Fair 'n Square
by Jefre Schmitz

"Now Kelton, you've thought long and hard on this, right?" asked Sheriff Townes. Sweat leaked excessively from most every pore of the corpulent constable. It was Hades hot, unsuitable conditions for transacting police business.

Kelton Simms and Sheriff Townes stood on the sidewalk outside of Kelton's Diner, examining the subjects. Exhibit A: Frost Watkins. Exhibit B: Frost's baby brother, Booger. Kelton ran a clinical eye over the two siblings. He'd seen sorry sights like this before, in places like carnivals or in PBS documentaries that cautioned viewers some material may be inappropriate for the squeamish.

"Both of these sacks of shit are dumber than dirt clods," added Townes, wiping his brow with a soggy handkerchief.

Kelton thought the boys might have taken exception to that comment, but they just stood and shuffled their feet, sullen-like, dangling slack from invisible meat hooks. Frost busied himself trying to scrape a wad of chewing gum off his laceless sneakers and Booger...well, Booger seemed intent on validating the origin of his nickname. Kelton wondered how much further one could insert an index finger up a nostril.

"I thought you said these two had street smarts, quick on their feet and such," asked Kelton, rubbing his chin dubiously.

"Well, hell. That's what I read. Their chart used fancy college words like cunning and guile and duplicitous. They ran small cons over in Yazoo City and Hattiesburg for several years before the Feds finally threw a net over 'em. Talking to the prison psychiatrist, though, it's like two imposters got tossed in the pen. Booger pulled down a double-nickel on his IQ test and Frost there...well, he's the genius...scored out with a seventy-two. So, I ain't handin' ye a couple of Jeopardy champions. On a positive note, they got good disciplinary marks. Supposed to be hard workers, too. Prison food mighta softened their noodles, but cooled the fire. Your call, Kel."

Kelton inwardly cursed the circumstances that had led to this. Lately, more and more red ink was finding its way onto his balance sheet. His diner had become a relic in this town. Folks were more interested in franchise food gimmicks and 'meal deals.' Margins were razor thin. All of his good help had quit, and he needed someone cheap in a hurry. He was a desperate man, and these two sluggards standing in front of him proved it.

"Tell me again how this works?" asked Kelton.

"You get 'em for sixty days. We'll send a probation officer out at that time to do a follow-up. Tell 'im how they're doing and if all's well, you keep 'em or we find something else for 'em. While they're workin, the State gives you a stipend and refunds you the cost of their Social Security taxes."

"This is all legal?" asked Kelton.

"State legislature made it so. They figure it's worth offering incentives to get criminals re-assimilated. Sounds like another boondoggle to me. Chasin' problems with money...goddam liberals."

Kelton looked askance once more at the two. The Brothers Grime, he thought. They both had a torpid, profound brand of stupid-ugly stamped on them, that kind of stupid-ugly that latches onto a pair of chromosomes and doesn't let go for four or five generations. And what's with those outfits? Li'l Abner on acid. But, it wouldn't matter what they looked like behind a fry cook's apron.

"Shit. I guess I'll give'r a go. What do you say, boys?" asked Kelton, trying his best to sound inviting.

"I dunno," mumbled Booger, quickly removing his finger from his nose.

The smart one, Frost, said: "What'll we be makin? A man of my stature requires a Living Wage!"

Kelton's smile faded. "You'll get a fair wage. That's if, of course, you earn it." He began thinking it might be harder than he'd figured to keep these two in line. Didn't plan on paying anything higher than the minimum. But he had a 60-day option-out clause. Shit...sixty days was a long time.

Kelton hadn't expected them until 6:30am. He had his head inside a fryer cleaning a grease trap when he heard a loud rapping on the glass front door. He started and banged his head on a pipe.

"Gawd Al-Fuckin-Mighty," he muttered. "We're closed!" he hollered.

"It's us, Mr. Simms!" cried a faint, hillbilly-pitched voice. "Frost and Boog!"

Kelton glanced at his watch. "Well, I swan. Maybe these two cedar-choppers have more on the ball than I thought." He struggled to his feet and let the two in, both grinning like a couple of Japanese tourists.

"You boys are a tad early. I said 6:30."

"Don't neither of us own a watch," said Frost.

"Well, hell. I'll give you a watch if'n it'll help," responded Kelton.

"Won't do no good. Don't neither of us know how to tell time," guffawed Booger and bent double, laughing spasmodically.

"Pay him no mind," said Frost. "Not all of his plugs are firin."

