Simply, McGee

by Bret Jamison Thacker

It was early in the morning, almost too early. I had just woke up from a dream that involved being trapped in a small town overgrown with kudzu. I vaguely remember searching for people inside of the homes but whatever souls inhabited them had been soaked up by the vicious plant. I could have sworn I saw McGee in one house, sitting in a rocking chair trying to capture the essence.

If you don’t know McGee then you do know him. He’s the embodiment of every strange gifted student in the United States. If you ever looked deep into a “geek’s” eyes, then you would recognize him right away. I always knew that one day I would meet him but was never sure as to his true identity. Then, one day, I was walking across the campus of a secret educational institution and I spotted him right away.

He was lying on a dull grey sidewalk begging for the simple pleasure of a stray kittens trust. He didn’t say any words and only stared at the cat with cold Nordic eyes. I became interested in this spirit and I watched as the kitten stalked up to his face and licked his eyebrow. I figured that if a wild cat could trust him, so could I. So, I approached him.

“You look like you know your stuff,” I said.
“I try to do as much with math as I can, I was able to derive how to attract feral cats one night when I was watching silent films with a friend of mine named Phil.”
“Look, I normally don’t approach strangers, but would you care to read over something for me and tell me what you think about the ulterior motives and cultural significance?” I asked.
“I should be able to,” he replied as he fixed his blue gaze to my boots.
I noticed that he was staring at them, and with much determination. He was trying to figure me out by my shoes, I thought. That wasn’t the case though.
“Do you like those boots?” I enquired.
“Kind of, I have a pair made of ostrich skin but after a week a hole formed in the bottom of them and my feet kept getting wet,” he explained. “I would say something about bad souls, but that’s already been done.”
“I know it, I’m glad you didn’t.”
“So, what did you want me to analyze?”

It was a postcard I had received from a friend of mine, it had a picture on the front of a musician I really liked and who once lived in her area before he suddenly died. My friend, Tara, lived on the other side of the country in Washington but we managed to keep in touch. I lived with her for about a week while I was trying to find my brother. We met in a library where we were both looking for the same book. It was a collection of poetry by a dirty old man that lived in California many years ago and worked as a postman.

I told her what I was looking for and she laughed because she thought I had a funny accent and she wanted me to live with her right away. We had the time of our lives but I found my brother and moved on. But, not before we exchanged addresses. We figured since we met searching for a book by a post office worker, it’s only fitting that we communicate through letters and postcards.

“It’s a postcard, here, I’ll read it to you,” I said and then cleared my throat to begin reading.
“Don’t clear your throat, only assholes do that before they read.”
“Sorry, and thank you for making me better.”
“Your welcome, now continue.”
“Hey Kid! Saw this and thought of you. Hope you love it. ‘It’s whatever’ Miss your crazy accent, Mr. Thacker,” I read. “And it’s signed Tara.”
“Now that I’ve heard you read it, I must see the handwriting,” McGee stated.

I gave him some time to look it over. He looked like he was in deep thought. He held the picture in one hand, sat down, and rested an elbow on his knee. He still kept the same Nordic expression like he was trying to gain the postcards trust. That or he was tapping in to some kind of invisible energy that I’ll never discover. Then, he finally looked up with assurance.

“I’ve got an answer here but you have to buy me a pie.”
“I will.”

I was curious as to what the answer was, I could find meaning in the postcard myself but it was too clouded from the feelings that I had for her. Every time I read it, I imagined I was some kind of soldier in a foreign land reading a letter from a high school sweetheart. I had been holding on to it for some time and had actually corresponded with her several times after this particular postcard. However, there was something about this certain one and now that I found McGee the true knowledge would be served to me. All at the simple price of a pie.

McGee wanted to take his car. He loved to drive because it allowed him to listen to whatever he wanted to on the radio. He said that the driver should always have control over the radio since he had control over all the passengers’ lives. He was fond of public radio, especially the British news correspondents and radio show reruns.

I enjoyed it though, despite my fondness of punk rock, I was lured into the ancient story lines of communist fears of the 50’s when every Mary was a despondent house wife. It’s funny, because I never usually favor anything outside of raw destructive music or vulgar DJ’s when I’m listening to any radio station.

McGee didn’t say too much, except where we were going to get the pie and to shout lines of some imaginary play that was running through his head. When he spoke the lines, his voice reminded me of a well-to-do man with control issues who demanded paranoia out of his psychological victims. 

“Mary! Mary!” McGee said. “I hear that your cunt has been penetrated Mary…THIS WON’T DO!”
He emphasized the last word by hitting the steering wheel as hard as he possibly could which sent the car off course for a little bit but it didn’t go out of control. I wasn’t scared at all because each time I step into a car I make a psychological decision that I’m ready to die.

