ish
by Ben Fortenberry
"Osman Hermida"
July 15, 1965- Brownsville, TX – Border Lounge – 7:42 P.M.
Tinny country atmosphere wafts out of an old dust-ravaged jukebox while at a corner
table wearing forest green coveralls, slouches Osman Hermida. With his head resting
in his hands, he has the look of a man long resigned to an undeserved fate, no dreams,
and no hopes other than to numb away the ache of life with a cold pitcher. Paint
flakes spot his rough hands, sweat-stained boots, bald head and beard, evidence
of a day’s hard work. Sitting there, he’s hiccupping violently, and at 6’7, 235
lbs, makes the old wooden chair he's in groan each time his body spasms. Carefully
taking a sip of black beer in between convulsions, he stares at the wood grain patterns
of the table top, becoming lost in painful reverie, hiccupping all the while.
Born in Mexico City, forty-three years ago to the day, Osman's had these hiccups
from the
moment the doctor slapped him, but his mother used to say he had them even
before then. In the record book article, “Longest Case of Hiccups,” it’s his sad
picture you’ll see there, the picture taken when he was only twelve, working for
the local circus to which his parents sold him in exchange for a horse. Because
the hiccups tortured him even in his sleep, he grew up alone, living in a small decrepit tent apart from the others, set up so that lined customers could view him
before making their way to see the real freaks, the pinheads and paraplegics. When
he wasn’t on display or cleaning out cages, he spent most of his time reading and
rereading a Spanish translation of Moby Dick, wishing he was Quuequeg harpooning
some great beast. The public was not impressed by a hiccupping boy at first, but
soon it became an enjoyable local custom to attempt to cure the hiccups through
fear. They would scream “Fuego! Fuego!” while he was napping, throw buckets of hot
water on him and more than once men pounced into his tent wearing strange homemade
masks. While all horribly unnerving, the hiccups continued unabated. Osman adapted
to these conditions as humans do, and eventually grew into a very large young man
of nineteen.
It was then that catastrophe struck. An odious little farmer took it
too far, attempting to scare him by threatening his life. Osman stared at the polished
knife and something suddenly came out of him. In front of forty or more witnesses
and hiccupping every second, he strangled that awful little man in a fit of rage
and confusion. Fleeing law and guilt, he headed north along the coast, longing to
find the whaling world of Ishmael, but running out of money and energy after crossing
the border into Texas. He's remained in Brownsville ever since, living inside the
abandoned garage of Lilla, sixty-year-old heiress and former prostitute. Working
all these years in a variety of manual labor jobs, he eventually settled into painting
houses for the little money he needed. No one’s ever asked him too much and those
who’ve sarcastically offered a cure have usually regretted it, learning quick to
leave him be.
Back inside the bar, two white men in brown uniforms are talking quietly to the
bartender. Osman is grimacing after a particularly painful hiccup and fails to notice
the men, their badges or the photograph one of them is holding. He does notice when
they both sit down at the table next to him. The bar is empty except for Osman,
the bartender and some kid sweeping the floor, yet these two choose to sit right
next to Osman. His mental alarm specially designated for authority figures starts
to claxon. The pace of his hiccups increases, betraying his nervousness as he shakily
brings his
glass to his lips. He’s just about to swallow when one of the men speaks.
“Hey Osman, still got those dang hiccups I see. Why don’t you come with us for a
little ride?”
Convulsing, beer sprays from Osman’s nose and mouth covering the men with a mist.
Taking off his cowboy hat to wipe it off, the second man asks, “Well now, was that
from the hiccup or the question?”
The pace of Osman’s hiccups only increases. The first man gets serious.
“See, Osman we know you’re an illegal. Hell, everyone in town does, but a new law
states that we’ve got to fill a certain number of deportations each month. So, we’re
starting off with the easy ones. Now, you can come back in a day or two, and we’ll
just throw you out again next month real easy and regular like. Okay?”
The two Border agents sigh as they get up and stand on either side of Osman. They
put their hands under his arms and start to lift.
He shakes his head and doesn’t budge. The agents look at each other and then back
down at the back of Osman’s bald head. The bigger agent pulls on the back of the
wooden chair in an attempt to tip him out, but the chair only groans. Osman doesn’t
move.
“Up, damn you.”
The other man walks around to the front of the table so he can look into Osman’s
eyes, trying to tell if this is going to get bad or really bad. As he's about to
flip the table over, he notices something.
“You’re not hiccupping...”
Osman stands up slowly, silent, unmoving and menacing. The jukebox changes songs,
the bartender swallows hard.
“Dave, he’s not hiccupping!”
To learn more about the next minutes in Osman Hermida's life, head on down to
Brownsville, Texas, and ask for directions to the Border Lounge. Rodolfo, the kid
who was sweeping cigarette butts off the floor when Osman lost his hiccups, still
works there. He’s on parole now and can probably tell you what happened next to
Osman. You’ll need to speak Spanish and you might have to pay him five bucks in
advance, but if you tell him you’re Osman’s distant relative, maybe not.
