Wizzy And The Traffic Light

Frank got the call from dispatch at one, just as Doris sat his burger down on his table. He listened to the message, but was sure he’d misheard so he thumbed the radio button and said, “Come again, Thelma? I didn’t copy that.”

Thelma repeated the message, Frank thumbed the radio off and said, “Well, shit. Wrap this up to go, would you Doris? I got a call.”

“Damn, Frank. I woulda put it a bag for you if you’d asked. Now I got another plate to wash.”

Frank gave Doris ten dollars, said “Keep the change, for all your trouble” and left Wilber’s Diner, climbed into his old Jeep Cherokee and headed into town.

Buckley, Montana, population two hundred, had one traffic signal, out front of the post office, which also served as the library and video rental store. Across the street was a Shell station.

Frank parked behind the Shell, crept around front and peered across the street at the post office. A rifle fired, the crack echoing across the street. Frank ducked behind a gas pump, though better and ran into the Shell’s office where he found Lenny, who owned the gas station, crouching behind the counter.

“What the hell, Frank?” Lenny said.

“How long’s he been there?” Frank said.

“Sonabitch’s been shooting that twenty-two of his for a half hour now! He’s gotta be drunk. Goddamn, who sold Wizzy booze?”

Frank raised his head and peered through the window. “There ain’t but one store in Buckley, Lenny. Who’d you think sold it to him?”

“Henry knows better than that, don’t he? Don’t he know why Wizzy can’t have no booze?”

“You’d think, after what happened last Thanksgiving.”

“And the Fourth of July.”

Frank crept to the door and yelled across the street, “Wizzy, this here is Frank. What the hell you doin’?”

After a pause, a voice echoed back, “Frank, don’t you try nothin’! You stay put ’till I’m done!”

“Wizzy, for God’s sake, put the twenty-two down and come on out before someone gets hurt. You don’t want no one to get hurt, do you Wizzy?”

“You shut up, Frank! I can’t take this no more and I mean to end it right now.”

Another rifle crack, and a bullet caromed off the traffic light’s metal casing, making it swing back and forth above the intersection.

Frank ducked back into the office and said to Lenny, “It’s the stoplight, ain’t it? He’s shootin’ at the stoplight. Goddamn Wizzy.”

“Wizzy’s a good shot,” Lenny said. “Best in the county two years straight. He shoulda’ hit it by now. He’s already fired seven or eight times.”

“When Wizzy’s been drinkin’, he couldn’t shoot an elephant if he was sittin’ on it.” Frank blew out a breath. “Well, I suppose if he can’t hit the stoplight, he can’t hit me, either.”

Frank went out front again, this time as far as the street. With hands on hips, he hollered, “You come out now, Wizzy! Just lay the rifle down and come on out. We’ll forget this whole thing happened.”

“Like hell, Frank! Every time I come to town that damn light is red! Every time! You hear me Frank? I spent half my life sittin’ at that damn light, and I ain’t gonna do it no more.”

“Wizzy, we only got one stoplight. Now come on, you’re scarin’ Lenny.”

Wizzy’s twenty-two cracked again and Frank ducked, but didn’t run. “Goddamnit Wizzy!”

Frank could hear Wizzy muttering and swearing as he reloaded the single-shot rifle, then thought he should’ve charged him after he’d shot; he might’ve grabbed him before he reloaded.

He opened his mouth to holler when the rifle cracked again. This time sparks flew off the stoplight and glass tinkled down to the street. The light blinked a few times, then went out.

Wizzy whooped and laughed, came out of the post office, laid the rifle on the sidewalk and said to Frank, “I ain’t never gonna sit at that damn light agin, I tell you what.”

“You’re the dumbest drunk I ever saw, Wizzy,” Frank said. “Not only do I gotta haul your ass to jail for distrubin’ the peace, you’re gonna hafta pay for that light to be fixed. I bet it’ll cost you three hunderd.”

“I ain’t payin’ fer no light what has a red part. I tell you what, Frank. I ain’t.”

This will be me one day. When I snap, it’ll be over the damn traffic lights. They’re always red. How much of that is a man expected to take?

Much thanks to Wizzy for letting me borrow his name for this short story. Wizzy’s a colorful character from my book, THE MIGHTY T. He’s been great to work with.

