First Sign of the Badger Page 12

On borrowed time, dripping bravado, a leadfoot is bullying his dented, from a freak reindeer, Ford Explorer to do four miles over, looking like a barely covered boob. His name is not Earnest P. Worrell. His name is Ernie Pernall. Developing smart-asses like to joke that his name is, in fact, Earnest P. Worrell, but it's not. To Ernie's displeasure, a smelly, effeminate pansy who follows him around at work accentuates the "P." with a question-mark chin.

  Ernie doesn't like to be called Earnest P. Worrell. He hears it too much, and Earnest P. Worrell ain't exactly Marlon Brando. They might as well call him "Dorky Cracker." Like a dog that doesn't enjoy reading from the experience of getting whapped with a rolled-up newspaper, Ernie can't enjoy the posthumous Worrell's whimsical antics in any of the Goes to... series.

  Despite his name handicap Ernie has a job, a damn good job. He can pretty much wear what he wants and feels less like a sheep there than at his previous occupations, consisting mainly of food service and a short stint as a janitor. It's better than those other gigs, but Ernie can feel his hair falling out, especially on days when he went in without enough time to shower.

  Now is his favorite time of day, he's driving home for lunch. Ernie is content enough with his job but he loves lunch. It lets him get away from supervision for a little while so he can, briefly, dig on life.

  Ernie sweats a smile as he slows to a stoplight. He's relieved because the song on the radio is something by Radiohead. The thrill that a song playing at his odd driving time is not marketed to preteen girls amuses him. Thinking it's either track three, five, or eight on their new one, Ernie doesn't know the name of it. Because Radiohead is "cool," and because he's heard it before, he sings along as best he can without understanding what exactly is coming out of Tom York's mouth.

  Ernie smiles at the inconvenience of stopping because he was worried he'd have to make a decision, but the unscheduled stop solves the problem. The crude instrument - crude because it's known to stop innocent people when there's no cross traffic - saves Ernie the chore of deciding whether to sit in the driveway and listen to the rest of the song or just go about his lunch. Under normal circumstances Ernie probably would listen to the song because it's so rare that anything valuable plays on the radio. This is not a normal circumstance. This is lunch. Lunch is an hour a day, while the song is recorded and readily available at any time outside of the CD player and tape deck free four-wheel drive SUV. Ernie was leaning towards skipping it, but now he doesn't have to worry about deciding. With no regrets, he will listen to the whole song, and not because of something he did or because he's being lazy. Now he'll naturally hurry his ass up to get back from lunch on time, and it's not his fault. It's the fault of the Goddamned stoplight.

  There are no conflicts at all. Ernie can't get mad at something like a stoplight. He's no bully. The stoplight can't compete with him. It's just an inefficient contraption, a fact of life that makes everyone a victim. Even with the setback, this time of day is still sunny and beautiful.

  Then a floating ocean invades from above. Out of the clear blue, very dark charcoal gray clouds storm in. Ernie's brief glimpse at the clouds, a blink before heavy rain blurs the sky outside the windows, shows their volatile ugliness.

  His noon break is instantly in a severe midnight thunderstorm. He doesn't know where the sun has gone, and even though the glowing green digital clock hasn't expired two-minutes yet, his thumping heartbeat is confused on how long it's been there. The sudden creepiness of the day, already a bad memory, could scar Ernie's soul forever - like any near death experience.

  Washed out by the thickness of the water on the window, Ernie can't see whether the light is red or green. He frantically executes the activation of the windshield wipers. Knowing this will take so much more than the minimum, he cranks the speed all the way up. But despite being stressed to their maximum output, the paddles are too instantly covered to be any help.

  Ernie's nerves jostle when confused assholes honk and swish by, shaking his stationary vehicle alongside thunder. As lightning flashes tease his reflexes, cars, maniacs swarm in unknown directions - invisible monsters. He could be hit, even killed.

  Hoping he's at the designated area for the stoplight and not in the middle of the intersection, Ernie's not even sure where he is anymore. He reaches the screaming drop of this roller coaster ride and fogs the windows with unintelligible crying, frightened for his life, making visibility even worse.

  Fighting for survival, he fingerprints the windshield to clear his mistake. Ernie hopes he's too young to have a heart attack. But anyone can have a heat attack, he knows that. He thinks about it constantly.

  The peer-pressure of the car horns make Ernie trigger-happy, wondering if he should risk driving slowly, virtually blindfolded, to get out of the way of the aggressive motorists. Before he scans himself for paranoia, he worries the honking is an attempt to warn him of a tornado.

  "Jesus, could shit get more crucial?" Ernie mutters, pondering what it means if this is the end.

