I know what you must be thinking and I don’t have the answer. It is, and forever will remain, a mystery how Chester even managed to get into college.
It’s obvious Chester’s feelings aren’t hurt too badly, but that’s probably because we’re going to be eating soon and he’s too distracted to care.
We park not too close, but not too far, and as we walk toward the entrance I notice a medium-sized mangy dog going to town on his private parts.
Chester must have spied it too because he instantly says, “Man, I’d love to be able to do that,” then giggles to himself.
“You could … but you might wanna pet him first.”
He stops laughing as he recognizes he walked right into that one.
We all go inside and take a look around. It has a homey feel and smells amazing.
Here’s another interesting fact about Chester: when he goes to a new eatery he studies the menu longer than he does for his mid-terms.
There’s a bacon cheeseburger that looks and sounds delicious, and I walk up to the register to place my order. Her name tag reads, ‘Hot Brunette’. I don’t remember much else.
“Hi. How are you doing today?” Her voice is a little high-pitched and squeaky, but it’s adorable in its own way.
I think about saying I’m super-fantastic, but with the way things are going lately – and it being so close to Sunday – I don’t feel comfortable telling that lie. I finally settle on, “I’m making do, I suppose.”
“What can I get you?”
“I’ll take the Gonzo Burger. Medium.”
She tells me to enjoy my meal, to which I almost make the mistake of saying, ‘You too’.* (I really hate when I do that, by the way. It’s not that I’ve become disinterested in the conversation, it’s just that my brain shifts into autopilot at the wrong time. It happens at the movie theater as well. “Enjoy the movie,” they say and hand me my popcorn, and on command I want to respond with, ‘You too’.)
So, moving on from that little side story. We all head to a comfy corner booth and our meals arrive in short order. Chester settles on an array of food. He’s ordered the showcased item called, ‘The Cure’. It consists of a fried egg, a sausage patty, barbeque chipotle ranch, and sausage bacon gravy – all of which is nicely situated between pretzel bread. It looks amazing and the aroma is phenomenal. I regret my burger order already. Chester has also ordered six strips of bacon, three sausage links, scrambled eggs, milk, orange juice, and a side of pretzel bread. I feel like Chester may not be long for this world if he keeps up his eating habits. He’ll also need Tums later.
“So I was thinking. Kline may not even be at this lake house. Maybe we should just use GPS to find him.” Chester says all this with his mouth full, giving us the honor of seeing what his grub looks like partially chewed.
“What? That’s probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! And how would we do that?” I say, yet not really wanting an explanation.
“You know … ” Chester wiggles his fingers as if typing on a computer.
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, already knowing damn well what he means but egging him on. “Sprinkle fairy dust?”
Chester balks. “Use a computer, idiot.”
“That’s not exactly how it works.” I look at Taylor for affirmation.
“Oh, well how does it work, smart guy?” Chester folds his arms and glares at me.
“Last I checked we aren’t hackers, but we’d need to know of a cellphone he’s actually using. Then there are passwords, encryption software, satellites in the … Goddammit, Chester! We don’t have time to explain life to you. And why should we listen to your suggestions? Especially coming from the guy who thought Lord of the Flies was about a man that could control insects.”
Chester aims his finger in my direction. “Okay … first off, that was a very misleading title, bro; anyone could have made that mistake. Secondly, I’m only trying to bring something new to the table.”
I look at Chester’s spread of food. “Trust me, I think you’ve brought enough to the table.”
It takes a second, but then Chester’s shoulders drop. “Come on, LSD. That was kinda hurtful.”
I’m a little thunderstruck; for once it seems Chester has actually picked up on the sarcastic jab.
“Well, if you would just eat until you’re satisfied and don’t overfill yourself, you might start to lose a few pounds,” Taylor says as he takes a bite of his own sandwich.
“But that’s what you don’t understand, fellas. When I’m stuffed, I’m satisfied.”
This debate is futile. How on Earth do we argue that logic?
