Chapter 31
The hitch in time that caused Chet Chandler to pause in mid wheelchair push unhitched, affording him and the chair permission to roll forward; he and it did. All the while, Chet’s revolving ruby tinged eyes zeroed in on John and the Warrior Queen Sharon Sloan: the left eye on John, the right eye on Sloan.
Strabismus, thought Dr. Sloan, diagnosing Chet’s eyeball action (even though she is not a real Doctor). She had seen the condition before, once in Oliver Wendell Haldenstein, an impoverished German Prince working as Faye Dunaway’s stunt double in the film Chinatown, and once again in her cousin Arietta Basket, an assistant manager at the Taco Tyco in West Fort Worth.
Neither of these cases, however, was accompanied by the blood apparent in Chet’s eyes, nor were the eyes set in heads quite as small and round and malevolent as was Chet’s. As a matter of record, by the way and just so you know and for future reference, both Arietta and Oliver Wendell are, despite their strabismus, decent, law abiding taxpayers; they wouldn’t hurt a flea if it nested in their ear.
That last paragraph is a digression (I suppose) we could live without, yet it sets the stage for our introduction to Chet Chandler, and several important facts about him that provide much needed verisimilitude to our story.
First, Chet was for a brief and shining moment famous for having caught a fish with two heads—one on either end—when he was fourteen years old. A picture of Chet and the two-headed fish testified to this happening in the ‘Springfield Ledger’ and it was accompanied by a 200 word story ‘Boy Catches Two-Headed Fish’; CHIK TV ran film at both 5:30 and 10:00. It was a proud moment for Chet and his extended family.
Sadly, that was the high point of Chet’s life, and like so many young people who achieve fame early, he began to experience adjustment problems as he neared adulthood and, both he and his family became despondently frustrated as he failed to realize the potential foretold by that earlier, exciting accomplishment.
You, as a reader of literary fiction by high-toned folk such as Alice Sebold, Joan Dideon, or the terrifying Anita Brookner, may find Chet’s initial accomplishment and subsequent failure to capitalize on it insufficient cause to warrant or justify the unmitigated hell that his life became for him afterwards, but our story is told in the Ozarks, focuses on the lowest common denominator, and responds sensitively and I believe persuasively to life as it is lived in them thar hills.
Let us also, consider, Honey Bunch, that the last sentence was 80 words long and rated a hard 20 on the Fleisch Kincaid reading scale. I’d like to see Anita Brookner do that, and with only four commas!
But let’s cast Anita Brookner aside for the moment:
Chet smiled, first at John, then in the direction of the Warrior Queen, never in the meanwhile, taking an eye off either one. Dr. Sloan noted that Chet gripped the handles of the wheelchair as though wringing the necks of two recalcitrant chickens; that is to say: his knuckles where white with tension and the handles wept (creak, creak) under pressure.
“You folks look like yer havin’ a little trouble,” Chet said evenly. “I noticed yer hubby weaving around the parkin’ lot like a drunkard. But he ain’t drunk, is he. Is he?
“My dear man,” Sloan protested. “Lips that touch liquor have rarely touched mine, and not at all for the past 35 years. There was a short period of time, I will admit, when I was a reckless, wild youth, but I soon came to my senses and settled into a Righteous and Formidable Baptist Existence! Yet, even that period of heedlessness was to a purpose: I now KNOW sin when I see it, and can and will CONDEMN it as the occasion arises.
“Which, as I am sure you know,” she finished, “is all too FREQUENTLY!”
“Beggin’ yer pardon and amen, Sister,” Chet stammered. “We got a lot of strange birds flocking our way these days. And as you may well understand, Pastor Cooker has many enemies.”
“Indeed I do!” boomed Sloan, peering at the security agent’s badge. “You are, I see, Chet Chandler, ‘Security.’
“Are you qualified for your work, Mr. Chandler? Can you be depended on to protect the Reverend from Secular Humanists, Godless atheists, Episcopalian do-gooders, New Dealers, dope fiends, proponents of open marriage, Unitarian Universalists, Gay, Lesbian, and Transgender Performance Artists, Moderate Republicans, all Democrats, Herbert Buckingham Khaury imitators, Wetbacks, Museum Attending Opera Freaks, Catholics, Jews, Muslim Presidents, Rachel Maddow, fluoridation activists, booksellers, book readers, book reviewers, Harvard University professors, New York Times editorial writers, Richard Simmons, National Public Radio reporters, IRS agents, Certified Public Accountants, and Warrior Queens on a Mission from the Anti-Christ purporting Himself to be God?”
Chet reached into his jacket, pulled out a Magnum .44 and cocked it. He aimed the barrel at John’s forehead, and said, “Locked, loaded, and ready to kill!” His eyes began to revolve in an extravagant and wildly entertaining way in their sockets. Dr. Sloan applauded.
“Good man, Chet,” she said with a delighted laugh. “I believe you’d have Lucifer himself on the run.”
“Including this jumped up, Yankee,” he muttered, moving the barrel of the gun in a circle a bit smaller than John’s head. “I don’t like the looks of him.”
“Hardly any one does,” Dr. Sloan, replied. “But I can vouch for him. He’s my husband, Orin Parsnips. We’re from Bum Squat.”
Chet looked dubious, but lowered the barrel of the gun. “If you say so, Ma’am. But he looks suspicious to me. Why was he weaving around the parking lot?”
“As you should plainly see, Chet,” Dr. Sloan said, “My husband suffers from limosis. It causes him to stagger about, bump into things, and lick blackboards. I would guess that today’s episode is the result of over-excitement. It’s not every day that we get to see Jim and Lori tape their TV show.”
Chet nodded and smiled—his teeth resembled millet—and his revolving eyes slowed to a moderate 10 kilometer an hour pace. He drew a deep breath and holstered the .44.
“Sorry if I scared you,” he said to John. “You look like one of them intellectuals from Chicago or Sioux Falls. We just can’t…we have ta…”
“…maintain eternal vigilance!” Sloan finished for him. “The devil walks the earth and stalks the innocent. We just can’t be too careful.”
Chet nodded quickly, repeatedly. “Mrs. Parsnips, Ma’am, you are a powerful and truthful speaker. I admire your warrior spirit.”
“You too?” she said in surprise. “Well. I had no idea that side of my character is so obvious to everyone.
"Why haven’t I been in touch with it, before now?”
John cleared his throat. “Perhaps Mr. Chandler would let me ride in his wonderful wheel chair?” he said. “I feel another bout of limosis coming on.” He stuck out his tongue to demonstrate. “Buhhhhh…”
“How about it, Chet?” Sloan asked with a winning smile. “Shall we wheel hubby into the studio in style.”
Chet felt confused. He wasn’t actually used to helping people. His original plan for the wheel chair was to slam it into the legs of the old man as a diversion while he plugged the woman in case she started acting uppity.
“Well, okay,” he said slowly. “Here, let me help you.”
Chet grasped John’s arm and began to ease him toward the wheelchair’s seat. He didn’t notice Dr. Sloan stealthily move behind him. Silently, she put her hand on his neck and pressed her forefinger into a fleshy spot just below the beginning of his jaw line. She etched her thumb into the base of his skull and gave it a quick poke. Chet slumped over and fell into the wheel chair.
“The old Tasmanian Devil Detonator,” she said proudly, blowing a bit of mythic smoke off the tip of her forefinger. “Works like a charm.”
John was speechless. “How in the world did you do that?”
Dr. Sloan shrugged.
“We’re on a Mission from God,” she said. “These things happen."
