Big Al’s Last Blast
by Grant F.C. Gillard
Copyright 2012 Grant F.C. Gillard
Big Al’s Last Blast
February is the month to celebrate dead presidents. Frank wanted to celebrate a few more presidents himself, especially the green, paper presidents of Jackson, Grant and Franklin.
February was a slow month in the mortuary business. For Frank’s funeral home, February was deathly quiet, literally, that is, until the untimely demise of one of the more notorious, local dignitaries came to pass. Frank took special pleasure in the death of Al Swanson, the sixteen-term mayor of their community.
Al was a tyrant. In a larger metropolitan area they might have politely called him an autocrat. In a third world country he would have been a dictator or even an iron-fisted, authoritarian despot. But in the small community of Bollinger Mills, Al was nothing but a mean-spirited, loud-mouth bully, a common street thug with strong connections and a weak conscience. Intimidation secured his repeated election victories (often running unopposed) to the office of mayor where his personal greed and unchecked corruption could be cloaked under the protective facade of "official city business."
Al’s ego was as large as his physical stature. His imposing frame and excessive body weight, along with his obnoxious obsession for inflating his self-importance awarded him the nickname, “Big Al.”
Big Al always got what he wanted. Always. Big Al forced his personal agenda through the city council with subtle personal threats and often outright, physical coercion with blatant suggestions of violence and bodily harm. When he said it was, “Don’t worry about it, it’s just business; nothing personal,” people knew it was personal and should take him seriously. They knew it was wise to obey his impulsive whims. People found it easier to comply with Big Al’s desires than to contradict what would be inevitable. To acquiesce was more pleasant than the alternative.
Frank found a sweet sense of justice in Al’s death. He died in the bed of his mistress, presumably from a heart attack in the throws of an intimate tryst, pinning her naked body under his immovable 370 pounds of dead weight. Somehow she managed to wriggle far enough out from underneath his bulk to stretch out one finger to dislodge the receiver on the bedside phone and miraculously press those life-giving numbers of 9-1-1. It was a miracle the house still had a land-line.
The rescue, of course, was embarrassing for the woman who quickly departed before anyone could get her full name or statement. She was later described as, "some skinny black chick" and soon forgotten. The EMTs and med-techs were more interested in the merriment of crude sexual jokes and Big Al's undefended posture. Even the coroner found the situation pleasantly amusing and any shred of professionalism or respect for the deceased was lost on the repugnant vulgarity of the moment.
The 9-1-1 call moved the sordid, private details of the incident into the official, public emergency record where it took on a life of its own for all to partake, depending on what part you wanted to take. The news media had a field day, as did the rest of Bollinger Mills.
Perhaps if the ambulance and paramedic crew had not been residents of Bollinger Mills, confidentiality might have been preserved. If Big Al had been more of a gentleman, they might have known which facts to bend and which details to bury. But Big Al paid the price of living a very public life, like a big, loud-mouthed bull frog in a small, country farm pond. The sensationalized news waggled every tongue in every coffee shop and beauty parlor, and even the regional newspaper escaped the attempts of damage control by the Swanson family and the city council. And typical of any small town environment, the gossip mill morphed and escalated the facts into a verbal retaliation from the hundreds of people Big Al stepped on over the course of his many terms in office.
Unfortunately, Big Al’s death precluded any resolution in the on-going feud between Frank’s funeral home and the city council. More than twenty years ago, Frank’s late father purchased the old Massey house next to the funeral home, in the hopes of leveling it for a badly needed parking lot. The Massey house was once a grand, looming structure showcasing the financial excesses of the Massey family. As the grown children subsequently moved away, it was later partitioned and remodeled for a series of single room occupancy apartments after a brief stint as a boarding house. Not surprisingly, it soon spiraled downward into dilapidation from uncaring tenants and tight-fisted heirs operating as absentee landlords.
Tearing down the dilapidated Massey house for a parking lot was ideal for the funeral home and the aesthetics of the community. Yet for some unknown reason, perhaps just plain spite, Big Al fought the approval of the demolition permit and the rezoning change to make the conversion possible.
When pressed for an explanation, Big Al citied an antiquated, anti-eviction ordinance, and, of course, he cited the city council’s lack of support for the demolition of one of the town’s finer, architectural treasures. He often explained the matter was out of his hands, but it was clear he held the reins that steered his team of horses that pulled his wagon.
Unfortunately, such anti-eviction laws were not uniformly enforced, illustrated by certain people, namely Big Al, receiving preferential advantages. When questioned about the lack of enforcement, Big Al simply shrugged and mumbled, “Good for business.” When confronted by the incongruity, and often times, outright violations of city codes he said, “It expanded the tax base." The law was never uniformly applied and the most flagrant of unpunished violators was Big Al, along with all his minions and anyone currently serving on the city council. Favors were doled out like toilet paper to anyone who would see things Big Al's way, legal or otherwise. People just learned to do things Big Al’s way.
Frank sat in the office of the funeral home looking out the window at the Massey house. He loathed Big Al and the stupidity and cowardice of the city council. The rightful application of the anti-eviction ordinance prevented new landlords from arbitrarily evicting tenants or canceling pre-existing leases. Under the ordinance, as long as the tenants of the Massey house paid their rent, they could stay put and the building would stand.
Only three tenants remained in the Massey house, the other leases vacated by moves and legal evictions of past-due rent. But the three remaining tenants didn’t possess signs of sustainable income and sometimes Frank wondered if Big Al was paying the rent just to keep the place occupied, and out of the hands of the demolition crew. Frank knew it was just a matter of time, but he was running out of patience. Sometimes Frank looked out the window and daydreamed about setting the house on fire. The anti-eviction ordinance could still stand unchallenged, but if damaged beyond repair, the property would be condemned for destruction thereby canceling the leases by default. There was still that little problem of a zoning change before the property could be paved over for parking. Frank wondered what his father was thinking when he bought the place. Did he really think it would be that easy? Did he imagine Big Al agreeing to the project when there was nothing in it for Big Al?
An intentional, "accidental" fire made more sense every day. Frank pondered how to set the house on fire without drawing attention to the likelihood of arson. With the questionable reputation of the some of the tenants, anything was possible. A grease fire in one of the kitchenettes, smoking in bed, paranoia and pyromania were all legitimate possibilities for a fire. Sure, the fire might look suspicious, but would anyone find a cause? Would anyone care? And even if they determined arson, everyone would immediately blame the low-life tenants. An old house like that would burn to the ground even before the call went to the firehouse.
Yes, a fire was the perfect plan. If the house wasn’t so large, and if it didn’t sit so close to the funeral home, Frank would torch it in a min
ute, that is, just as soon as the ink on the insurance renewal dried. But the potential loss of human life also kept Frank's wild ideas limited to his imagination. But with Big Al's death, Frank felt things were about to change.
Ironically, three days earlier the body of Big Al had been delivered to the refrigerated embalming room in the basement of Frank’s funeral home. Initially, Frank thought it was nothing but a cruel joke, but Frank’s funeral home was the only funeral home in Bollinger Mills thereby making it the logical choice. For two days, until the coroner’s inquest concluded his death stemmed from natural causes, Big Al’s body