A Slice of Isolation (1)
A huddled figure raced to his destination under a heaven full of motionless stars. They twinkled a bit, the only things moving in a town frozen into suspended animation. It would be hours before the sun would rise on the tableland of western North Dakota even then it would stay cold enough to punish those planted here by fate.
“There’s n-no colder place in the galaxy than Buffalo Rind, North Dakota.”
One hard sniff followed another and then another. This kind of weather made Tim’s nose run and run and run. It was a clear indication that man was not designed to exist in such a frigid environment.
But Tim was one of the smart ones. Once he graduated, he would find money and warmer temperatures in Nebraska.
Tim stopped his thinking to sniff again. He had forgotten to plug his block heater in last night and now he was stuck walking.
He had text messaged a friend of his at We-Know-Pizza asking her to send a pizza to his address. It wound up arriving a minute or two before he did. He caught the pizza dude just as he was walking back to his van.
Tim completely forgot to go back and plug in his block heater.
“It didn’t matter.” Anther sniff, his nose was driving him crazy. “Morons put the wrong toppings on again! I order Canadian bacon and those wonks put bacon on again. Don’t they understand that Canadian bacon means ham! Shouldn’t my local pizza professional know that? What could possibly be in their employee handbook?!”
He reached up to scratch his head and finally smiled. When he rushed out the door that morning his hair had still been wet from the shower. Now that it was frozen into place his scalp felt covered by a bed of frozen needles.
A block later, he left the sidewalk and approached a series of rather depressed looking apartments. These living quarters were designed for purpose and cost efficiency, not for aesthetic appeal. The dormant, bare shade trees and sparse shrubbery were planted to soften the obtrusively box-like shape. They failed. The shadows cast by streetlights and these sorrowful plants added the only variance to the long worn siding. Most windows were dark or glowed with turquoise light of a television set left on because no one bothered to turn it off.
Before opening the door, Tim took the largest breath possible. The smells inside were stale and reminded him of an existence without care. People lived here desperate for their next distraction, their next anything.
At least it was warm. He advanced down the dim hallway to a door unmistakably marked with a hundred different postings and warnings. Some were nailed, some taped, and one appeared to be super glued. Many overlapped and obscured others. The gist was clear; the occupant of this apartment wants nothing to do with you, your friend, your mother, or your puppy.
The knock was a combination of sorts. Tim struck with force twice, then softly three times, and verbally said, “knock, knock, knock” three times. He could only guess that this elaborate announcement allowed Skechenko to create an aura of importance. It was still pretty stupid.
An odd voice both forceful and quick with an eager tone pushed its way through the door. “What’s the magic mantra?”
Tim had done this before. He took a deep breath and harshly whispered. “Some people are only smart enough to breed. This point I will concede.”
Several bolts were slid back before the door flew open.
Skechenko was a tall and broad man his body seemed in denial of its age. He wore polo shirt and blue jeans both name brand and expensive. His nose was slightly bulbous and easily the most prominent feature on his face. His head was crowned with amazing waves of naturally gray hair and his eyes had the look of an interested predator.
He gave Tim the wide welcoming smile he had used flawlessly for years. “Well, round mounds my son! Come in.”
“Sir, I’m still not sure what that’s supposed to mean.”
Skechenko gave the young man a pat on the back. “To be honest with you Tim, I’m disappointed you care.”
The apartment was unchanged from Tim’s last visit. There was a small living room that opened into a kitchen the size of a walk in closet. A hallway opposite the kitchen led to the bedrooms and a small bathroom. Between the countless boxes and plastic storage containers the carpeted areas were worn and dirty. Newspapers were tacked to the wall along with sideways black and white photographs. The only clear space was the old table and chairs set in a bumped out breakfast nook.
Tim stepped in front of his host and walked to the table where he set down his satchel. It only took Tim a few moments to set up his micro-tape recorder and lay out a large yellow legal pad filled with notes. Most had been scratched out as useless.
Skechenko took the seat directly across from his interviewer. For the past few weeks, Timothy Wojik had gathered information from Skechenko for a biographical paper but the old man knew the truth. Both men understood that Tim was fishing for information about a local folk legend, a Mr. Roger Kiser.
The disappearance of Mr. Kiser happened almost twenty years ago. By now, it became something of a local mystery and the only two people that could possibly know his whereabouts were Skechenko and a loony named Mr. Samuel “Winny” Hamastead.
Once both men had settled in, Time began. “Oooookkkk, last time we met we were discussing the ads you had taken out in several major papers. These classifieds encouraged readers to send small amounts of money to your personal address to support a fictional tree planting foundation.” Tim scanned his notes. “Let’s see, the Money Tree Foundation.”
“Everyone knows I used 15% of the money raised to plant trees. My overhead wasn’t that unusual for high profile charities. You’ve got to pay to attract the best management.”
“You were the only one on staff.”
“Trees were planted. It’s one of nature’s miracles. Don’t you believe in miracles, Tim?”
“Indeed I do, especially once you throw in your making peace with the IRS and the avoidance of jail time. Would you like to elaborate on any of this?”
“No, not really. I told you that last time you were here.”
Tim coughed and flipped a few pages further. “Ah yes, a couple of days ago we discussed your scheme to hire sorority s as double agents. Um, let’s see, the idea was to gather data about a particular female’s preferences and then feed that information to desperate guys eager for a conversational starter and the appearance of kismet. In some instances their likes and dislikes were posted on line…let’s see, Date-with-a-headstart.com? ”
Skechenko folded his hands and assumed a rather hammy look. “That was Oswego’s idea. I would never knowingly participate in such a retched, vile, and utterly ridiculous plot.”
Tim nodded and tapped his pencil. “I see. Well then, maybe you can fill me in on what role Roger Kiser played?”
Note: Thanks for reading. Buffalo Rind will continue next Saturday.
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