Johnny Wraith Stories

It wasn’t easy getting by with a Philosophy BA. I’d heard it said, “Philosophy bakes no bread,” and it was true. I’d been home a month, a college graduate, and couldn’t find a job. My resume went in all directions, title companies, banks, insurance companies, government jobs, the Post Office. You name it. All the real jobs sent me letters that said NO THANKS. It was a small town and a philosopher’s options dried up quick. I had a back up plan. Law school. It was a year away. Meanwhile, I had to survive.

Luckily two makeshift jobs appeared the same day, just after I’d received my final rejection letter:

I was at the gym. A lean guy with beady eyes, wearing a nice Polo shirt and polished leather shoes came in. He approached me. I was sitting, wrapping my knees for a 425lb squat.

He gave his name and I gave mine. We shook hands.

He said, “You look like a big guy, what do you bench?”

“420,“ I said, and went back to wrapping.

“Bullshit,” he said. “Show me.”

“Sorry, squat day, chest is too sore.” I stood and went to work.

He watched me knock out a set of 10.

“Shit, that’s a lot of weight,” he observed, as I plopped back down and caught my breath, unwrapped my knees. “I’m opening a bar this week and need a doorman. You interested?”

“How much?” I puffed, sweat running down my face.

“6 an hour, 10 hours a week, cash. Just need you for the crowds.”

It sounded too good to be true. “I’ll take it.”

He told me when and where, we shook hands. He left.

Then Coach Fuller came in to pump some iron. We met at the water fountain. He was now about 40. We often worked out together, over the years. We were friends. During Vietnam, Coach had been in the Army. He’d escaped combat duty by volunteering to be a subject for a marijuana effects study. “Johnny,” he once told me, “we smoked dope all day, shot guns, ran obstacle courses, and drove tanks – all while guys wrote on clipboards. It was the best damn time in my life.”

The Coach knew I was having trouble finding a job. “Johnny, you still out of work?” He asked, just before having a sip of water. He turned back from the fountain, wiped his thick blonde mustache, now graying, and looked at me.

“Yeah, but for a part-time bouncing job. Just got it.”

“It’s just nights?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, shit, Johnny, you can still work the job I found you. $40.00 a day, 2 times a week. Easy as pie. Just sit at a desk. Substitute teacher. Grades K-12.”

I took that job too.

Together the jobs had me earning a few dollars more than $500.00 a month, net. I had to pay taxes on the sub job. The money wasn’t enough. As soon as my parents found out my wages, they started charging me $500.00 a month, room and board. They were like that. I still had to put gas in my 15-year-old VW Rabbit, and pay for my beer. I was stuck in a terrible predicament. Beer or gas?

So, I drove over to Larry’s house, a shack really. In the poor part of town. Larry had been my buddy since Kindergarten. He’d been run over by a car as a kid, had a bad leg, and used his limp to win monthly disability checks. But he always had other ways of increasing his income. I ran out of gas just as I pulled up at Larry’s. The VW Rabbit spewed, kicked, and died. I got out, went up the cracked sidewalk, knocked.

“COME ON IN!” Yelled Larry.

I went on in, walked through the kitchen. The linoleum was peeling off the floor in chunks. Something was rotting in the sink with piled-up dishes. I stepped into the living room. A football game was playing on Larry’s new 36” television. I saw Larry sitting on the toilet, having a shit with the door wide open. The bathroom was so small his knees nearly stuck out into the living room. It was a good seat. From it, you could watch football.

“Hey, Johnny!” Larry grinned. I nodded back.

Larry wiped, showed me the brown on the wadded toilet paper, said “Want a bite?” He finished, flushed, and pulled up his shorts. He didn’t have any pants on, or a shirt. He had a big, round belly. Fortunately, he washed his hands with soap before he came out and bear-hugged me. He weighed about 260 at 6 feet.

“What’s goin’ on!” Larry howled. “Glad you could make it over.”

“Yeah, I wanted to talk.”

“Have a seat ol’ buddy!”

I sat on the couch and he plopped into the Lazy Boy. He raised his thick, bare feet with the lever on the side. Padding was sticking out of the couch in places and the Lazy Boy had three legs. An upside-down coffee cup served as a fourth leg.

I noticed a high school biology book on the floor, and a pink backpack. I recognized the book because I’d recently been a substitute in a class that used that book. There was an empty bottle of Jack Daniels, lying on its side, nearby. “What’s this Larry?”

“Aw, that’s just Ellen, some girl that don’t get along with her step dad. She comes over here when there ain’t nowhere to go.”

“Where is she?”

“In the bedroom yonder,” he pointed.

I looked at Larry. He nodded. I got up and went to the slightly ajar door, pushed it open. Sure enough, lying in the dark room was a girl, face down on a mattress, no pants or blankets on. The T.V. announcer for the football game yelled “Touchdown!” The whole stadium was cheering. Larry was cheering too. “Hoo-Ha!”

I went back to the couch.

“Larry, I got a problem.”

“Let’s fix it buddy.”

I told about my earnings, how I had to pay room and board. “I have so little left I have to choose between beer and gas. And that’s if I drink $1.00 bottles of King Cobra, fine malt liquor,” I explained with a hopeless shrug.

“You just need to know where to go and how to fetch it,” he said, as he turned back to the game. It wasn’t a problem at all. Without turning his head he pointed to the kitchen. “Now go fetch us some whiskey – top a the fridge.”

So, we talked, watched T.V., and passed the bottle of whiskey. The girl never came out. When midnight came, Larry went into the bedroom, put on his cowboy boots, jeans, and flannel shirt. He shook the girl awake and said something. She mumbled.

We loaded a 40 gallon tank, industrial wire cutters, and some garden hose into Larry’s pickup truck. We went down to the local Budweiser plant. It was closed and very dark. Larry knew just where to cut the fence. We carried the 40 gallon tank through the fence and to the side of a parked beer truck. Larry siphoned gas from the truck. He sucked too hard and gas shot into his mouth. Luckily, he didn’t swallow any. Just spit it out and cussed a bit. It was hard for the two of us to carry that full 40 gallon tank back, but we did. Maybe 100 yards. It was heavy and we could only go a few steps at a time. It was enough gas to fill his 30 gallon truck and my 10 gallon car. It was a fair split. I got 3x the mileage.