“But it wouldn’t matter what I offered, you guys always think my ideas are bad.”
“Oh, no Chester. They aren’t bad, they’re terrible,” I say. “Like the time you named our softball team ‘The Veloci-rapers’. You almost got us banned, dude. You can’t put the word ‘rape’ in a team name. And don’t get me started on your logo.” I try to keep my voice down so the surrounding tables can’t hear our conversation.
“What was wrong with the Horneous Rex? At least I was able to convince them it was a typo. That whole situation was all political, though.”
“Political. You don’t even understand politics,” I scoff. “You thought the Electoral College was an actual school.”
“Well, it sounds like it should be where people go to become president.”
“And what about your band from middle school? What was it again?” I snap my fingers to help the memory stir to the surface. “Oh yeah, ‘Courtesy Flush’.” I look at Taylor. “You remember, right?”
Taylor leans in. “Yeah, that’s right. ‘No One Loves the White Man’.”
Chester smiles in recollection. “Ohhhhhhhh, dude – I loved that song. That was the best. Good times.” He begins humming the chorus to himself, “Mm Mmm Mmmmm Mmm Mmmmm Mmm.”
“It was most certainly not good times,” I say, pulling him out of his musical solo. “It started a small riot!”
“Man, that place was trashy anyway,” Chester says defensively.
“Taylor’s parents picked up the bill for the damages to prevent the lawsuit.”
“That stuff is all in the past, guys. This is the new Chester we’re talking about. I’m gonna be somebody someday. I’m gonna leave my impersonation on this world.”
I want to gouge my eyes out. “You mean impression.”
“That too. You’ll see. Just wait.”
I decide to drop it and change the subject, but somehow there ends up being a quick discussion regarding Chester’s bowels. Then the vein of conversation moves from subject to subject with no evident rationale – and not so oddly with Chester leading the charge. This ‘new’ Chester still feels like the old one.
“So do you guys remember Ivan the Ho?” Chester says with a grin.
Oh God. Here we go again. I don’t understand this story. Chester seems to tell this one time and time again, as if it was some triumphant moment in his life. To date I think I’ve heard it over 33 times. And poor Ivan, the guy who was working at the Taco Bell drive-thru, has been reduced to his new moniker, ‘Ivan the Ho’, ever since.
“That dude got what was coming to him!” Chester says, stuffing his mouth.
“Really? How is that? The guy was doing his job, Chester,” Taylor points out.
“You guys still don’t get it. He was at the window of the Taco Bell taking orders when I flipped the car. Then he called the cops. You just don’t break that code.” Chester has now officially started the tale, and there will be no stopping him at this point.
I decide to run an experiment and interrupt him at every moment in the hope he’ll end it prematurely. “Exactly. It was so great how you destroyed the bathroom out of spite every week,” I say, spoiling the climax of the story.
Chester busts out laughing with renewed vigor. “That was the best. I told him … I says, ‘You best not call the big ‘P’ or there will be hell to pay.’ And that punk ass did. Got a n
ice write-up from Jeffrey Law.”
“Yeah, but it’s Johnny Law, not Jeffrey,” I say.
“Same difference. You gettin’ lost in the details, boy. Anyway, so I knew exactly what needed to be done. I –”
“Drank Metamucil and prune juice every week and wrecked the bathroom.”
“Oh, for sure,” Chester says. “Sometimes I took double doses and could barely walk down the street to give him my special message. After, I would –”
“Go to the register and tell him someone destroyed the restroom, and make him clean it up,” I interrupt, finishing his sentence.
My ploy isn’t working. Chester snickers more and surges on as if unfazed by my intrusions. “Yeah, I had been … ”
I’m zoning out at this point. This experience is like being forced to read a terrible book for the fifth time … in a row (which is exceptionally grueling because it’s only funny to Chester each time it’s told).
I tune back in, not because I care but because the story is almost over. Finally.
“I did this for about seven weeks until –” Chester is saying.
