Editor's Note: In this three-part series--we introduce two great characters and one roaring new author. Pickled and Scrubbed blends rough humor, blue-collar Americana, and anti-establishment satire into a fast-moving story about friendship, dignity, and trying to carve out freedom in a world built to wear people down.
Pickled and Scrubbed by Kevin Redding
Pickles and me have been buds since our days at Weewauk High where we got thrown out of the Tri County Football League for mugging some sissy quarterback after the whistle.
Pickles was still growing (only 6’6” and 320# back then) so often needed my help (not really). When he got this here cupcake from North Weewauk low he held on till I flew from my inside linebacker slot and hit him high with my 200. Neither of us heard a whistle so we just kind of made a wish with him. Our wish came true and we chuckled as we listened to the golden boy cry like a baby.
Turns out I was right. There was no fucking whistle. Course, they hadn't snapped the ball yet. Hey, at least we waited till the coin toss. I hate fucking bureaucrats and their rules. Worse than a double-clutchin rat.
After that, Pickles lost interest in his academic pursuits. I hung on ‘cause there were more baby dolls at good old Weewauk than down at the plant on the pickle and scrub line where Pickles found a home. I even graduated and proudly noted I was in the upper third of the lower quarter of my class. If it weren't for math, I think I could have been valedick … valadictu … the number one fucking scholar in the whole fucking class.
I got on the pickle and scrub, too. They called me Scrub and Pickles … well, you know. Let me tell you it ain't as glamorous as it sounds. We clean big metal bars by dipping them in acid, then scrub them with pumice. Pickles is clumsier than he is big and is always splashing me with acid. Though we wear these hotter-than-hell acid suits and rubber aprons, I still find holes in my T-shirts and belly burns like someone used it for an ashtray.
Though the pay sucks, I know the work's important as they carefully take these here bars to another part of the plant (I don't know where exactly) and roll and cut them to make stuff (I don't know precisely what) and ship them off to another plant (I don't know which one) where they use them as parts in damned if I know. Sure, the job is fulfilling, but there must be something more to life.
Pickles and I put everything we make and half of what we steal into bikes. We rebuild a basket case, getting it all nice, pretty and fast, then ride it till someone with money just has to buy it off us. We sell it, then rebuild another. Our reputation as bike builders is starting to grow so we rented an abandoned gas station and set up a shop of sorts. If we keep going, we might finally escape pickle and scrub hell.
#
About this time, Pickles got a letter from the fucking IRS. Pickles was one of the (un)lucky to be selected for an audit.
"Scrub, I ain't goin."
"Pickles, you gotta go. Those suckers will haunt you till your dying day should you live so long."
"What can they do to me?"
"Remember down at the plant when that rat fell in the acid bath?"
"I don't care. I ain't going."
"Pickles, remember when we tried to enlist in the Marines?"
"Yeah, Scrub, I flunked my physical."
"Not quite, Pickles, my good man. You were disqualified for the assault and battery conviction."
"You had a record too."
"Yes, but I didn't commit any felonies during the physical. They even sent you to the cackle factory for a mental evaluation."
"Yeah, well that perv doc tried to stick his finger up …"
"Yes, Pickles, I remember it well and I'm glad you do because it's gonna be like that. Only the IRS will use three feet of big-barreled, flame-treated Louisville Slugger up your wazoo."
"That don't sound good."
"Yep, then they'll pickle and scrub your ass. And they'll use the hydrochloric."
"Ouch. Scrub, will you come with me?"
"I don't know what good it will do, but sure enough, bud."
"We can double team them just like at old Weewauk High. Remember when we bushwhacked that North quarterback? Pickled and scrubbed him real good.
#
On the appointed day, Pickles and I rode over to the IRS District Office in North Weewauk. We were scrubbed clean (mostly) and made sure we were early. In fact, we got there so early that we went to a little tavern down the block. After a little pickling from a few 16-ounce big boys, our confidence returned.
"Scrub, this shouldn't be too bad. I don't make enough money to be worth their while."
"Pickles, they don't care. They break bones to suck out the marrow."
"Where's that bartender? I want another."
"Don't worry. You always paid your payroll taxes."
"Yup, they took it before I even seen it."
"Pickles, you're an upstanding citizen. You pay gas tax for the highways, sales tax for the state, cigarette tax … uh … for all those ads telling you not to smoke and booze tax so the politicians can drink too."
"Yeah and they drink better stuff than I can afford."
"Remember, Pickles, forget any of the money we've ever made from bikes."
"But that's our ticket out of pickle and scrub."
"For this meeting fucking fuggedaboutit. Forget bikes. Forget the wheel ever got invented. Understand?"
"Why? I'm proud of those bikes. Scrub, somebody had to invent the wheel?"
"Pickles, you weren't proud enough to claim the money on your taxes. Were you?"
"Oh. Gotcha."
"Neither, my friend, did I." By the time we finished two more rounds we were late for our appointment. We ran down the block like we were chasing a skinny quarterback. Pickles had gone through several "growth spurts" so was slower than 60-weight oil on a January day in Fargo. We tumbled through the door together, alcohol racing through our systems, sweating like hogs in a sauna.
TO BE CONTINUED.....
