The Petorik Thesis and Tales of the Global West

By W. Jack Savage

From an Embassy in Europe to an Industrial Park in Suburban Los Angeles, The Petorik Thesis and Tales of The Global West resembles a ledger where the checks and balances agree to disagree. In this, his second short story collection, W. Jack Savage chronicles a beautiful womans quirky obsessions that leave a trail of regretful lovers, a writers disappointment at never being as important as what he writes and a unseen witness to a murder comes forward to do the right thing. But the witness and the right thing are subjective, as even Einstein observed, 'there is no darkness, only the absence of light.' By that reasoning a storyteller knows to never underestimate the power of the story or the desire of those in power to believe it for their own purposes. The door it opens swings both ways

The Petorik Thesis and Tales of the Global West is another of Savages exercises in unexpected redemption and forgotten kindnesses. Where a taker of life is as likely to celebrate those who live it as anyone else, and people Burt Harrison knows are getting murdered while eating yellow food. In coming forward, Burt becomes a person of interest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462848010

W. Jack Savage

W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and artist who now writes and creates his art full time. He is the author of six books: three novels, two short story collections and The High Sky of Winter’s Shadows, an autobiographical account told in essays amassed over fifty years. He is a graduate of the University of Minnesota, Mankato and received his Master’s Degree from California State University, Los Angeles where he taught film studies for six years. Twenty-eight of Jack’s short stories have been published in literary magazines around the world such as the Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Nazar LOOK, The View From Here and Postcards, Poems and Prose. Jack is also a talented artist whose work has appeared in more than twenty periodicals and whose acting credits include over fifty stage productions and two pretty bad films. Jack and his wife Kathy live in Monrovia, California.

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Copyright © 2011 by W. Jack Savage.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4628-4800-3

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4628-4801-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Yellow Food

Sally’s

The Story of Baggs House

Arnie’s Bagman

Howie and Katherine

She Cleaned

The Dog Across the Street

Christmas at Fort Leonard Wood

The Witness

‘Tupperware’

The Global Citizen

The Suits and the Killer

The Awards

The Ticket

Dedication

For my dear wife Kathy and my good friend

Mike Callahan who continues to inspire me.

Acknowledgments

I would like to again thank my editor, Diana Wiltshire

Yellow Food

It’s the kind of thing you remember but you’d rather not. It was not all that sinister, but something you’d rather not dredge up and certainly nothing you’d want others to know. Having come forward with my theory, I simply had no choice but to associate myself with the idea of yellow food. Two people were dead. They were two people I knew, and believe me, that crossed my mind the day I called the police, as well.

I suppose it’s not so terribly strange. For example, I remember a girl who threw up in third grade. Christine Kittles was her name. Sad as these things are, I never knew her to be associated with any other event. She was simply ‘the girl who threw up in third grade’, and while, in more contemplative moments, I have wondered what she might have become without that moniker, to be synonymous with vomit did nothing to make her more popular at school. As for myself, I forgave her almost at once, but others did not. They just couldn’t get it out of their minds, somehow. But for me it was something else. For me it was yellow food.

When I read about Colleen in particular, dying in the restaurant the way she did, it occurred to me to ask what she was eating. Actually, it was the restaurant and the fact that it was morning, because, well, a lot of morning dishes contain yellow food. But while I did ask, the fact that Colleen had an omelet in front of her certainly would not have stood out in a crowded restaurant at breakfast. Someone behind her in another booth whom nobody could remember seeing, had taken what must have been a small sword with a blade of at least eighteen inches, and stuck it through the back of the booth, killing Colleen almost instantly. When she slumped in her seat, two of her co-workers actually laughed, thinking she was mugging in some way. The booth was not high, but no one saw anything.

Later, when Scott was killed, the first news account I saw didn’t say a thing about his eating. He was just killed, not unlike Colleen; stabbed in the back. But this time, sitting on a park bench across the street from where he was having the oil in his car changed. I mean, people die, of course. But for two people you know to be killed within a month was odd enough for me to call the police.