"Yeah, I can see that," Kelton muttered. "Say, just curious. Are Frost and Booger your given names?"

"Nossir. We jest took'm," and Booger doubled over again, wheezing so hard his face went purple and his eyes thought twice about leaping onto the floor.

"Get a grip, knothead," said Frost. "Mr. Simms, folks've called us that since we've been knee-high to a puddle duck. Mama don't recall callin' us anything else. 'Course, stump liquor's pretty much clouded all her thinkin'."

Kelton fidgeted and smiled, nervous-like. Memo to Kel: Keep these two away from the customers.

"Well, it's just as well you're early. There's lots to learn, so let's get after it," and Kelton started leading them on back to the kitchen. Behind them, the door swung open with a bang.

"Mornin', Kel." She walked in sassy, most of her moving parts moving. With a leopard skin skirt gyrating like that, the air came alive...the atmosphere sort of swam around her, like the heat off west Texas tarmac.

Kel looked back. "Oh. Mornin, Gail."

Frost fixed a look on her that might have been illegal in several Mid-Western states. He held his tongue, though. Booger's, however, managed to slither out of its cage.

"Well dip my balls in swayt cream and have me squat in a roomful of kittens. Dang girl, you shore are purty!"

Gail canted a hip and triangulated her arms akimbo. She stared at the two a good long while, smacking her gum and batting some heavily iced eyelashes.

"Kelton Simms. What the hell are these?" she demanded, shaking her cropped, Pippi-red hair and waving a crimson-clawed hand in the brothers' general vicinity.

"What the hell are what?" he asked, trying to disguise a smile.

"That, those, them...Christ, I've never seen such garbage."

"Go easy on them boys, Gail. They just signed on. Fry cooks. I was just getting started on the trainin regimen."

Gail's pretty face twisted ugly. Her snub nose accordioned and a puff of hmmph escaped her pouty lips. She had overheard Kelton discussing the finer points of the prison work-release program with Sheriff Townes, and her hopes were higher than a cat's back-- visions of a James Coburn or Robert Mitchum type, muscled and tattooed and walking funny because he operated constantly in a heightened state of sexual arousal. These two looked like someone had spilled coffee all over God's best set of plans.

"Well, you gawn. I don't wanna have nuthin' to do with'm," she said, then turned and headed to the back room to change into her uniform.

"We're a team here," Kelton called out. "All workin' like a machine."

"You make a shitty cheerleader, Kel," she snapped back over her shoulder.

"Don't let her get you down, boys," said Kelton. "She's always a little touchy 'round strangers. Addin' fuel, I hear it told she and her boyfriend just split the sheets."

Booger's eyes lasered in on Gail's walk-away haunches. "Boyfriend trouble, eh?" he said with a serpent hiss.

Good God, I've done swatted a hornet's nest, thought Kelton.

"'Fore you start a'learnin' us, run some numbers by me," said Frost. "Probation Man said to work up a budget. Shit, I need a plus-side number to start with 'fore I go to pluggin' in numbers in the minus column."

"Five-fifty an hour. You won't find better startin' out. I'll work you like dogs, but you'll put in a good sixty hours a week. How does that set with ye?" Kelton held his breath. He had paid Chip and Froggy eight dollars an hour before they up and quit. He gambled these two would take whatever bone he threw them.

"Woo-wee! That's top dollar ain't it, Frosty?" hooted Booger.

Kelton watched Frost's eyes turn white as they headed north into the skull, computing multiplicative products and carrying ones and twos. Kelton could tell the old lemon throbbed fiercely as Frost drifted into the unforgiving realm of advanced mathematics. Finally, Frost either arrived at his destination or simply broke down on the side of the road.

He pursed his lips and nodded: "Sounds fair...fair 'n square." He extended a hand, and Kelton grasped the clammy paw before the deal went sour.

"Might be some left over for chasin' some tail, right Frosty?" asked Booger, panting like a puppy.

"Don't go fuckin' with the budget, Boog. "'Sides, if'n we put enough away, pussy'll come a'knockin."

Good Lord, sighed Kelton. "Alright now. Enough bullshittin'. Let's get after it."

Well, NASA wasn't going to come calling for any new bright, young engineers, but the boys did learn fast. Both had an inbred fascination with grease and anything grilled got their juices percolating. Kelton admired their ability to take a shortcoming and turn it into something that would prompt a person of superior intellect to say, "Damn, ain't that sumthin?"