“Maybe you should cool it down on the physicalality, McGee,” I said. “I’ve been trying to find your assistance for a long time and it would be a shame if you drove us into a tree.”
“Silence! Or I’ll lock you in the bedroom with the invisible Korean,” He warned.
“What are you talking about?”
“In my apartment, there are four rooms, and they used to be all occupied. You’ll meet Phil and Grant if you’re good but if you’re bad you’ll also meet the Korean.”
“Why is he invisible?”

“He couldn’t stand Phil anymore because he was Phil-thy!” he joked.

I laughed, what else could I do. The guy was crazy and had a good sense of humor, something I really admire.

As we rode along to our destination, an all night restaurant of some sort which was good at night, but it was in the middle of the day. There are plenty of other good places but this pie is supposed to hold the key, so I can’t complain. I listened the whole time. I listened to Mcgee’s rants, the radio, the wind, and the thoughts in my mind concerning this new but familiar character. Once in awhile, when McGee was quiet and the radio wasn’t so prominent, I even thought about Tara and how she really felt about me.

We finally arrived to the restaurant. There was a big metal sign that loomed over the parking lot and gave identity to the establishment, Jerkins. We sat in the car a little while longer while McGee finished listening to the news. It was a spiel about election updates. I soon found out that we both supported the same candidate due to their ability to unify and to lead. However, McGee had his own variation on that belief.

“I think he traveled back in time to save us from all out disaster,” he proclaimed.
“Then, how does he meet all the qualifications to run.”
“There are powers that are even beyond me that determine this kind of stuff, you believe too many lies,” he said with his eyes closed, like he was disappointed in me or something.
“Then why don’t they just save the time travel and avert it right now?”
“You don’t understand…”

“No, I guess not,” I admitted. “Let’s go get that pie so that I may understand the post card.
McGee shut off the car and we both got out of the car. I locked my door manually even though he was able to do so from his keychain. He promptly told me I didn’t have to do that since we possessed the technology that allowed us not to worry about such things.

“I just like to make sure, you know,” I said.
“You don’t have any faith, and you let your morals get in the way.”
“If you say so,” I replied.

We walked into Jerkins and as I expected, I wasn’t really impressed. It looked like any other all-night place that’s open all day. All the patrons seemed to be despondent and apathetic while they quietly sucked away on cheap cigarettes. I was relieved to see that we weren’t going to have to stay there long because there was a display case up front with pre-made pies that actually looked appetizing in an odd way. I was hungry though, for food and knowledge.

McGee looked over the displays to find the treat to fit his particular taste. It didn’t take him long to figure out that he wanted.

“I want the peanut butter pie with the whip cream on it,” he said.
“Sure thing, do I get some of it too?”
“If we do that, then I will have to retain some knowledge from you.”
“Okay then, I’m not that hungry.”

There was a person behind the cashier already waiting on us. He looked like he was in his late 40’s and miserable that his life had led him to this point. I wanted to tell him that the transaction he was about to make would lead to another transaction almost immediately that would give me greater knowledge. I decided that wouldn’t be the best idea because it may hinder the purchasing process or get us kicked out for being a nuisance. So, I just told him what I wanted and I gave him the money and he gave me the pie. Which, in turn, I gave to McGee.

However, the deal was only half done and I had yet to receive my greater knowledge, but it was coming.

“Now that you have done this for me, I will do something for you,” McGee said with the tone of a genie. “The postcard that was sent to you had a deeper meaning then what you would have ever expected. When she said, ‘hey kid’ she sees you as her child something she loves and cherishes. The picture on the postcard, of the singer, reminded her of you because she sees that you have a great talent. In her eyes, you’re an angst filled tragic and strangely romantic person, just like the person in the picture. She hopes you love it because she hopes you love her and all the rest of the text is a blatant cry for you to come running to her to tie her shoes and cover her feet up when they get cold. In this postcard, Brett, you have true love.

I was left speechless. I didn’t know what to think about that. You didn’t know whether he was full of shit, or what. I started to feel furious because I thought he was preying on me to get a free pie. But then, I realized everything he said was awesome because it was so crazy. It was such a simple postcard and that’s all it was, really. I laughed and McGee laughed too. I found knowledge like his and I gained it in some weird psychic manner. I felt like I was thinking like McGee. He put it in the postcard and transferred it to me when I was ready to accept it, the moment I gave him the pie.

I looked around myself and wanted to take in everything in my new environment. There was insanity everywhere. It was in the cashier, the pie, the patrons, the doors, the windows, the novelty items behind the counter. Then, something caught my eye, a rack that stood next to the door with several postcards on it. They were all generic landscape pictures that had nothing to do with the area. I picked one that resembled some landscape Tara might see every day so I could send it to her and mention this experience. I went back to the cashier to purchase it. Even the battered employee seemed to take on a different light, like he was McGee himself, just another poor geek searching for an essence, like I had found. Like McGee always had.

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~ This piece was posted on Wednesday, June 18th, 2008 and was filed under Writing, Short Story. You can make comments on it below. ~