After going down and making a list of all the people I knew who were associated with both people, I was the only one who knew both of them. I was about to leave when the detective said ‘if someone else you know dies eating dinner, we’ll be in touch’. I didn’t put it together until I was out in the hall, waiting for the elevator. Then it hit me and I went back.

Did you mean, I began, as in ‘breakfast, lunch and dinner’?

Yes, he said. I’m sorry, bad joke, I guess.

No, I mean, Scott was eating lunch?

Yes, he said, and shuffled some papers until he picked up one. A sandwich.

I just stood there for a moment.

It didn’t say anything about that on the news, I said. Can I ask what kind of sandwich?

He looked at the notes.

A cheese sandwich, he said. There’s an Italian deli down the street. He got it there. Why?

I’m . . . . I’m not sure, I said. Isn’t it odd though, that they’d both be killed while . . . while eating?

I suppose, he said. Does it seem odd to you?

Yes, I said, it does.

On the way home, the yellow food idea seemed too far-fetched to have any connection. I hadn’t shared that curiosity with the police, but by going to them and identifying myself as a person with a connection to both victims, I realized I’d made myself, at the very least, a person of interest. I had no real alibi. During both murders I was at home, but since I live alone, I had no way to prove it. But they hadn’t asked me where I was during Scott’s murder; only Colleen’s.

I had an aversion to yellow food when I was a child. I had a very sensitive nose and the smell of, say, eggs frying or especially, boiled eggs in some form, was very bad to me. Then, there was cheese. Cheese is harmless enough, as are eggs to me now, but back then, the smell of cheese was just as bad. This had the effect of grouping together nearly any yellow-colored food as something to avoid. I’m afraid it followed that as I didn’t like it and avoided yellow food, I did the same to people who liked yellow food; avoided them, I mean. I didn’t like them any more and being too embarrassed to say why, I’m sure it seemed terribly unfair to them that one day we were friends, and the next day I was acting like a jerk. I got over all these things by my late teens but as I learned things about various social disorders; being uncomfortable eating in front of others for example, I began to realize that I probably had a social disorder, and when it was happening, it was like I had no choice. It was a real thing to me.

So when Andrea Bigelow from work was killed, I began to feel quite sure that whoever killed her had a terrible aversion, as I had had as a child, to yellow food.

Why are you telling me this, Mr. Harrison? the detective asked.

Listen, I said. Poor Andrea was brutally stabbed by someone who took the time to open what was left of her egg salad sandwich, and smear it onto her face. I’m not saying killing her was somehow normal, but doing that afterwards, to me smacks of something else.

Such as? he asked.

Listen, I began, "I know it sounds a little crazy. But today, people are treated for things like this. Back when I was a kid, for example. I grew up in Minneapolis. I did well in school in the fall and in the spring. But in the dead of winter, those long, cold, and mostly dark and overcast skies, got me down real bad. Today they call it Seasonal Dysfunction Disorder and they treat it with light. There are special ‘daylight lamps’ for these people. My point is, it’d be worth looking into some of these support groups and outpatient studies going on that deal with social disorders and just see if they’ve come across someone with an aversion—even a psychosis, connected to yellow food."

Did you and Ms. Bigelow get along, would you say? he asked.

Yes, I said. "For the most part we did. She could be a bitch but on those days you just tried to avoid her. She’d even say, ‘just leave me alone for a while’ sometimes. We worked at M. J. Dunn together for over a year. I don’t think we ever, you know, other than the Christmas party, ever socialized. But this—this is just terrible."

There is one other fellow we’ve found with a connection to all three victims, he said, besides yourself, I mean.

There is? I said. Who? I mean, can you tell me who?

An author, he said. A William Elgin.

I rolled my eyes.

Is something wrong? he asked.

