TBOS Day 6
My birthday was 6 days ago. But I didn’t write on days 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 because I didn’t know what to say. I been thinking about it. Don’t worry. I left some empty pages, so I’ll do some makeup work. Ha ha… I’m not even in school anymore, but I still got to do makeup work. Fucking thanks, Hawk.
Hawk says I should write every day. He said, “Nulla dies sine linea.” This is Latin and means never a day without a line. I confirmed that one word is a line! Hawk said it should be a sentence at least, but every book ever disagrees.
Rhonda helped Nine give Mom a bath.
I had to stay in my room.
Oh, and BTW, TBOS means The Book of Spike**. That’s why I couldn’t start right on my birthday, because I didn’t know the title yet! Everyone knows a title comes first!
Nine! Stop! Cease! Desist! This book is PRIVATE.
I never get any privacy!
TBOS Day 7
Bored. I wanna watch Eternal Love**, but no fucking phone!
TBOS Day 8
I hate Nine and Rhonda!
FUUUUCK! Bored!
I wanted to go skate at the Cage cause Tuesday is free until 7. Right, I’m 12 now. But I tell them I’m 11 anyway. They don’t care. Hawk was going to be there. Hawk would look after me.
Nine thinks the black van across the street is spying on our house. I don’t think so. I watched it for five hours and it didn’t move, and no one got in or out…
TBOS Day 9
The lady from the bank came by. She gave us a letter and said we have ninety days before action will be taken. Mom’s room was quiet. Nine said I can’t see her now.
The black van is still there.
I miss Hawk!
TBOS Day 10
I discovered something new. I could feel it. It happened in a dream, and I remembered it. I need to talk to Hawk… FAST! I don’t want to do anything stupid.
TBOS Day 11
Rhonda made me do reading today. I hated it. I like to read, but I don’t like to read the books she wants me to read. Nine said I should study math, but I’m already good at math, and I’m better than him at it.
Mom was singing in her room. I sat by the door, but I didn’t go in there.
Hawk came to our house today. He says he can get Mom some medicine. I’m not fucking stupid. I know that means Spin. I know he can. Hawk can do anything. Then Mom will feel better.
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The Greta
His eyes watered. He tried to breathe through his mouth as he shuffled in the cluttered drawer of his desk for a fresh filtration mask. When he found it, he politely removed it from the cellophane, placed it over his nose, and adjusted the straps around his head. It helped a little.
The Greta sat in the chair on the other side of the desk, holding her hands up in front of her. The tips of her fingers poked through the ends of her wrappings. They were on the verge of turning blue. Her fingernails were broken and dirty. Three black zip-ties cinched around her wrists were cutting off her circulation.
Old Mr. Piedaloup, owner of the Lake Breeze Trailer Park, paced the linoleum of the lobby in his wide-brimmed straw hat and gun holstered on his hip, which was his ‘God-given and Constitutional right.’ Upon finding a bundle of them in one of his abandoned trailer houses, he’d performed a citizen’s arrest.
“Goddamn it, McGreevy. Where the hell is Sheriff Comstock?”
“He’s out on a call,” said McGreevy. “Should be back soon.” He found his department-issued pocketknife in a cup on the desk and opened it with a click. He lowered his voice an octave to sound more authoritative. “Mr. Piedaloup, I can take it from here if you don’t mind.”
”I do fuckin’ mind. I want those raggedy fuckin’ bitches off my goddamn land, yesterday! Hear me? What the hell you lettin’ her go for?”
McGreevy carefully placed the knife’s blade in the groove between the woman’s wrists. Snap, snap, snap.
The Greta rubbed her wrists and turned her shrouded face to Mr. Piedaloup.
“Jesus Christ!”
“The law’s the law, sir. You gave them a warning. Now they’ve got seventy-two hours to clear out. We’ll do a drive-by and check to make sure.”
“Mother—“ The man took off his hat and punched the air with it. “Bullshit! Three days!”
The law allowing People of the Earth—climate refugees for the most part, but also the Gretas—seventy-two hours of respite on abandoned, vacant, or unused property was a tender topic in Montana, where property rights were the only thing more sacred than Jesus.
“I’ll tell you what. In five days, Allgood’s gonna turn this bullshit around. I wasn’t gonna vote for that fuckin’ dyke, but I am now. You can take that to the goddamn bank!”
“Well, until then, I can have Acting Sheriff Comstock give you a call when he gets back in.”
“Don’t fuckin’ bother. I got his number. You know the sheriff told me you were a spineless little simp.”
“Acting Sheriff,“ mumbled McGreevy under his breath.
“What’s that?”
“I said, that’s your right, sir.”
The Greta was staring at him through her wrapping of rags. She wore a mask made from what appeared to be a child’s t-shirt displaying a rainbow and dancing pony on the side of her face and a slit cut for her to see through. Her gray eyes, flecked with green, were accentuated by an emerald scarf tied around her head over the t-shirt.