  "It's not worth it. I'm sitting here 'til I can see to drive. There's no tornado. I'm not going to die because of this shit." Ernie notices he's developed a case of foul-mouth and hopes it won't give him bad vibes.

  Suddenly a feeling strikes him. Ernie needs the other cars to see him, only a miracle can kill the danger if that isn't the case. He says fifteen little prayers in less than a minute to get all the help he can and hugs himself with hope, "They can see me."

  Suddenly, the rain stops. The nightmare is interrupted. Ernie lowers his window to clear the steam his nerves have generated, relieved to see that he's still at the intersection. The light is a green arrow pointing the direction he wants to go as his rear view mirror reveals a never-ending string of vehicles flashing a common light.

  He takes his cramping foot off the brake, feeling stupid for worrying about something that didn't happen. He is overreacting in public and wishes that those he has inconvenienced won't remember his license plate number.

  Loud rattles of God's anger pummel the top of Ernie's four-wheel drive. The window is quickly shut and the shock makes him a born again Christian in hopes that Jesus will shield him from more supreme wrath. The clunks on Ernie's windshield make him hyperventilate at the thought of being beaten to death or bleed from broken glass.

  The frozen golf balls are larger than the water drops, but Ernie can see better because it isn't hailing as hard as it had rained--it's just not possible, although it's hailing like Hell.

  Somehow the SUV is in "park" so he switches to "drive." Idling through the intersection, he must find better shelter to save his own life. Ernie knows he must make it home. It's safe at home, safer than in his car anyway. His house is heavier and doesn't move. He'd feel safer at home.

  The strategic Ernie speeds up a little to get out of this situation as soon as possible, but remains well under the limit. The Explorer runs smoothly, though it's driver has a phobia of sliding on hail stones in heavy machinery.

  An anonymous sedan, blue and black, cuts Ernie off a half of a basketball court away. To be on the safe side, Ernie taps his brakes before things can get fatal.

  Ernie thanks God that his driveway is near and slows to not slide past it. Careful and clutch, in unfavorable weather conditions, he pulls his vehicle accurately to the final destination.

  Feeling close to the end of a long battle and in proper timing, Ernie evacuates the car like he saw a bomb in it. He utilizes the key at the front door with the careful discipline of a soldier before the wind sweeps his feet out from under him. He feels that it was close to happening.

  Not wondering why he's wet, Ernie wheezes and makes that face, a dripping face of shock. Winded, he paws the window to see through the Venetian blinds. It doesn't look safe - not safe at all. He'd have to be crazy to go back out there.

  With the strength of ten men, Ernie dials the employee hotline from memory, surprised he remembers it.

  There's an answer, "Hello." It's Dave, the manager.

  "Dave, how're y
ou doin'?" Ernie pushes through formalities to let them know that he's okay.

  "Good, Pernall. What's up?" Dave doesn't like wasting time on the phone with the same people he's forced to spend too much time with already.

  "Nothin' man. I was just calling to say that I made it home okay... I don't know if I'll be able to make it back in from lunch." Ernie has faith that Dave understands and just feels fortunate that he's safe.

  "Why?" Dave questions.

  "Because, it's really bad out there, Dave. I was just stuck at this stop light for God knows how long and it hailed on me."

  Dave cuts to the chase. "When did you go to lunch? Did you wreck?"

  "No... Almost. It's just not safe out there."

  Dave hasn't been outside since morning and isn't in position to make the call. And Ernie doesn't skip work much so he gets the benefit of the doubt, "All right, Ernie. I'll see you later."

  To check in on the developing situation, Ernie radars the window and finds the sun. It's like a spring day now, a little muddy but calm. The hail stones steam away and conditions are suddenly tropical. The hellish day cleans itself to a sparkling gleam.

  Ernie scores. It's already clear, his lunch break hasn't expired yet, and he has the rest of the day off. He relaxes in a lawn chair on the porch before he rings some friends to see what they're up to. Soon, two of the unemployed ones come over to get drunk, toss the Frisbee, and play Tecmo Super Bowl on his ancient but mint condition, front-loading Nintendo Entertainment System. The subtle sweetness of the rare vacation makes Ernie feel that he's made the right decision.

  Dave, who's pissed off enough as it is, discovers that his own ride home is under a clear blue sky. Those monkeys he supervises have a knack for getting the middle-manager's ass chewed by the higher-ups because of their incompetence, and now one of them is giving him direct trouble. Their carryin'-on must stop. His leniency deceases and he plans to make an example to remind everyone who's boss.

  The sun sets and the yo-yo of a day punctuates with a hard winter's night. Clouds spit ice like shattered glass to break trees and power lines. Cold winds rip like a jet engine, treating the thickest of winter coats like smoke.