Yes, I said, getting up. I’m William Elgin. That’s the name under which I wrote my book. I was excited. I gave copies to everyone; cost me a small fortune. It’s self-published.

Really? he said, and looked genuinely surprised. That’s not what the author’s biography says.

The author’s biography, I began, not unlike the author himself, is full of shit. Or at least was, when he was in his ‘Renaissance man’ period.

I sat back down.

"And before you even ask, I have gone over in my mind everyone I can remember from M. J. Dunn, and no one was capable of this. It would have to be someone outside; one of our vendors perhaps but no one within that company. And there’s something else."

Your connection to the victims? he asked.

Yes, I said. But more than that even. What are the odds that the one person with a connection to all three victims has a theory about the killer, based on his childhood experience with a similar affliction?

Pretty long odds, Mr. Harrison, he said. Very long indeed. How do you account for it?

I don’t know, I said. But there’s only one person, say, outside of yourself, and you’re off the hook because I just told you about it, who knows what I just told you about me as a child and yellow food.

*     *     *

Yes, I know Burt Harrison, said Doctor Blum. He was a patient some years ago. He became very angry with me for some reason. He finally stopped coming.

Do you remember any of the circumstances of that falling out? he asked.

As a matter of fact I do, he said. Burt was basically a fairly well-adjusted neurotic. Bit his fingernails down to the quick . . . not an alcoholic, in my judgment, but would overdo it now and then. He occasionally felt bad about, well, everything really, and we’d talk. Finally one day, he came in and said I wasn’t doing him any good and he was better before he started coming to see me. I didn’t say anything, but I actually agreed with him. I never heard from him again.

We were wondering about the possibility of a social disorder, he asked.

Actually, he said, calling Burt a well-adjusted neurotic, albeit somewhat facetiously, is more information then I’m willing to share about a former patient. But I can say that I saw no signs of anything like that.

You said that he became very angry with you. Might I assume that digging up the past into the here and now tripped off some of that hostility?

There was a pause.

You could fairly assume that, I think, he said. Actually there was one event during his early schooldays that was somewhat pivotal to his hostility. But while it came up quite often and now that I think of it, he would find ways to bring it up, it became such a flashpoint for his anger, that I suggested at one point he see another therapist. This he took as me somehow evading my responsibility. That’s not uncommon . . . turning the tables like that. On balance though, I never got the feeling Burt was dangerous in any way; to himself or to others.

I see, he said. One other question, Doctor, may I ask if the event had any connection to . . . yellow food, in some way?

After a fashion, he said. Vomit actually, and yes, he described it as yellow.

It would be a big help, he said, if you could remember the name of the person or even the school where this happened?

He smiled and said,

The girl who threw up in third grade. That was the title he gave her; Christine something. Christine Kittles I think.

*     *     *

After a few weeks, I had begun to settle back into a sense of normalcy. I had assumed the police hadn’t found any connection between my old therapist and the killings, and while the whole thing was terrible and bizarre, I mean, life goes on. I took a few days off after I told the detective what I thought and took the opportunity to get my life in order; store a few things and whatnot. While I was down at my storage locker on a Saturday, putting the last of the stuff away, the detective walked up just as I was locking up.

Hi, I said. What are you doing down here?

I’m here to see you, Mr. Harrison, he said.

How did you . . . have you been following me? I asked.

Just now I did, yes, he said. You were driving off just as I was pulling up at your townhouse. I wonder if we could talk about another aspect of your theory that’s come to light? Do you remember a fellow student by the name of Christine Kittles?

Of course, I said.

I unlocked the padlock and began to raise the door.

In fact, I said, It’s funny you should bring her up. I just packed away my High School yearbook and stuff. I’ve got her picture here somewhere. Why do you ask?

Your doctor said you had some issues with Christine, Mr. Harrison, he said. I did a little research and found she had died some years ago.

I kept looking through my pictures.

She’d been killed, actually, he said. And strangely enough, she’d been stabbed.

I pulled out the long picture of our eighth grade graduating class.