“And I’m headin’ over to the Melvin place. You know I bet their lil’ girl took up with them rags.”
The Melvin girl was a troublemaker. She’d run away before, but this was the longest she’d ever been on the lam.
The Greta was standing right there. He should say something.
“Now, Mr. Piedaloup, we don’t use that kind of language—”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“You sayin’ what kinda language I can use? Your generation’s what the problem is. Those fuckin’ rags! Shit, I bet that Melvin girl is in that trailer house right now lickin’ snatch with the lot of ‘em. This used to be fuckin America!”
Mr. Piedaloup kicked the counter and jerked the heavy glass door on his way out, but it caught on its slow-action hinge and closed with a soft chukchuk of the latch catching. “Christ damn it…” he faded into the parking lot, soon followed by the screaming engine of his pickup and peeling tires.
“You know, you really should get off that man’s land,” said McGreevy. The woman took out a square piece of fabric from a pocket inside her large coat and held it out to him.
He took it and read it.
Our Mother the Earth is on fire. The oceans are dying.
The air is poison. Alms for the Earth.
From her portmanteau, she ferreted out a small plastic plate with a red LED that glowed at him in knowing accusation. He rarely recycled.
He sighed, picked up his phone, and placed it on the plate. The LED turned green and blinked quickly three times, a digital thank you. His phone vibrated. He glanced at the message confirming a donation of exactly one dollar from his bank account. The Gretas never asked for more.
“What are you doing here? You should really get going. Head to Missoula. It’s more friendly there with all the hippies.”
She took out a square of fabric, needle, and thread from a little tin and began to sew. A minute later, she handed the patch to McGreevy. Neatly stitched in the center was a word:
Waiting
“Is the Melvin girl with you?”
She pulled the patch from his fingers and worked the needle quickly. The clock said five minutes to eight. He wanted to get her out of the station before Comstock and Gwen got back from picking up that boy or before one of Comstock’s militia buddies showed up. The woman stopped her stitching and draped the fabric before his eyes.
Waiting. All are welcome in the arms of The Mother.
~ Greta 5:12.
It was sometimes a fad for teenage girls to get caught up in the Greta movement. Maybe it was their silence, or their nomadic lifestyle, or their devotion to the Earth—hell, maybe it was the lesbian thing. But every now and then, a bundle of Gretas would lumber through a town, and in their wake, a family would report a missing daughter, mother, or niece, along with a suitcase full of hand-me-downs or a butchered wedding dress. More often than not, the girls would quickly become disillusioned to the extreme lifestyle of The Gretas’ Road—the discrimination, the silence, the total deprivation and destitution of all they had once known—and, by and by, return home, shaken up, a bit more humble. But sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes, they vanished forever into the muted folds of those wrapped women.
“Come on.” McGreevy got up, and when the Greta stood, the top of his head came just below her shoulder.
At the large glass door, he watched as Comstock’s SUV swung into the parking lot, lights flashing. “Shit.” Now he’d have to deal with this. He stepped out into the dismal chill and held the door for the woman.
Gwen was helping the boy out. Fuck, they’d cuffed him. He was a small kid, shorter than McGreevy, skinny, and malnourished. It looked like someone pounded him good.
With his phone to his ear, Comstock walked around from his side and grabbed him high on the arm, right in the pit where it would hurt him.
“Comstock, I’ll take him,” protested Gwen, but he was already marching toward the station, furious eyes locked on McGreevy.
“I’ll handle it,” the broad man growled into his phone. “What did you think? You should’ve called me before you took her in. The only thing he follows is the book. I’m not doing that fucking paperwork for a bunch of rags. Just wait. I’ll send some of the boys by.” He shoved the phone into his pocket.
“Sheriff Comstock, I—”
“Did Gus Piedaloup bring me a present?” Comstock eyeballed the Greta. The corner of his upper lip started to twitch.
“I was just going to drive her back. They got their seventy-two-hour warning.”
“Book her,” Comstock said.
“Sheriff, the law—”
Comstock jerked the boy up the steps, making him cry out, and jabbed his finger into McGreevy’s chest. “Book her now.”
“There’s a procedure, Comstock,” Gwen said, hands on her hips.
McGreevy felt the Greta pulling. She dropped to her knees on the cement in front of the boy, bowed her head, and placed her fabric-covered hands on his chest.
“What the hell?” Comstock lifted his jackboot and shoved the woman into the wall of the station with a heavy thud. She slunk down to the sidewalk, clutching her ribs and gasping for oxygen like a fish out of water.
“Don’t hurt her,” cried the boy.
“Shut up, Tonto.” He grabbed the young teen by the hair and dragged him into the station.
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McGreevy sat at his desk in his jacket with a scarf wrapped around his neck. Comstock had ordered him to open the front door and all the windows to air out the stench. Across from him, the Greta sat holding up her hands, this time bearing heavy, metal handcuffs. Her head was tipped onto her chest, and her eyes were closed, yet her posture was rigid. Was she sleeping? Behind her, shackled in chairs against the wall, were the four other women from her bundle, each in their unique wrapping of rags.