  The clock doesn't alarm because the power is out, but the day still begins from natural causes. Ernie wakes up and the window tells him he won't need to get out of his pajamas very soon.

  Dialing the increasingly familiar number of the employee hotline, Ernie thinks that there's not going to be anyone there. Everyone should be snowed in, but he is going to leave a message for insurance.

  Dave answers the phone grumpy to startle Ernie. "Hello?!"

  "Dave, this is Ernie. I don't think I'll be able to make it in."

  "That's what you said yesterday, Pernall."

  "I know. It was bad yesterday."

  Dave is sickened by the behavior of his employee, and won't let Ernie abuse the system. This system only works if every part conforms religiously. The boss has to show that calling in is for when you need it, not when you feel the urge. "It's not that bad. I think you can make it in."

  "What? It looks like the North Pole out there."

  "It's just a little ice and snow, you can make it. I made it."

  "I don't know if I'll be there on time."

  Dave sighs a compromise. "Make it here by ten."

  Ernie mumbles like anyone harassed by a senseless bully. "By ten? ... Okay. I'll try."

  Bundled up for padding and warmth, armed with his ice scraper and flashlight, Ernie sits in his four-wheel drive as it warms up. Not too long ago his neighbor's car was stolen because she left it alone for a moment. Reasoning he better stay inside of it with the doors locked because someone is more likely to steal it just to keep warm for a little while, Ernie shivers to protect his vehicle from the greedy bums. To freeze less, he turns on his windshield wipers before he gets out, locking the doors but armed with a spare key to scrape between the swipes. Taking much more time than he would like, he moves to the door windows and then to the defrosting back window.

  A battling warrior feeling the pierce of the frigid cold, sub-Arctic temperatures of middle America, Ernie inspects the road that directly connects to his house. The city road crew has bulldozed a path and it looks like salt is down, but the situation is still hazardous.

  Ernie hurries back inside his Explorer and his ears burn to heat him up. To be on the safe side, he buckles his seat belt and chatters his teeth like a chorus line's worth of galloping. "R" is selected by the automatic shift, and Ernie backs up slowly, wishing his vehicle came equipped with the beeping-while-you-back-up option.

  He reverses at a speed of an ant, occasionally checking his brakes to test the friction of the frozen concrete.

  The wheel is turned hard-left when the rear tires are aligned with the curb. Ernie checks the traffic. The coast is clear. Trying not to slide too much with the changing momentum, he stops, full-and-complete, and selects "D" as soon as both of the front tires are on the street.

  Unfortunately, idling isn't enough fuel to get the car going in that low of a temperature. It needs more gas, but too much could be dangerous. His big toe, covered by galoshes and three layers of socks, nudges the pedal and the engine revs. The Explorer takes its time, but Ernie hopes he's not going too fast.

  Squinting doesn't reach anywhere except the road in front of him. Although self-conscious about not checking the mirrors very often, he has to know what's in front of him. There's something in his way. Ernie brakes and flips on the high-beams to get a better look.

  An ice patch is cutting him off - an ugly, slippery looking bitch of an ice patch. It's not a false alarm, this particular patch of ice looks unpredictable and is completely crossing Ernie's lane. He can't use passing procedures because it's craziness to be in the other lane under these conditions. He can't avoid it.

  Ernie has to drive and hopes the SUV can negotiate this dangerous obstacle. He can't stall and wait for the ice to melt. He has to get to work and only has two hours to do it.

  The Explorer marches on, cautiously. After starting his new battle, Ernie slams the brakes, again, too hard and premature.

  An old woman, using her walker carefully on the snowy sidewalk, watches and wonders if she'll be harmed by the suspicious man in the Explorer. She reasons that the creep could possibly be under the influence of Z-XY, or something worse. It's her greatest fear. Timothy Leary is driving down her street and is out of his mind. She speeds her walker to safety.

  Initially worried about losing control and harming the old lady, Ernie is sad to see her go because she might have been able to help him or at least hear his last words.

  Ernie barely makes it across the ice, but he makes it. The momentum is now in his favor. He's officially on his way, still paranoid but a little more calm.

  After two high-stress, adrenaline filled, slow and demanding, start and stop, life and death miles, Ernie finds land, his job, as a conqueror. Even though he took his time, he feels like the mailman today - a Navy Seal mailman.

  He's surprised that the office is full, almost everybody else made it. A few people are gone, but no more than usual.

  At 10:10 AM, Dave notices Ernie stripping off a few layers near his desk, and attacks the problem with sarcasm. "Hey, Vern, make a wish."

  "A wish? I wish for world peace," says Ernie, looking to score good-guy points.