Here she is, I said, and stepped toward him to show him.

He paused for a moment, and took a step toward me to take a look. When he did, I kept my eyes on her picture in my left hand, and stabbed him through the heart with the bayonet in my right.

Look at her, I said. You’d never know how disgusting she was from this picture, would you?

As he fell to his knees, I continued to show him the picture.

A fucking abomination really, I said. Eating and regurgitating yellow food; disgusting to everyone.

I pulled the bayonet out and let him fall forward into the locker. Twenty minutes later, I had moved enough boxes to make room for the detective’s car and I backed it in. I put him in the trunk, and as I was locking up again, Harry, the facility manager, drove up and got out.

Good morning, he said.

Hi, Harry, I said. I’m sorry about this. I sure appreciate your coming down. I closed my checking account so I hope a money order will do?

Not a problem, he said. I’m sure sorry to hear about your mother, though.

Thank you, I said. They said a year at the most but . . . well, as you can see, I made it out for two years, just in case. At any rate I’ll let you know before then when I’ll get back.

Don’t worry about a thing, Mr. Elgin, he said. We’ll be here for you.

The thing about this is, while I’m nearly powerless to do anything about it; if they’d just taken me seriously to begin with, they could have put an end to it. God knows, I’ve given them every opportunity. Short of walking up and saying, ‘I did it and I’d do it again and I’ll keep doing it’, I don’t know what they want from me. I mean, I’m doing all the work here. I do it, I identify myself and offer a theory and tell them my connection to it, and in this case, I even gave them a blueprint to a previous event. And what does he do? He drives over, alone, and lets himself be suckered into a long-term storage facility where it’ll be at least two years before anyone finds him. I’m sorry but I’m not about to ‘cry for help’ any louder than I have been.

Sally’s

At one time, Sally’s was a truck stop on old highway 30. It was a sort of oasis between Josselyn and Lexington, the old truckers remembered; and as welcome for breaking up the barren, treeless landscape of that part of Nebraska, as for the free coffee offered with every meal. Then the Interstate came through and the old highway wasn’t as busy; and since it was five miles out of town to begin with, and the highway engineers had chosen the more southerly route from Kearney to Cozad, the restaurant wound up being two miles north of the Interstate. As a result, the powers that be saw no good reason to put an on and off ramp there and everybody thought that’d be it for Sally’s.They were wrong, for two reasons. First of all, Sally’s son Eddie Chisholm saw what was coming and got into the catering business. The other thing was the food. Sally’s gave you truck stop portions, and made the best hash browns, onion rings and rich brown gravy for fifty miles in any direction. Eddie wound up having to pave another acre for parking on the busiest days and times; Sunday mornings and afternoons and barbecue ribs day on Wednesday. And rather then ask patrons to negotiate the five-mile, two lane old highway in the dark, they closed the restaurant every day at three. Travelers stopping at Lexington would hear about Sally’s and go there sometimes, but business from Lexington, Josselyn and as far away as Odessa and Johnson Lake was more then enough to make the restaurant profitable, and also, catering for events in those communities and every place in between, made it a small gold mine.

With Sally’s, in common with everyone in the area, it wasn’t hard to understand then, how any out of the ordinary event or altercation would soon become well known to the locals, who, the next time they came in, would want all the details in addition to their meals. One morning in May, a fellow everyone assumed was just passing through, stopped by for breakfast between nine and ten, while Harley Mott, a local regular in his forties, was holding forth at the counter after most of the early breakfast crowd had left.

The stranger was a tall, nice-looking guy with dark hair, who seemed about Harley’s age. He had ordered breakfast and then went to the men’s room. By the time he got back, Carol Lacey, a second-generation waitress, whose mother had once been a cook, had just picked up his order and they met at his seat at the counter.

That was fast, he said, with a smile.

We try, she said, smiling back.