"Russ Roberts"
December 3rd, 1975- 15 miles outside Billings, MT – Hwy 312– 3:42 A.M.
As snow begins to fall, glossy paint reflects the lights of the sky atop the hoods
of new cars harnessed into a pale blue convoy trailer. The Veloco-Trans truck is
soaring down Highway 312, taking full advantage of the absence of a speed limit or patrol cars, its cargo tardy by two days. Behind the massive steering wheel bounces
Russ, barely able to see over, but jamming out to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Saturday Night
Special” with all his heart. He’s freezing cold but starting to feel like an actual
truck driver for the first time during the trip, now just twenty miles away from
being over. Too busy belting out lyrics, both lead and backup, Russ doesn’t notice
the snow drifts getting larger, the road getting icier or the lightning illuminating
the horizon.
He started this trip from his home in Detroit, where he was born just fifteen years
ago on the day John F. Kennedy was elected, to a mother and father still angry from
the news. Russ’ father, Lieutenant Colonel Russell Roberts Sr., had recently received
the Congressional Medal of Honor for his valor in the Korean War and was soon appointed
Senior Information Administration Director. An exalted position, but unfortunately
for Russ Jr., this led to a childhood spent globetrotting, seeing the world from
inside the chain link fences of U.S. military bases and having a new best friend
every three months. Around Russ’ fourteenth birthday, this world came to an abrupt,
crashing end when Russ Sr., was implicated by his peers in a scandal involving documents
sold to foreign powers. The colonel was innocent, but the army brass needed a scapegoat
to save face, and so a year later, the Roberts family had moved into a peach mobile
home outside their old hometown of Detroit with Russ Sr. driving for V.T.C.S., Veloco-Trans
Convoy Service.
The bad luck continued. Russ dropped out freshman year, was arrested
for pot, and got his girlfriend pregnant in the same month. His parents didn’t seem
to notice as his father was rarely in town and his mother’s health depended largely
on her accessibility to liquor, but Russ’s behavior had its effect. With his dad
barely supporting the current family, much less a daughter-in-law and granddaughter,
tragedy again struck. Russ Sr. injured his ankle in a fall while strapping in a
midsize van and had no one to turn to but his son.
“Russ, I can’t drive with this ankle, can’t shift. But, if I don’t make this run,
the company will put me on disability, basically cut my pay in half. I know you're
only fifteen and don’t have a license, but you know how to drive a truck and the
family needs your help. Can you make the run?”
Russ looked at his dad’s ankle and tried to feel like a good son. “Yeah, alright.”
Two weeks, countless hamburgers later, and still oblivious to the coming blizzard,
Russ is humming the horn parts of “Low Rider”, when another convoy truck passes
and gets in front of him. He turns down the radio and picks up the CB microphone.
“Uh, hey fellow trucker! I’m right behind you on Highway 312! COME ON BACK!”
“Not so loud! I don’t have time to talk; this weather is getting nasty, out.”
“Sorry! Wait, uh which exit is Billings? Do you know? Over?”
“You sound like a kid!”
Russ sits in angry silence, staring at the brake lights of the truck in front.
“Listen kid, we’re about to hit one helluva storm here. I’d pull over if I were
you, I'm pulling off now, over.”
The brake lights get brighter and the truck eases onto the shoulder, the snow starting
to look like a cotton blanket. Russ keeps driving, stonily staring ahead, not looking
at the driver of the other truck who’s now waving out of his window. He floors the
gas pedal as he whispers something.
“Kid?”
Thirty seconds pass, ice creeping up the shoulder of the asphalt.
“Kid?”
A minute passes, snow swirling in an angry frenzy.
“O.K., don’t answer. But just know that the weather service called this is the worst
storm in fifty years and coming ahead a few miles there's a nasty curve, and if
you don’t take it just right, you’ll go off the road and hit this rock mountain-thing
called Pompey’s Pillar. You should pull over, kid. Let the storm pass, then you
can follow me, over.”
Thirty seconds pass, lightning starting to strobe.
“Kid?”
A minute passes, and Russ can’t take it anymore.
“I’m not a kid! I can do anything my dad does! OVER AND OUT!”
Russ turns the CB off and the radio back up. He’s singing with the next song…
“Hey ho, let’s go! Hey ho, let’s go! Hey ho, let’s go! Hey….”
For more information about the events which transpired on the
night of December
3rd, 1975, on Highway 312, mail a letter of inquiry to the Yellowstone County District
Court, 227 North 27th Street, Billings, MT 59307, or call (406)–256–2970 and ask
for Records. To visit Pompey’s Pillar, take exit number 23 off Interstate 94, pay
your three dollars, and have look for yourself to see if you can find a roadside
memorial to Russell Roberts.
At the very least you can see where explorer William
Clark carved his name into the rock, and you can even take a canoe tour while you’re
at it.
