced Bo and himself.

What’s with yer pal? T.C. Black asked. Cat got his tongue?

Bo got a little shell shocked in the war, George lied. We fought together in Europe. He’s a decorated hero.

T.C. Black was a tall, thin man, in his late sixties. His skin was cracked and tan, like old leather. His hair was snow white and cut short, and when he talked, several of his teeth would wobble, although, there seemed to be very few missing. For his age, he looked to be in excellent health.

A hero, you say. Well, imagine that, Carl, he said, turning to the heavyset man beside him. Now, what can I do for y’all? he asked, as the two men continued to unload the truck.

Me an Bo, here, were wondering if you needed some help.

Do tell, he said. Hold on a minute. T. C. and Carl had unloaded most of scrap, now, and were now wrestling with a rather large engine block.

George turned to Bo, Why don’t you help the gentlemen with that, Bo? he asked. He gave Bo a wink.

Bo stepped forward, and pushing the two men aside, he dragged the engine block to the back of the truck. The truck sagged about four inches under its weight. He took a deep breath, rapped his hands around the block and lifted it off the truck.

Where do you want Bo to put it, Mr. Black? George said, rather nonchalantly.

I’ll be dadburned! T.C. exclaimed. Will ya look at that? I sure as blazes, never seen nothin’ like that before. Y’all can put it right there on the ground, son. Next ta the barn. That thing’s got ta weigh ‘bout four hundred pounds.

The two men watched, in amazement, as Bo set it down as easily as he had picked it up.

So y’all need a job? T.C asked, turning to George as he stepped back out of the big man’s way. Can ya use a cutting torch?

Sure can, George replied, an I can weld too. We’ll work fer what’s ever fair, and we’ll give ya a good days work, Mr. Black.

OK, then, boys. Let me settle up with Carl, here, an I’ll show y’all what needs ta be done.

George had lied about Bo and him being in the Army together. Bo had been a half-wit all his life, and as far as George knew, he was never in the Army. He was certainly a good candidate for a 4-F. George had done little fighting in the war, himself. He wasn’t in the Infantry; he was in the Air Corp. He was shot down over Germany on his third mission. He had spent most of the war in a German, prisoner of war camp. Stalag 8, was no walk in the sun. It was a place of higher learning. He learned how to survive. Toward the end of the war, even the German soldiers were feeling the pinch. There was little food to go around, and even less for the prisoners. A man needed food to stay strong, and only the strong survived. George had to learn quickly how to be a survivor. When the Allies finally arrived, he weighed ninety-two pounds. He was one of the lucky ones. He was still alive!

He had met Bo about four years ago, in north Florida. George had been bumming around the country alone, flitting from place to place. He didn’t want to belong anywhere, to be from anywhere, or care for anyplace or anybody. He had tried going home, but it hadn’t worked out. His friends were just kids, and no longer understood him. His parents were like strangers. The girl he had dated before the war had married some 4-F. There wasn’t much to keep him there, and the open road looked so inviting.

They both ended up working for a man named Hoffman, cutting pulpwood. Hoffmann wasn‘t what you would call, a compassionate man. He believed in long hours and hard work. He pushed his crew to the limit, and he had