“Until Ivan the Ho called the police when he saw you enter the bathroom,” I blurt out, beating him to the ultimate ‘punchline’ which I have always felt seems more like a limp-wristed handicapped jab.
“Can you believe the nerve of that guy? And the best part was, I got out of that citation by telling the cops I had Irreparable Bowel Syndrome. It was classic.” Chester snaps his finger as if punctuating the end of the story.
It all culminates in Chester laughing … by himself … and Sam in absolute disgust with his mouth hanging open, bits of food almost dropping to his plate. “What’s wrong wit’ dis kid?” Sam says for the second time in as many hours.
Taylor and I can only offer unified shrugs.
“I literally spray painted the wall of that bathroom brown!” Chester says, and the sound of him beating his hands against the table in uproarious laughter draws more than a few looks. “Oh shit, fellas, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever – oh, excuse me, Miss? Can I get some mustard on the side for this? And not that Dijon stuff; it messes with my intes-TINES. Just mustard … regular mustard.”
“That lady doesn’t even work here, Chester,” Taylor says.
“Ah, whatevs’. I didn’t need it anyway.”
I check my watch. We need to finish grubbing quick and get back on the road. “No dessert, Chester. We gotta get going.”
The bill finally comes, and Chester says we should split it 4 ways.
“Why would we break it like that Chester?” Taylor says. “You had the most expensive meal.” But by the tone of his voice, he seems to have expected this from Chester.
“Fine, fine. If you guys wanna be cheap asses. Oh, crap. I don’t have my wallet, guys. Must’ve fallen out in the car. I’ll go get it.” Chester begins to rise from the table.
“Dude, I’ll get it,” I say. “We don’t have time to waste; we need to keep moving. You can pay me back later … or never.” I drop my share of cash, and his, on top of the receipt.
We all head to the car with food babies growing in our stomachs. Sam opens the rear door and I hear him say, “Is this your wallet on the floor? Wait, who’s Zelda?”
Chester snatches the wallet from Sam’s hands. “Give that back, you geriatric old fuck.”* (His statement is redundant, but that isn’t what causes me to do a double take.)
“Zelda? Hold on, your name is Zelda? How could we not know this?”
“My Mom made sure all my teachers called me by my middle name.”
“That still doesn’t explain Zelda,” I say.
“Gary could never finish that game, so he always said he named me Zelda so he could at least beat me if he wanted.”
“And your dad does know that Zelda was the princess, right?”
Chester’s mouth falls open. “Wait, what do ya mean? What princess?”
Sam may not understand the joke like we do, but he still laughs along with us for the next two miles up the freeway. And for a change of pace, Chester spends a long time in depressed silence.
28 The Lake House
It’s eerily peaceful when we show up at Detective Kline’s lake house. The lawn is immaculate, and there’s a soft breeze in the air that beckons me to veg out. Unfortunately, relaxing isn’t on the menu, and to just say that sounds strange. It’s not like relaxing is something I could feast upon.
Back to the Lake House. The amissness level is sitting at a cool 3 on a scale from 1 -10; 10 being super amiss. There’s no car in sight. Well, that isn’t true – I can see a neighboring lake house about three quarters of a mile away and there’s a dark blue rusty pickup out front. But what I meant before is that there are no cars present in Detective Kline’s driveway.
We pull a little farther down the road so our own car won’t be within sight of the house and have a quick discussion before exiting the vehicle. Sam indicates he’ll stay as a lookout. I have a feeling I can almost trust Sam, since his life is on the line too. Plus, Taylor has the keys, and he can’t escape the area without the car. And a final part of me doesn’t care anymore if Sam happens to make a run for it.
“Let’s case the joint,” Chester says. He dons a black hoodie and shades before we get out of the car. He pulls the hood over his head. “I’m like that guy from Assassin’s Creed.”
“No. You aren’t. You are about three hundred pounds his unequal, and that guy could climb a two-hundred-foot building in under a minute. You can barely climb a staircase that fast.”* (I don’t really say this to my friend, but sure as the sun rises everyday, I’m thinking it.)