The Melvin girl had not joined up with them after all. McGreevy had taken a call from her family saying the strong-willed teen had been hiding out in her boyfriend’s bedroom and, after his parents caught on, had been returned safe and sound. That hadn’t stopped Comstock and his ‘deputies’ from taking the van down to Gus Piedaloup’s and hauling the women out of the abandoned trailer house—despite Deputy Gwen’s protests.
Kroker, who resembled a kangaroo on steroids—a large man with a long face, bleached goatee, and a shaved head bearing the tattoo of a cross on the back of his scalp—had his oversized feet up on the desk where they did the fingerprinting. He stared, mesmerized, into an expensive pair of VR glasses that he’d jacked from the evidence locker.
“Ol’ sheriff’s giving her hell!” said the man.
Comstock’s muffled shouts seeped through his office door.
Ol’ sheriff, ol’ sheriff. There was nothing ol’ sheriff about Comstock. He was an acting sheriff, placed there through a favor in the county commissioners’ office by someone snuggled in tight with the High Mountain Rangers.
McGreevy bristled at the insult. Gwen should have gotten that position. She had a degree in criminal justice from a fancy university and had been Sheriff Ryder’s—the real ol’ sheriff—righthand gal for five years. Comstock had a military background but no degree, nor had he gone through the academy. Even McGreevy had those bragging rights over the man. His diploma, signed by the attorney general at the time—To Serve and Protect—rested on the back of his desk in a golden frame, a gift from Sheriff Ryder. He remembered the man’s firm handshake and proud smile.
‘It’s a damn fine achievement, Collin. You’re going to make an exemplary officer of the law.’
Sheriff Ryder had been there for him. Sheriff Ryder had been there for everyone.
With the election on the horizon, McGreevy had hoped Gwen would run for sheriff. Indeed, she had been approached by several interested parties keen on sponsoring her, but she refused. She wasn’t a politician. Now Comstock’s ugly mug was all over billboards under the Security Party logo, an SP inside of a triangle.
McGreevy had learned to survive by growing up as a ward of the state—keep your opinions to yourself, keep your head down, and do your job. Comstock was running the way he liked doing everything else—unopposed with no one to criticize him—and he would be elected in a few short days. McGreevy was seriously considering taking that job with the Billings PD. After spending all his life in the Mission Valley, maybe it was finally time for a change of scenery.
The office door opened, and Comstock stormed out, followed by Gwen. “Christ, it stinks in here!”
The Greta jerked her head up.
“Sheriff…” Gwen only used Comstock’s official title when she was attempting to reason with him. “They have more lawyers than you know what to do with. You do this, and you’ll have paperwork up your ass for the next year.”
“Shit’s changing come election day, Wolf. Besides, isn’t that what I have this little munchkin around for?” He kicked McGreevy’s desk. “Chop, chop, McGreevy. Let’s do it by the book. Prints, mugshots, the whole nine yards. Get them into some jumpsuits and burn those rags.”
McGreevy didn’t move. He glanced at Gwen. Their eyes met.
“Is there a fucking problem?”
“Uh… Sh-sheriff…” McGreevy held up the judicial code he’d printed out with trembling hands. “Section three, paragraph two. G-Gretas are c-considered People of the Earth and are granted leave to shelter f-for no more than seventy-two hours upon notice—”
Comstock grabbed the paper and looked at it.
The phone at the front desk began to ring.
“Wolf, answer the goddamn phone.” He stared McGreevy down. “Is this a coup? Are you rebelling?”
“N-no, sir, but their lawyers… My record—”
“Grow a fucking spine. How the hell did you get into law enforcement?” Comstock tore the document down the middle and dropped it on the desk in front of McGreevy. “I’ll do it my own goddamn self.”
He grabbed the Greta and hauled her to the mugshot set. “Take it off, sister,” he barked.
The Greta didn’t move.
“The hard way then.” He ripped the emerald scarf from around her head. Then he grabbed the eye hole of the rainbow t-shirt, ripped it off with one swift motion, and tossed it onto the floor.
The four other Gretas stood in unison.
“Christ!” Comstock stepped back.
The four Gretas raised their cuffed arms above their heads, opened their palms, and started wiggling their fingers.
The Greta, now exposed, looked helplessly at McGreevy. The skin on the left side of her face was textured like blistered paint on an old barn wall. Her hair sprouted in small tufts from the bald half of her skull, and she was missing her lips and her ear where the fire had reached her.
“Sheriff Comstock—” Gwen stopped short when she saw the woman.
“What is it, Wolf?” Comstock was picking up the camera.
“That was the Mental Health Clinic. They have a lawyer for Francis Builds A Fire. He’s en route.”
The Greta’s hands were still raised, their fingers wiggling like flickering flames.