Aldo's a local boy. Once
a biker in Oakland, when he met
Geneva he decided to settle down.
They came back
to Humboldt County, his childhood home, and lived in a tent for
two years on rented land. After two crops, Aldo was able to put
money down on a
parcel, and buy an old trailer for shelter. Later, in their fourth
year of
growing, I saw them in town and they were full of plans for the
house they were
building. A satellite TV dish was in the works too.
Geneva said
she might even bring her two kids out for a visit. They lived with
their Dad in Texas. Aldo didn't look too excited about that. He
mumbled
something about the expense of the plane fare to Texas and back.
"I'll drive
'em," Geneva chirped, oblivious to the troubled frown he was
casting her way. Geneva's a chirper, a human hummingbird always
buzzing around
full of energy and optimism. When I asked her how old the kids were,
she had
trouble remembering. "Let's see, Clint was three when I left.
My husband was
working for Permian Oil there in Odessa, and Clint was at least
three, cause he
was out of diapers but he wasn't in kindergarten, and Willadean
was somewhere
near one and a half or so. And that's been six years...or is it
seven?"
"Eight,"
Aldo put in abruptly. His face looked stiff.
"Okay,
eight," Geneva chirped. "So that makes Clint...umm...eleven.
Or twelve."
She looked pleased at her math.
"And Willadean
would be almost ten," I added helpfully, enjoying Aldo's
squirming. Aldo likes dogs. He and Geneva keep some pit bulls and
he arranges
dog fights on which he makes some spare bucks. I doubt he was able
to see any
economic possibilities in a litter of kids. Hell, they probably
had weak jaws,
too, like their mother.
This discussion
took place in the "Cellar", where Aldo volunteers sometimes
as
a bouncer. In the middle of our talk, a drunken bellowing rose from
the rear,
and Aldo got up to see if there was somebody he might be able to
beat on. He
insisted that punching people out and his enjoyment thereof wasn't
a hangover
from his biker days.
"I always
liked to fight. Whole family's like that...all fighters. Used to
be
on a Saturday night me and my brothers would go lookin' for a good
brawl. It'd
be a real shitty night if we couldn't find one. I still feel that
way."
"Get to
drinkin', get to fightin'," Geneva warbled happily.
"It's what
Saturday nights were made for." I thought to myself that I
wished
Aldo wouldn't get that gleeful grin on his face when he grinds his
boot into
somebody's groin. It seems kind of lewd, but maybe I'm just touchy.
Aldo started
telling me about how he was one of the gang that convinced Fast
Eddie Success to change his address. "When Drew Fibble told
me what that
mother fucker was doin', sellin' maps to the grows, it made my blood
boil. Let
me tell you, it made me feel good to kick his ass around that parkin'
lot.
Yeah, real good." Aldo's grin chilled my spine.
"Ain't
he cute?" Geneva thrilled. I nodded. It didn't seem the time
to
argue. "I figure he'll be a good model for Clint. The kid's
gettin' to an age
where he needs a strong, tough man to look up to. His daddy's not
like that, no
way. He's just an old wore-out drunk now. Even if he is married
again...she's
no more help than a dog in the yard. Can't even scratch her own
fleas."
Aldo began looking
unhappy again. His gaze wandered around the bar, seeking
someone to hit. It was his way of dealing with life's frustrations,
I
guess. Like your wife bringing her kids for a "visit."
"Little
Clint is old enough to have his own grow next year," I offered,
trying
to strike a helpful note. Aldo perked up immediately.
"Bet your
fuckin' ass!" he grinned. The menace still lurked. Maybe it
was his
missing front tooth. Geneva probably thought that was cute too.
"And he
could help clean this year." I was getting warmed up.
"Bet your
fuckin'A!" Geneva breathed, beaming.
Sometimes I
think the Funk scientific genes did get down to me...I could have
been a Psychologist easy.
Sometime after
that night I saw them in town. The whole batch...Aldo, Geneva
and little Clint and Willadean. The kids looked kind of pasty and
undernourished. If Geneva noticed, she didn't let on. She was busy
buying them
some jeans and tee's in Brown's Sporting Goods. Clint was looking
lovingly at a
.22 in the gun case.
"If he
does a good job cleaning," Geneva confided over the socks.
"I mean to
get him one of those rifles for his birthday."
Within six months,
Aldo was bragging on those kids like they were his own. He
got Clint his first tattoo on a trip south, and he made him his
assistant at
the dog fights. Some stories do have happy endings.