For example, neither could read. However, that obstacle proved inconsequential. Frost worked up a crude symbology that turned orders into works of art. Even Gail had to admit it was fun. She had an untapped talent for drawing that she didn't mind being exploited. Word spread and customers soon took to the novelty of taking home an artist's rendering of their order: a bleeding cow (hamburger, rare), a cow's udder swaying to 'n' fro (milk shake), a pig square-dancing with a turkey (turkey club sandwich), etc.

One evening after closing, some two weeks later, Kelton strode out of his office shaking his ledger book over his head and proclaiming: "Goddam, we got our own gimmick now! Revenue's lookin' a good deal stouter. I gotta hand it to ye, y'all shore have stumbled onto a winnin' formula."

"Oh yeah? Well, when's some of that profit sharin' plan gonna kick in?" queried Gail as she draped her team-building arms over both the boys' shoulders. "Me and the boys'd like a bigger slice of the pie, right fellas?"

Booger fumbled to get an arm around Gail's waist to demonstrate his lecherous intent while Frost seemed to struggle with the esoteric concepts of high finance. Kelton looked at the unlikely alliance and smiled.

"Lookie. All I'm saying is we're making a turn. Ain't nobody gonna be playin' golf with Donald Trump this weekend. We've been down for such a long time it's gonna take awhile. Don't go pressin' for a raise. Not now. I'll take care of all of ye if'n ye stick it out a little longer. Now c'mon, we're havin' fun and the customers are respondin'."

Gail sighed and shook free of the boys. Booger almost fell flat, leaning snug and lewd as he was into the side of her chest. Frost's eyes slammed shut, and his lips drew pencil-thin. He knotted a fist and rotated it in small circles over his brow, like he was trying to crank up a tired, old engine inside his head.

"Like I've said, you make a shitty cheerleader, Kel," remarked Gail as she marched off to go change in the back room.

"Hey! Whar ye goin?" Booger called out. "I thought mebbe we could all go shoot some pool over at Tubb's."

Gail fluttered a hand of dismissal: "Nah. Y'all gawn. I'm gonna go on home and dream 'bout that fat retirement pension Kel's gonna set up for me."

Kelton looked at the boys and shrugged. "I reckon there ain't no pleasin' her," he said. "But that don't change facts, and the fact is I'm proud of both of ye. But like I said, things are still tight. Just keep doing what we're doing. Sound like a plan?"

Kelton waited for a reaction. Naturally, Booger wasn't paying any attention, just bobbing and weaving, trying to catch a glimpse of some exposed female parts through a tricky piece of cheesecloth hung from the back room doorway. Kelton turned his focus to the brains of the outfit.

Frost lowered his thinking arm and unclenched his fist. An ungodly revelation dawned bright in his ebon eyes. He reared up stately - a man harboring knowledge and answers to vital questions. His jaw, normally sagging from its hinges, firmed at attention, giving one the notion he had just climbed a couple more rungs up the evolutionary ladder.

"Mr. Simms, I do believe I've got an idea that's slicker'n snot."

Kelton hid his amusement behind an earnest look of interest. "Whattaya got, Frost?"

"You got a rare commodity on the premises. Sumthin' folks...well, mainly men folk want bad -- Biblical bad."

Kelton leaned closer. This was starting to sound good. "I'm with ye. What do I got?"

"There was a place back home, remember Boog?" Frost nudged Booger.

"Ow! Goddam, Frosty," cried Booger. Frost's nudge had jostled the elbow of Booger's nose-picking arm, sending a finger deeper into the goldmine than the good Lord had ever intended.

"Sorry, Boog. But you recall that burger place where Sally Jean worked. Woo-eee, that was some fine piece of ass. The proprietor, Papa Bull Thornton, struck a deal with her and built an extry room. A man could finish his cheeseburger then go 'round back and check Sally Jean's oil. You follerin' what I'm gettin' at?"

Kelton slumped...he should have known.

"I can hear everything you're sayin', shit-fer-brains," shouted Gail. "Ain't no redneck sons-a-bitches gonna claim this'yer prize beaver pelt for his own, that's for damn sure."

"Well, there's your answer, Frost," shrugged Kelton. "But I like the way you're thinkin'. Just need to rope it in some, don'tcha think?"

Frost looked genuinely hurt. "Papa Bull owned that entire county after bidness improved. The whole goddam county...damn, that Sally Jean was fine..." and his gaze drifted off into another world.

"Well, I'll keep it on the backburner," said Kelton, patting the crestfallen visionary on the shoulder.