"Isaac Lee"
September 25, 1982-Atlantic City, NJ-near City Hall- 4:36 P.M.
Raindrops pelt the pavement steps outside the Atlantic City Court House as umbrella-covered
reporters angle to get closer to a podium adorned with microphones. When District
Attorney Schuberman emerges, he’s greeted by chaos and flashing light. His assistant,
Isaac Lee makes a tactful exit, skipping down the stairs of a side exit with a newspaper
over his head. He’s relieved that the case is over, but paranoid that the Don may
kill him for it. Halfway to the parking garage, under the hiss of the rain, he notices
the sound of footsteps behind him. Isaac quickly turns down an alleyway and listens
for the footfalls. They sound like the steps of a giant wearing flip-flops.
The path leading up to this alley beside the court house is muddled at best. This
may be due to the fact that the current Bruno mob isn’t really one for records or
history at all for that matter. But it is known that Isaac grew up in Upton Orphanage,
a known front for a notorious numbers racket. Like most of his friends/brothers/coworkers,
he ran messages all over town during the day, semi-oblivious to what he was actually
doing. In a few years however, Isaac was not too surprised or displeased to be talking
with an intimidating man in a fedora about doing some “real” work for Don Angelo.
What he did or didn’t do after this is point unclear for a few years, but it is
known that he left the orphanage and that the Don developed a strong fondness for
“Ike” and groomed him as the organization’s lawyer. Graduating in 1980 from Atlantic
Union Law School, he was on the road to becoming the new consigliere to Don Angelo
when something happened. He found out why he grew up in an orphanage instead of
having a normal happy family. Isaac discovered in dusty folders evidence that the
Upton Orphanage was especially reserved for children whose parents were killed by
the Bruno family. It was the Don’s way of cultivating an army of alienated youth,
and Isaac was one of them. The paperwork detailed the lineage and method of death of hundreds of people, meticulous as a Nazi tally sheet. Above Isaac’s name were
his parent’s as well as the word “shot.” He took the folder and his anger to newly
elected District Attorney Schuberman who was thirsty for evidence against the “The
Docile Don.” Isaac accepted a temporary position of assistant, but refused police
protection or to testify against his former boss/surrogate father. All he wanted
was to close the orphanage for good, but the case became larger and larger, gaining
nationwide notoriety. For a year, he lived anonymously in a crappy motel and every
time he heard his name on the news, he felt a noose tighten.
Now with the case over, the orphanage closed and the Don imprisoned, in that grimy
alleyway with rain soaking his grey trench coat to black, Isaac can still hear the
strange steps coming closer. He retreats to the bricked dead end wall and hides
behind a filthy trashcan, more terrified by the weird sound the footsteps make than
anything else. When the steps finally stop, Isaac is more interested in the sound
than afraid for his life and suddenly identifies it: a person wearing flippers walking
along side a pool. He’s congratulating himself in his head when he hears his name,
snapping him back to the present.
“I said stand up Isaac.”
He tells himself to go out like a man, but when he stands up, what he sees is so
unexpected, so out-of-the-blue and so outrageous, he faints like a little girl.
A few minutes later, the same astonishing thing is slapping his face. It’s a clown.
A clown wearing an oversized foam, orange cowboy hat is worriedly slapping his face
and telling him to get up. Isaac can’t help but stare at the giant red shoes as
rain runs off the brim of the ridiculous hat and onto his face. The water has made
the clown’s face paint run off a little, revealing a surprisingly sad old man underneath.
Isaac brushes off the fool, struggles to his feet and turns on lawyer-mode.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“Do you need any help?”
“No. Now answer my question.”
“OK I’ll be going then.” The old man starts away.
Isaac knows when someone’s hiding something. “Stop!
You’re not going anywhere!”
“Neither one of you is.”
This is an unidentified third voice coming from outside the alley. As two tall,
sharp featured men in thousand dollar suits step into view, the clown and Isaac
exchange glances, the owner of the voice no longer unknown. They stare back at the
approaching men, at their hands slowly reaching into their jackets, at how even
the raindrops seem to avoid touching them. To Isaac’s amazement, the clown quickly
pulls out a gun from his huge pants, nothing funny or silly about it. To his even
greater amazement, the clown says words he never expected to hear anyone say to
him:
“Listen Isaac, I’m your dad.”
Further information on Isaac and his father’s fate could be a bit tough to find.
You’ll need to go down to the Atlantic City Police Department’s Organized Crime
Unit and ask Gina to show you all the files they have on Angelo Bruno, A.K.A. “The
Docile Don.” You’ll need a court order to gain access, but it’ll be worth it because
these files contain all the reports about crimes the Bruno Mafia was suspected to
be responsible for but were never prosecuted for.
If you find a file covering the
murder of Isaac Lee, you’ll know he was in fact killed by the gunmen. So if you
don’t find the file, it could mean he and his father somehow escaped and lived happily
ever after.
Then
again, the folder could have just been lost or misplaced by Gina,
who’s a bit scatterbrained at times.