  "I told you to make a wish because it's 10:10, Worrell. It's not 10. It's 10:10. You're ten minutes late."

  Ernie thinks the company should be thrilled that he's only ten minutes late, and triggers melodrama for a shot at company sympathy. "Yeah. I'm glad I made it at all. Alive. It's bad out there."

  Dave nips Ernie in the bud before this inch becomes a mile. "You seem to be at risk for developing 'absentia.' If it continues, you'll have a permanent unpaid vacation and we won't have to worry about you making it or not."

  Sizzling blood after slapping someone back in line is one of Dave's favorite sensations and the message hits Ernie like nause
a.

  "I risked my life to get here today. I'm damned lucky I made it. You're gonna fire me for not risking my life to go somewhere I have to go five times a week? Ten times, if you count lunch breaks."

  "You made it today. You'd make it any time. Just make sure you make it every time. Besides, you don't have to leave for lunch." Threat made, Dave retires to his a personal space to enjoy his high.

  Ernie doesn't know why he puts up with it. Then he remembers that everyday life is expensive and payments must be made.

  Ernie works his tasks of the day - filling out reports, making phone calls, and generally holding the fort down as he tries not to wonder how he'll get home. For safety, he skips lunch. He knows one isn't available to him after being two-hours and ten-minutes late anyway.

  Five o'clock hits, Ernie's tosses around whether he should spend the night underneath the desk in his cubicle. A look outside the front door reveals a muddy ground. All of the ice and snow has melted. The drive home seems it will be an easy one for Ernie, thankful he doesn't live out in the country.

  Ernie mounts his Explorer, expecting he won't have to drive it like a tank. With ease, he backs out and starts his journey, happy not to be facing any unpredictable adversaries.

  Ernie relaxes when he realizes that nothing bad will happen to him. He concedes that he was just paranoid, regretting that he missed a half-day of work by acting like a baby.

  This is the way life is, he knows that. Just because things seem a little dangerous doesn't mean he'll die. He's overreacting. "Ernie, you gotta relax. You just gotta relax."

  He has a good day job. He's happy enough, things definitely could be worse. It all seems worth it. Feeling that his hypochondria has put him in a dangerous position, he swears he'll never do it again.

  Deja vu, Ernie hears deep rumbles as a continent-sized black cloud shuts the daylight off. Instantly, Ernie hears falling water waving towards him like someone has spilled the ocean.

  Witnessing that dense of a rain coming towards him through lightning strikes kicks-out Ernie's breath. He's never seen a rain so thick that drops aren't separated. Consumed in the downpour, he has impossible amounts of trouble getting air after he takes a moment to collect himself. He rolls up his windows, shields his nose and mouth to block out the water, but finds no space in which to perform respiration.

  A company pen taps Ernie's forehead as it floats above the dashboard. Ernie unbuckles his seat belt, heaves the driver's side door open, and hustles out of the his saturated shelter to look for air.

  The rain is difficult to wade through, with no air or traction and Ernie lifts off the ground. He can swim up from the street.

  Desperate, Ernie swims towards the clouds. He thinks he can make it, because he rises with little effort. Worried he'll fall to a crippling death if it stops raining, he gambles for the clouds because air is the most important thing on his shopping list right now. As soon as he is the highest object in the underwater sky, a bolt of lightning penetrates the water to strangle Ernie. He does make it to the surface, but now he's got no reason to breathe.

  The elderly woman who thinks he's Timothy Leary uses Ernie's body as a floatie and unsuccessfully softens her fall as they thud to a small crater when the sun drains the rain in the late evening. Air was on her shopping list, too.

  A consoling e-mail at the office breaks the news of Ernie Pernall's, a.k.a. Ernest P. Worrell's, passing in the arms of an unnamed older woman. The content is simple, suppressing chances at an employee panic. All in the office are relieved to hear that the death of Ernie Pernall is "in no way suspected to be foul play targeting employees of the company. And God is not against this company. Our prayers are with Ernie Pernall."

  Not very many people in the office stay for Ernie's entire funeral. The dieters without active health club memberships sit quietly with grumbling stomachs to stay for, at most, their whole lunch break. Some make an appearance but leave because they still have to eat.

  There is no one left to put Ernie's casket into the ground at the end of it all--none of his coworkers anyway. The friends he plays Nintendo with have straightened-up and have jobs, too. It is their first day so they can't ask for time off, sure that Ernie would understand. His parents had long since passed away, both of heart-attacks. The maintenance crew at the cemetery puts Ernie to rest, a task they face more and more.

  The tombstone reads "Ernest P. Pernall." His middle name is Charles.

  BIG JOHN LUTHER