"The fuck you will," barked Gail.

"OK, boys and girls. Time to call it day. You two need a ride? Maybe over to Tubb's?"

"No, thank ye, Mr. Simms," said Booger. "We do all right hoofin' it."

What these two did beyond that glass door remained a mystery and Kelton was satisfied, for the most part, to keep it that way. But he had to admit, they were starting to grow on him. Good things were happening and Lord have mercy, they were funnier than a three-legged cat trying to bury scat in a frozen pond. Even Gail's mood had improved. Then why was worry beginning to build a nest in his gut? That kind of worry that warns you when something too good to be true is happening all around you.

The next morning before opening, Kelton sat at the counter, like usual, reading the morning newspaper while Booger and Frost scrapped with the previous night's accumulation of grease and filth. Kelton's eyebrows arched twin boomerangs upon reading the front-page headlines.

"Gawd Almighty! You boys read, er, I mean hear 'bout what happened at Sambo's?"

"Nossir. Some kinda trouble?"

"I'll say. Seems they've fallen victim to criminal mischief. Report says someone broke in and sabotaged the plumbing. Water company's computer detected a problem and sent the authorities out to check on it. The whole place flooded with sewage and it started pourin' out into the streets. Folks over in Pecan Estates havin' to boil their water. Now why would somebody do sumthin' like that? Nuthin' stolen. Damnest thing I've ever heard."

"That does strike me as a bit peculiar. How 'bout you, Boog?" asked Frost.

"Turds floatin' by shore might ruin a good sit-down meal. I wuddn't eat thar," responded Boog.

Kelton eyed Booger through narrowed slits: That boy ain't right.

As the days slid by, the newspaper headlines got more and more interesting. Restaurants were falling left and right. One morning, seven cats were found deep-fried in each of the Hardee's fryers. The next morning, all the frozen meat patties at the IHOP were neatly stacked, like pancakes, on plates at each table, glazed nicely with blueberry syrup. The newspaper declined to go into the details of the defilement Denny's suffered, only saying that the local Baptist church had declared it an abomination of God. Bottom line: The Health Department shut them all down until further notice.

The authorities wallowed hip-deep in vexation. The perpetrators had disarmed every security system and eluded the vigilant eye of roving patrols. Sheriff Townes declared a Code 5 status for the community, prompting Mayor Suggs to start dialing the Governor. Unfortunately, the Governor informed Suggs he didn't want to hear from him until things had escalated to Code 6. No one knew what Code 6 was, or Code 5 for that matter, but they knew it had to be bad.

Kelton processed all this with mixed feelings. On the one hand, competition was fading fast. Folks started lining up to get a meal at Kelton's Diner and Kelton didn't mind thinking that Hardee's and Sambo's could go fuck themselves...business was on the uptick. On the other hand, he fretted that that worry nest inside his gut was about to hatch eggs. Steady cash flow, though, had a way of coating and soothing the stomach lining.

The 11:00 news crew showed up one day, wanting to do an "exclusive." Kelton obliged. They set up outside the front door with a line of customers in the background waiting to be seated for lunch. Kelton kept smiling toothy at his good fortune. They needed six takes to get it right. Several times, Kelton's giddiness had him falling all over his words; another time, a customer made an obscene gesture; and once, Booger came barreling out of the diner with a streamer of toilet paper stuck to his shoe, swatting a broom at a sparrow that had made its way inside.

"Any concerns your establishment may be next, Mr. Simms?" asked the cute, polyester reporter with Aqua Net hair.

"I've always been a God-fearin' man, Miss. That oughta count for something. I have faith He'll be lookin' out for me." If the responsible parties watched the news, Kelton felt he had a better shot at being spared if they knew he'd contracted the services of the Lord.

After the newscast, the crime wave lapsed into low tide and folks relaxed some. Hardee's limped back into business and IHOP corporate spent $100,000 on a damage-control campaign to win back customers. But their wounds still festered and Kelton was the main benefactor.

One Saturday night after closing, Kelton shut his ledgers and reclined in his brand new leather-upholstered chair. He was exhausted... they all were. Booger and Frost were dragging ass like a shitload of concrete sat in their britches. Gail's mean streak had broadened considerably, too. Kelton had hired on new hands, but they all had that possum-in-headlights look.

No use complaining, though. This winning streak had to come to an end sometime, so he might as well ride the wagon hard until the wheels fell off. Time to start thinking about rewarding the mules that pulled that wagon. They deserved it.

