Chapter 2: Brain Trust

The four of us rode out to the marina after lunch, and inspected the free boat. Dallas, Donjohn, Hog, and me. You’re going to read a lot about them, they’re my bros, so here’s they’re particulars.

These men are the nearest thing to family I have, not counting my older sisters. I haven’t seen my sisters in years and probably won’t see them again. I would like to see them again sometime. It just wouldn’t be smart and, besides, they’re all the way on the other coast. That’s a long way to travel just looking for trouble.

A bit about my adopted brothers. They’re all nut cases.

Donjohn is our eldest bro, and a fine machinist but isn’t allowed near any machine shop or milling machines. A lifetime prohibition and a condition of his parole. They locked him up for twenty years, for making parts that converted ordinary clip fed hunting rifles, into fully automatic. They paroled him after serving half, ten years. After prison, he worked for awhile as a bartender. As a recovering alcoholic, that profession is now also denied him. As a convicted felon, not many jobs are available, and none he wants. Professional student milking the system for Pell grants and VA benefits taking industrial trades classes. Hangs with us younger dudes. Stands up for us, with us. In cold weather, he always seems to find a mature girlfriend to shack up with. Rest of the year, he camps out like I do, with the stars for a roof. We know where io come in out of the rain.

The next in age is Hog, short for Hogarth. Half Filipino, half Cherokee, all-American football hero, and ex-CIA. Can’t work so hangs with us. His chopper carrying him on a mission, was shot down by a rocket. Hog was mangled terribly. Pensioned for serious head injuries. Brain damaged. Unfortunately, it’s rather obvious he’s not firing on all cylinders. He’s still plenty smart, but can’t keep it together. Thoughts wander. Can’ focus for long. Often frustrated with himself when he loses his mind and his vocabulary.

Hog is always broke. Lives with his widowed mom. She’s Filipino and prepares wonderful oriental dishes, if we scrounge the ingredients for her. Mostly salvaged dumpster vegetables. Hog’s pension is barely adequate to support them both. They can’t afford to feed anybody other than themselves. We’re happy to bring her chickens and pork, rarely a bit of beef, whatever the food banks hand out. We signed up with every food bank within bike reach. The food banks get meat and dairy products free from the big chain grocery stores. The products have nearly expired sell by dates on the labels. The stores declare the donations as tax deductible write offs. Tossed into a dumpster, gains them nothing. Everybody wins.

Hog’s mom is a very good cook, a gracious hostess, treats us as Hog’s brothers, extra sons, and is a nice lady. We agreed among ourselves, and with Hog, not to impose upon her hospitality more often than once a week. We get a lot more meat than we can use and leave her with more than we consume at her table. Everybody wins.

We keep plenty for cooking ourselves too. Primarily, we keep all hot dogs, brats, and bacon. We pickle wieners in chilli peppers, onions, and vinegar. Trail food. They’re already precooked before they’re packaged at the meat packers. Immersed in the pickle juice, they don’t need refrigeration. That little thermos bottle racked beneath the bicycle seat? Holds a few wieners in pickle juice just fine.

The bacon and brats go into seasoning the dried beans frm the food pantry and we stew in a huge kettle over campfires. Green onion tops we grow everywhere only harvesting the tops, and more continue growng. Raw light brown sugar and hot peppers go in the bean pot too. Sometimes, bits of potato and carrot. A Winner dish!

Dallas ain’t never been to Dallas even once. His parents liked the name, and that’s the only explanation he knows for naming him. He can’t ask them, they’re dead. Dallas and I are nearly the same age.

Like me, he’s the youngest and only surviving male in his family. Dallas grew up on a Florida cattle ranch. The family home burned down when Dallas was only ten, and only Dallas and his oldest sister Dakota, who was away at college at the time, survived. Dakota and her husband Jim run the ranch now, and built themselves a nice big house. Dallas is legally the ranch’s co-owner with Dakota, on paper, but paper only stretches so far. Dakota suspects Dallas caused the fire, and maybe, intentionally. They don’t get along at all.

Dallas built a fishing camp on the ranch’s fringe. Just a shack, for a bunk and his tack, located on the banks of the St Johns river. It’s part of the ranch property but as far away from the sister’s luxurious house he can get. He avoids them, they ignore him. Maintain peace.

Dakota’s attitude towards Dallas is, he who won’t work, don’t eat. Since Dallas refuses to work for his sister and brother-in-law, as an employee cowhand, he’s co-owner not a serf, they refuse to give him even a dime. She can’t shoo him off, and he can’t force her to share the ranch’s income. Mexican standoff. Dallas has his own brand, his cattle and horses, but only a few each. He sells on average one grass fed beef a year. Rents never saddled, maybe unbreakable, bucking broncos to rodeo shows. Bred to be wild. Meets his minimal needs for expenses. Mostly, he hunts, fishes, and bums around with us. He doesn’t want to work any harder than he has to. Why bother?

Dakota takes all! Only his personally branded livestock is his. Rights to graze ranch grass is his. Mostly, he allows his animals to free range in the scrub. A doctor and a dentist share buying a beef each year. They prefer organic grass raised beef even if it’s a bit tougher and a little stringy. Once a year, Dallas chases his cattle out of the brush for his clients to look over. He stakes out their selection on rich grass, moving the stake as required. Plenty of fresh grass, it belongs to him too. When the clients decide it’s fat enough, or run out of patience, it’s shipped to slaughter. There is usually a surprise calf or two discovered and branded at the annual round up. Cattle tend themselves and reproduce themselves. A vet checks the cattle with and for, reporting to the customers, at customer expense.

Misfits, everyone of us. We’re a wild bunch. Won’t be harnessed or fettered. Our brands are our own. Identical tattoos. Jail-house style.

What about this free boat we came to see?

“Looks like a septic tank.” Donjohn opines with a sneer.

“Is that cement?” Hog’s wandering inquiring mind wants to know.

I’d just explained it was ferro-cement construction. Forty feet long.

“Can we see inside?” Dallas wants to explore. There’s nothing to see. The boat is just a shell, no interior. Looks like a big bathtub.

“Hey, it’s empty, like a big bathtub.” Dallas announces from the deck. Didn’t I just say that? Wel, maybe I only thought it.

“What good is it?” Donjohn doubts it’s good for anything but target practice. He enjoys shooting. Uses our guns. Not allowed to own any himself. Might not be legal for him to touch a gun? Who cares?

“I’m thinking of some possible uses”

“Don’t strain yourself Joey, you know how you get!” Hog is projecting. I ignore the derisive chortles from my chums.

“A pier.”

“Yeah, I can see it!” Dallas agrees.

“Where would you put it? Why would you need it?” Donjohn’s 2¢.

“I’d be glad to have it at my camp.” Dallas volunteers.”It would be useful to tie up to and to fish from. Cast nets from. Store kayaks on. A center piece spine for Freetown to grow upon. Hundreds of uses.”