As the stranger put salt and pepper on his breakfast, Harley adjusted his John Deere baseball hat, pointed a finger at his friend Molly behind the counter, and said,

We could’a won that damn war. Goddamn hippies and liberals turned tail and ran and my brother died for nothin’.

The stranger put down the salt and pepper shakers, got up and walked over to the cash register. Carol came over to him and he said, How much do I owe you?

No one ever walked out on a Sally’s breakfast and soon, Carol, Molly and Howard the cook were all wondering, two of them out loud, what was wrong?

Nothing, he said. No, I just lost my appetite, that’s all. It happens sometimes. I’m sorry, I’m just not hungry any more.

From down the counter, Harley figured it might have something to do with his conversation.

I’m sorry to run you off, Buddy, he said. I hope it wasn’t anything I said?

In almost a stage whisper, Molly turned her back to the stranger and said, Leave it alone, Mr. Mott.

The stranger shook his head and handed a ten-dollar bill to Carol.

No sir, he said. If nonsense put me off food, I’d be skinnier than I am now. A second ago I heard her call you Mr. Mott. You wouldn’t be any relation to Larry Mott, would you?

Harley had been ready to react to the ‘nonsense’ remark, but had been completely turned around by the reference to Larry.

He was my brother, he said, starting to get up. He was killed in Vietnam.

I know, said the stranger. I was with him when it happened. That’s what brought me in here today. Larry said he used to wash dishes here. When they told me in Lexington that Sally’s was still open, I thought I’d come by.

Harley was shaken by what the stranger had said, and began an apology for what he’d said.

There’s no need for that, Mr. Mott, he said, extending his hand. I’m Jim Tambrio. I knew Larry well. A good man.

There was still the matter of breakfast, and so Jim tried to defuse any appearance of an affront by sitting back down at his place, but gently moving the plate away and picking up his coffee. After introducing himself, Harley sat down next to him.Everyone sort of drifted back off and Carol freshened both their coffees.

You were with him in the An Loa Valley? Harley asked.

Yeah, but we’d gone on from there. We were up there during the rainy season.

Larry was killed up there, said Harley.

Jim paused a moment and nodded his head slowly.

Is that what they told you?

That’s, yes, that’s what they told us, he said. Are you saying that’s not what happened?

Jim nodded and said, Larry was killed sitting as near to me as you are right now, and it wasn’t in the An Loa Valley and it wasn’t during a fire fight. We were at LZ English and they would’ve put us on detail, you know. I heard our Sergeant getting orders to pick out two men to drive down to Phu Cat and meet another vehicle where they’d transfer supplies to us and we’d come back to English and they’d go back to An Khe. It was a chance to get drunk, maybe get laid; but the real deal was, we could stay over at the F-100 Air Force base there and then follow the mine-sweepers in the morning and head back. The Air Force had twenty-four hour food, and air conditioning in the barracks. It’d be like a little R&R. Anyway, I volunteered me and Larry for the job and the Sergeant said okay. We took the deuce and a half and picked up some cold beer downtown in Bon Song and headed out for Phu Cat. It was a good time. Real hot of course, but for two grunts, we knew we were gettin’ over pretty good. We took our time, found the truck that we were supposed to meet and started switching their load to ours. The other driver had a girlfriend in Qui Nhon back south, so they were gonna go back that way. With a big truckload like that it wasn’t a good idea to linger downtown, so we skipped the whorehouse and went out to the Air Force Base. They set us up and we got something to eat and went to the little club they had there. The next morning we headed out. Larry drove down so I was driving that morning. We caught the mine-sweeper truck about a half hour later. Some vehicles went around them on their own, but we figured there was no point in being in a hurry. After the sweeper turned around we picked up a little speed. It couldn’t have been ten minutes later, I was hearing about Lexington and this place. I turned my head and looked up at the mountains at one point, and when I turned back, Larry had taken one in the head and had slumped down. I never even heard a shot. I can’t tell ya where it came from at all or who fired it. That was a bad day. Naturally, when I got back, the report got written up that we had come under fire on the highway. If there was more than that one shot you couldn’t prove it by me. I felt bad for a long time about Larry. After all it was me that volunteered him for the trip. When I got back I thought about coming out this way and maybe explaining things to you and the family. But for whatever reason, I just . . . I just couldn’t, and now it’s all these years later and here we are at Sally’s.