He yawned and decided to call it a night. Last thing to do was to bundle the cash proceeds for the day and take it home. Shenanigans of late had tapered, but it'd be foolish leaving that kind of money lying around on the premises.

Kelton walked to the back of the office and began rubber-banding bills and bagging coins. This was satisfying work - fruits of his hard labor and blessings of the Lord. He whistled Dixie, stomped a foot and waggled his hips...Oh, I wish I were in the land of...

"Uggg!" he grunted. A sharp pain that flattened into a dull throb spider-webbed from the back to the front of his skull. Things went black for a few seconds, then hazy sheets of dim light slowly returned.

From his knees, he looked up and saw them. But there was something wrong. They didn't look like the two boys he had nursed back into society. They had a sharper, more cosmopolitan edge--clean-shaven, groomed and yes, oddly handsome. And another thing: they had company. She glittered shiny in a sparkle red dress, cut low in places so that it slashed sexy into forbidden zones.

"Good evening, Kel," said Frost. Gone was the corn-pone accent, replaced by a big-city sophistication that placed more emphasis on enunciation than any backwoods swamp rat would ever consider.

Kelton tried to stand, but when the Earth moved violently under him, he thought better of it. "Uh...evening, boys," he murmured. "Y'all look like you're ready to paint the town red."

"No. Just here to square a deal," said Booger.

"That's right," added Gail. "Square a deal. Now come here you animal." She grabbed Booger by his silk tie and pulled him into her mouth. The kiss was one of those deep, tonsil-tickler varieties requiring an agile tongue and an ample supply of saliva.

Kelton just kept blinking, trying to re-focus and absorb this turn of events.

"What deal?" Kelton asked.

"Well, not so much a deal," said Frost, "but, you know, square things up."

"Mmm-hmm," said Kelton. He rubbed the back of his head. There was a knot, but no blood. "How do you figure we do that?"

Booger disengaged from Gail with an audible "suction cup" pop. "I counted the register earlier. Today's proceeds would just about cover things, don't you agree, Frosty?"

"I rather concur, Boog," nodded Frost, his arms folded comfortably across his chest.

"That's a heap sum of cash, boys. You reckon we might be able to negotiate that down a notch?" Kelton was starting to understand the situation a little better. It added up, and he marveled at the genius of it all.

"Small price to pay for all your recent success, wouldn't you say, Kel?" said Frost.

"I suppose," Kelton smiled, then winced. His smiling muscles seemed to have encroached on some sensitive pain receptors.

"So, we'll be taking that off you, but I wanted to say, and I believe I can speak for all of us, we've appreciated your help. You've always treated us well...fair 'n square." Frost signaled Booger and Gail to collect the cash, and so they did, with remarkable alacrity.

"They'll come after you boys, you know that."

"They'll be looking for a couple of idiots - no account hillbillies without a lick of sense. We're aiming to dodge that profile. And another thing, Kel: I'd appreciate it if you'd cover for us. You know, maybe steer the cops down a stray path. Seeing how you've profited so well lately, I was hoping you'd oblige." Frost turned a look of professional courtesy on him that Kelton couldn't resist.

"Goddam, you boys are good. I gotta hand it to ye. Sure, I'll do that for ye. Now, gawn 'n git."

"We'll miss you, Kel. Now Boog, don't hit him so hard this time. Still, make it look good."

Before Kelton could open his mouth to protest, Booger pistol-whipped a 9 mm off his brow. It opened a nice little gash that stung more than it dazed. Kelton bent low to avoid a second blow, but they'd already high-tailed it out. He pressed a hand against his brow to curb the flow, but it had already worked up a good head of steam. He grabbed a towel and dabbed.

A car started up outside and he went to the window for a look. They were piling into one of them fancy new SUVs. It suited them just fine - successful people driving successful vehicles. And as blood streamed south across his face in conflux with salty tears, he thought: Damn, I shore am proud of those boys.

Copyright © 2002 Jefre Schmitz
All rights reserved

About the Author

        Jefre Schmitz's day job is Technical Manager of the automated financial systems for a large state agency in Austin, Texas...spectacularly uninteresting, he says, but "it puts vittles on the table." In the summer of 2001, he developed an itch to start scribbling some words on paper after having read the entire works of Cormac McCarthy and Flannery O'Connor. His aspirations are not to attain the lofty heights of these two authors, but rather to pay homage by practicing an art they perfected and "have a damn good time in the process."