Gertrude Takes Charge
A bus pulled up half a block from Janice’s apartment and a short stout force of nature emerged. It was Janice’s grandmother Gertrude, and if she’d heard you refer to her as “Janice’s Grandmother” the dope slap upside your fool head would’ve been instantaneous and memorable. Gertrude, a one woman army in the war on bullshit, knew her grandson’s name was Gerald and wasn’t happy with modern inclinations to change names, sex, or even hair color willy nilly. Furthermore, her grandson was clearly too much of a basket case to attend to his proper purpose, which was to produce grandchildren which she would gleefully spoil rotten. She wasn’t getting any younger and her idiot grandson wasn’t getting any saner; so she’d arrived to talk some sense into the boy.
In her voluminous knitting bag she carried a tuna sandwich, enough knitting gear to stock a Hobby Lobby, a wicked little .38 snub nose, and a small wooden baton she called “Reason”. Gertrude, throughout her glorious and colorful life, had “Reasoned with” mafia goons, drug dealers, thugs, reprobates, crooked cops, and once, a Senator. Her witless drug addled emotionally incontinent crossdressing dipshit of a grandson might be a God of Destruction in the MMA octagon, but Gertrude had dealt with worse problems. The boy was, in her terms, “fixable”. Two dope slaps, a solid verbal dressing down, and breaking his attachment to unholy elixirs would have him right as rain in a fortnight.
Despite the personality of a human tank, she was always alert. The instant she stepped off the bus she began assessing the situation. Broken window, blender on the yard, Tyson the cat clinging to the upper branches of the tree where he’d landed, and… …well lookie here, if it ain’t the po-po!
She cringed involuntarily, as if her good friend Edna could hear her thoughts. It wasn’t wise to think ungrammatically in Edna’s presence.
Eighty miles away Edna’s eyes narrowed and she hissed. Her malevolent Scotty dog growled. The world paused for a few taut seconds. Nobody, not even the universe itself, seemed to know the edges of Edna’s mind. Then she shrugged; the spell was broken and the universe seemed to take a deep breath of relief. “The Universe sighed.” Edna corrected; speaking aloud to the empty room.
Back at Gerald’s apartment complex, for it’s unwise to speak of Janice in the presence of Gertrude, expert surveillance was afoot. An unassuming little old lady sat knitting on a park bench. Long titanium needles clicking mechanically as she observed the scene.
Inexpert surveillance was also afoot; two fools were arguing in an unmarked police cruiser. Gertrude recognized the stink of cop. She scowled, knitted, and waited.
She didn’t have to wait long. A roaring massively over-tired behemoth of a truck rolled up. The uniformed jackass at the wheel gesticulated wildly and the two men in the unmarked (yet blatantly obvious) cruiser hopped out. They had an animated discussion with the truck’s driver. The truck’s driver was a man Gertrude knew well.
“Captain Camp Stove”, as Gertrude referred to him, was the most corrupt game warden in a three county region. His truck, a gaudy mishmash of off road lights and top heavy suspension, had “This Truck Seized From A Drug Dealer” plastered on the side. This was supposed to “Keep Kids Off Drugs”. All it told Gertrude was that drug dealers had no class and game wardens steal their shit.
The monstrosity of a truck was towing a trailer. Whatever was on the trailer had been covered by a tarp. Ironically the tarp’s camouflage print stood out like a sore thumb in the urban setting. Gertrude strained her ears and picked up a snippet of locker room banter; something about a Gatling gun?
Soon the men piled into their respective vehicles and departed. The monster truck practically tore the pavement with a colorful launch that indicated the driver didn’t have to worry about repair bills. The cruiser scooted along behind like a dog’s tail.
Gertrude pulled a cheap little phone from her bag, took a snapshot of her recent knitting, and hit send. Fifteen minutes later came the reply: “Tri-county, anti-drug, community interdiction, special programs, environmental task force team, pilot project.”
Madame DeFarge knitted the names of the condemned in the Tale of Two Cities. Edna had told her all about it years ago. Since then, Edna and Gertrude had devised a remarkably secure “language of yarn”. (They were both world class competitive knitters.) The open text response was a bit of a faux pas but Gertrude had indicated “URGENT” along with the police cruiser’s plate number.
Gertrude never asked how Edna could run plates. Edna never told her. That’s how it had been throughout their long friendship. Shortly after they met, their mutual and honorable distrust had blossomed into a delightfully exciting career which had become the stuff of legend (and the legends were based on vague guessing that covered only a fraction of what they’d actually done). Of course, they both had “day jobs” too. Gertrude had been a shipping clerk at the cement plant (and thus knew things about many local foundations that would make your hair curl). Edna, tougher of the two, had endured the serial atrocities of elementary school children. Not long ago, they’d both retired from “day job” and “secret professions” alike.
However, they were still as thick as thieves. The two had pooled their resources and, once they sorted out some unfortunate personnel issues, things looked good for a fine retirement side gig.
Gertrude pondered the “Task Force” and its motives. She knew the larger the bureaucracy’s name the more unmoored the participants are from reality. Her grandson was technically guilty of nothing but bad judgment and taking collegiate sexual dynamics seriously. Then again his apartment had more improperly stored chemicals than a Chinese fireworks plant.
The phone dinged and a second message arrived, “Unconfirmed rumors suggest there will be a large drug bust tonight”.
Bingo! Gertrude made several quick decisions and immediately began to muster resources to make her intentions reality. She hastily pecked out a text message to a different number: “Come to dinner at 630 Maple Drive, invite Smeeda.”
On the other side of town, a gaggle of thugs sprang to action. The Cleaner had spoken!