Harley had listened in a stunned, almost confused, silence. Finally he spoke.

I . . . I don’t know what to tell everybody, he said.

Don’t tell them anything, said Jim. "Larry was killed in action up at the An Loa Valley. It could easily have happened and both of us were lucky to have survived. And when bullets come from somewhere and kill you, that’s bein’ killed in action. You know you said a while ago we could’ve won that war and when I knew your brother, that’s how

I felt too. Larry was different. He had been there longer then me and he knew it was all bullshit. I know what all those assholes on the radio say. Not a goddamn one of ’em was there. Your brother Larry and I were. If we hadn’t left, there’d be five hundred thousand names on that memorial in Washington, not fifty thousand."

I just . . . for one thing, can you stick around for a few days? We, I mean, you could stay with me or . . . or we’d put you up, meet some of the family?

I don’t know, Harley, he said. You wanna dig all that up again after all this time?

You were the last one to see him. You were with him when he died, my God!

I know, but I mean, it wasn’t like you all thought it was. That changes things. You all have your vision of him dying in combat, not catchin’ a stray bullet ridin’ in a truck. I’m . . . I mean I can’t, well, I suppose I could just, you know, talk about that fight up there but, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t planning on even meeting you a half hour ago. I just think that you should consider your family. I could tell you’re still wearing his death on your sleeve but how about everybody else? I’m guessing a lot of them have moved on and I think you should too. I mean, I’ll hang around for a day and just say I served with him, which I did, but you need to think about this.

I don’t know what to do, Harley said. Listen, you’ve got to stay over at least.

Okay, Jim said. I mean, I can. I’m just . . . I just decided to drive through here and maybe take the plane back home out of Des Moines or something. But I could get a room for tonight. Listen Harley, I’ve got some issues of my own, ya know? This, coming here, is part of it. But I never expected to let anyone know who I am or that I knew Larry or anything.

I understand, he said. I do, Jim, but this is . . . this is a big deal for the family.This is like talking to the last human being who knew Larry; was with Larry. This is living Larry’s last day again, with you. I can’t tell you what it would mean to us. We loved Larry. He was so far away doing, serving, fighting, our Larry. And then one day he was gone. He wasn’t coming home. It was devastating. I should’ve been the one to go. When I couldn’t because of my hearing in one ear, I don’t even think Larry had thought about it. But when I couldn’t go, he stepped up. He stepped up and was killed. You’re right. I do think about it . . . and him. But please, give us a day. Give us a couple of days to live that last twenty-four hours with my little brother. It would help me, but it would also help all of us. The truth. Not some form letter bullshit. The truth. And you were there with him, hearing about . . . about Lexington and . . . and Sally’s. This is our life here, Jim. It’d mean a lot to us.

It’s not like they meant to eavesdrop. But when you’re the most popular restaurant in the area and a pipeline to anything approaching big news, it was no surprise that the story of Jim and Harley and especially Larry, had begun to spread before the two of them left, forty minutes later. Carol kept refreshing both men’s coffees and Molly kept an eye on things between customers. Then Jim had found his appetite again and wound up with a cheeseburger and Sally’s famous onion rings. As the two shook hands in the parking lot the regional information underbrush that was the phone at Sally’s, had alerted enough people with a penchant for alerting more people of their cut of cloth, and before Harley could begin to arrange things, half the family had already heard bits and pieces of what had gone on that morning. By the time Harley had gotten to his parents’ at their old place by Twin Creeks, the anticipation of new information about Larry was at fever pitch. But Harley had sensed that leaving Jim at a motel was