When we get to the front of the house we peer inside the door’s window, but the glass is that kind that makes everything look distorted, like one of those carnival mirrors. The curtains in the other windows are closed, so we walk around to the back patio where, oddly enough*, there’s old patio furniture dry rotting in the sun. (It’s not really odd. I’m just being sarcastic. Patio furniture is to be expected on a patio.)
There are a few more windows and a large sliding glass door on the back side. We don’t bother spying in through these windows; the sliding door doesn’t have the blinds drawn and we can see everything inside. It looks vacated. For how long, we don’t know. A hopeless thought runs from my calf up through my leg and into my left kidney, telling me that Kline hasn’t been here for quite some time and this trip has now just amounted to a monumental waste of time.
Taylor says, “We gotta find a way inside and –” He’s suddenly cut off by a loud scream.
“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” Chester is running full speed … which really isn’t that fast, but it’s still dangerous to be in his path, especially because he’s charging right at us with the patio table in his hands.
Taylor and I move aside and Chester crashes into the door. I wish I could say it’s a success and Chester is able to barrel completely through. Again, I wish I could say that. I really do.
Instead, he collides with the glass – which must have been very thick and double-paned because he’s rocketed back onto his ass with an explosive huff of breath as the wind is knocked out of him.
“Ahhh – shit, fellas! It’s gotta … be … bulletproof … glass or something … it’s impossible … to get in.” He’s so out of air he can barely get three words out at a time. “We’ll … have ta’ … burn it down.”
“We aren’t going to burn it down, you fool,” Taylor says, helping Chester to his feet.
“Taylor’s right,” I say.
Chester dusts himself off. “Yeah, right. Tay’s the smart one, I forgot.” I can hear an edge of sarcasm in his voice, and I don’t like it.
“Okay,” I say. “This guy’s a cop, so he’d probably think he could protect himself during a possible break-in. Maybe he’d be confident enough to leave a spare key somewhere.” I look around the frame of the sliding door and kick the mat aside. “Try to find it – or perhaps a Hide-A-Key or something.”
“What’s a Hide-
A-Key?” Chester asks.
Taylor helps me look by the door and says over his shoulder, “It’s kinda like a fake rock that you open up and put a spare key inside –”
“A rock! That’s a great idea!” Chester says with excitement.
We spin around and see him holding what looks exactly like what we’re looking for, but it’s already sailing through the air toward a small window. The window isn’t thick, and it isn’t double-paned. There’s a loud smashing sound. Although using the Hide-A-Key that way isn’t how we meant to gain access to Kline’s house, it serves its purpose.
29 Home Invasion
When we don’t hear an alarm blaring from the broken window, Taylor squeezes himself through the new opening.
I’m not the first to mention that the house smells like old people.* (Chester gets to it before I do. His phrasing is a little different, but it’s pretty close.)
“Man, this places smells like old people farts,” he says, covering his nose.
It isn’t really an odor of methane that clings to the air, but the house is mustier than my Gam Gam’s house.* (Remember from earlier, one of my grandmothers passed away. That would be my mother’s mom, but my father’s mom – Gam Gam – is still alive and well at the ripe age of 88. Also, to clarify: she is the only grandparent I have left.)
We look for evidence that Kline has been here, and it does appear like someone might have been. In the living room, the cushions on the couch show signs of recent use.
Chester is already in the kitchen going through the cupboards, either checking to see if new food has been purchased or browsing for a snack. It’s most likely the latter.
The signal that I’m right is when I hear the noise of dishes clattering against each other. When Taylor and I join Chester in the kitchen, he’s sitting down at the table with a bowl of cereal and pouring milk over it.
“Don’t eat that. The milk could be spoiled,” I say.
Chester doesn’t sniff the milk from the carton. Instead, he takes a bite to see if the milk is sour. “It tastes fine, bro.”