P.S.  Here's the link to my other Wizzy post:  << Click here >>

Colorful Characters and Purple Flip Flops

Purple Flip Flop

At 5:10, Chuck Grossman sauntered into the La Grange Market for his four-hour shift.

The owner, Billi Jones, barked at Chuck, “You’re ten minutes late again!”

“Sorry, Billi. I got stuck in traffic.” He snickered.

Billi shook her head. “You don’t start showin’ up on time, I’m gonna fire your ass.”

Be doin’ me a favor, Chuck thought.

Billi collected her things and went home for dinner. She would return when the store closed at 9:00 to collect what little cash there would be in the drawer and to lock up.

Chuck helped himself to an Orange Crush from the fountain and a bag of peanuts, settled in behind the counter. He glanced at the list of things Billi wanted him to do, set it aside and turned on the TV. He watched a baseball game for a few minutes, got bored and flipped through the channels.

When he got to a local channel, he set the clicker down and stared at the screen: the hot chick from yesterday, the best looking chick he ever saw in La Grange, or anywhere else for that matter, had her face plastered across the TV.
He turned the volume up: she was wanted for murder and was considered armed and dangerous. A phone number flashed across the screen, but disappeared before Chuck thought to write it down.

“Holy shit.” The bell on the front door jangled, startling him; it was rare for him to get more than two or three customers on a Thursday night. He turned and saw Wizzy, a local whose last name he didn’t know, and whose first name probably wasn’t Wizzy.

“Hey Wizzy.” Wizzy nodded, shuffled to the beer cooler and pulled out two quarts of malt liquor. He wore a pair of bright purple flip-flops, two sizes too big. Wizzy flip-flopped the beer to the counter.

“You’ll never believe what just happened,” Chuck said, wanting to share his news with someone. Nothing had ever happened to Chuck.

“You won the lottery,” Wizzy said as he put the bottles on the counter and reached into his grubby jeans to dig out a few dollars.

“I wish. You’d never see me again, that’s for sure.” Chuck took Wizzy’s crumpled money and gave him fifty-two cents change.

“Be too soon for me.” Wizzy licked his dry lips and waited for Chuck to bag his booze.

“Check this out.” Chuck turned and pointed to the TV, which now was showing a drug commercial. “A hot chick came in here yesterday…”

“Bullshit. They ain’t no hot chicks in La Grange. You gonna bag my beer?”

“No kidding, Wizzy. She came in yesterday and bought some ice cream and a Coke. And she flirted with me.”

“Bullshit. Come on, Chucky. I’m thirsty.”

Chuck bagged the bottles. “I just saw her on TV. She’s wanted for murder.”

“Bullshit.” Wizzy grabbed his bag and shuffled to the door, stopped and said, “Is there a reward fer turnin’ her in?”

“They didn’t say.”

“No sense callin’ the sheriff then.” Wizzy flip-flopped out into the heat.

Chuck grinned and picked up the phone. He had never called the sheriff before.

Chapter 4, THE MIGHTY T 

THE MIGHTY T has a lot of violence in it—bad guys like John Lightfoot do bad things: People die. Stuff gets blown up. There’s a lot of suffering in the book because he’s a violent man hellbent on getting what he wants. 

You don’t want a whole book of that, though. You gotta have a break from the intensity. Literary types have a word for this, I’m sure, but I just call it “Gimme something to smile about now and then.”

Wizzy is a color-character, with his malt liquor and purple flip flops. NEW purple flip flips. They contrast nicely with his grubby clothes and the rundown town he lives in, La Grange. His role was to get Chuck to think to call the sheriff after he saw Mindy’s picture on the news. (Mindy’s a psychopathic member of Lightfoot’s gang.) Chuck wouldn’t have done it on his own.

Chuck’s call is the cops’s first break in the case. They’ll get some good fingerprints off a steel garage the gang used to build and hide their truck bombs in. And, because the gang destroyed their shack with an incendiary bomb, the bomb tie-in will help the cops get Homeland Security to cough up what they know.

Chuck gets interviewed by the cops, so he gets a few more lines, but Wizzy has served his purpose and gets only a mention when he’s seen standing with a group of gawkers. Wizzy gets to finish his booze, though. I wouldn’t do that to him.