Ground Zero joins Repair Man Jack.

Volker and I went to visit Charles Nabber (AKA “Ground Zero”) on a Friday. “He gets down on Friday Nights. He appreciates the company.” Volker explained. “That makes it damn skippy easier to do bidness with him.”

I’m not sure who had failed to teach Volker how to say business correctly. It didn’t sound like a Connecticut thing. It was something that Volker came up with because he thought it made him more of a playa. It didn’t and I really wished he would knock it the heck off.

“Damn Skippy.” I remarked sarcastically.

Meetings like these gave me the creeps. You never knew what you’d see from a freak show. I was certain Volker wasn’t introducing me to a guy nicknamed Ground Zero to sell AMWAY products. This guy could be a real butt case if things went down wrong.

“Another thing about Chuck.” Volker Continued. “Don’t never call him Dwarfy. He’ll go off like C-4.”

“Oh yeah.” I replied. “What’s the deal with that?”

“Oh, he’s actually a Dwarf.” He explained. “Maybe four feet tall in his boots.”

“Life sucks.” I commiserated.

I chewed a toothpick to bleed off some extra stress. I could feel my stomach tense and my legs coil like springs. Most of the people who lived on Union Street near Pico kept chips on their shoulder and God knows what hidden somewhere on their person.

“How long’s he lived there?” I asked.

“Two years.” He replied. “I wonder how the hell he survives.”

“He’s four feet of very dangerous trouble.” I answered.

Anyone who lived in that part of LA for two years was trouble. Someone four feet tall who pulled that off must have something really nasty up his sleeve. We were on Vermont, near Olympic. Soon we’d hang a Louie on Pico. If I wanted the really filthy poop on Ground Zero, I needed to get it now.

“So why do they call him Ground Zero? Is he another firkin Body Bags?” I asked.

I wanted to hang out with a professional gambler against entropy like I wanted a Novocain-free root canal. There was this scene in ‘Top Gun’ where Goose tells Maverick “Never leave your buddy’s wing.” A Body Bags will fast forward over that part. It plays against their whole nature.

“Oh, he’s worse, Repair-Man.” Volker grinned. “He’s to weirdoes what Dirk Diggler was to porn.”

“What’s worse than an f—king Entropy Fiend?” I asked.

I asked because it was my professional duty. I really wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I could work with Dippers, Rippers and even an occasional Satanist, at least as long as their heart was in the right place.

“He’s a torch, Repair-Man.” Volker answered. “You want to nuke a big bee hive, you bring a flame thrower. That’s Ground Zero, he’s a f–king Sterno.”

“Damn!” I exclaimed. “That’s f–cking Hardcore. An honest-to-goodness Sterno. If I didn’t know you better, I’d love you, Man.”

We turned left on Pico and made about four blocks through mildly heavy traffic. Volker pulled over at a liquor store. “Let’s bring him a present.” Volker said. “It makes him more relaxed.”

“If I buy a quart of Everclear, will he burn more sh-t up?” I asked.

“I’ve never tried.” Volker replied with a grin.

*********************************** *******************************

Charles lived in Hell’s version of The Budget Inn. The walls had numerous stains from God-doesn’t-want-to-know-what. The building he lived in probably received its last adequate maintenance sometime back in the 70’s; a little before disco was cool. It was a dump by concentration camp standards.

Charles was every bit the last thing I expected him to be. He was a black man with an emaciated lack of girth, sideburns that flowed into lamb chops and a large fro. He wore a beautifully styled Armani Suit. It was a tad too loud, too street. However, near Pico and Union, too street for most people was probably bland and conservative. He also wore about three or four necklaces. I wondered to myself why they all were made out of cheap, disposable plastic.

“Well, well, well.” He smiled. “Come on in and relax.”

“Thanks.” I replied.

It was a hard place to relax in. The ante room lacked any furniture and there was no TV to lounge in front of. The only thing in the room was a small pile of blankets, flanked by empty Chinese take-out cartons and two expended bottles of Golden Harvest Malt Liquor.
An incense burner stood near the window. Two sticks were successfully smoking up the room. They looked like the cheap kind vendors sell on the street. The kitchenette was small and only had two burners. He lacked adequate storage for dishes or utensils.

Volker interceded by introducing him to me and vice versa. “Charles, this is my good friend Jack. They call him Repair-Man.” He began.

Charles and I shook hands. He looked at me kind of sideways, with his head cocked a little to the left. He measured me up and down with his uncanny gaze.

Meanwhile Volker said. “Jack, this is Charles Nabber. They call him Ground Zero.”

“A pleasure.” I remarked uncertainly.

Charles may have been short, but he quickly dispensed with the small talk. “You know, people don’t visit me often unless they f-ck other people up for a living.”

I kind of admired brutal honesty as a conversational ice breaker. I decided to see if he’d test positive for a sense of humor. “You know, now that you mention it, I really hurt some guy’s feelings once.”

He smiled and nodded. “Volker doesn’t know normal people; at least not any that he brings down here.”

“What a shame.” I remarked. “It would add variety to this part of town.”

“Ain’t that the truth, Brother?” He commiserated, as he nodded his head emphatically. “This entire town could use a good, strong enema.” Or maybe this man would just like to watch it burn, I thought to myself.

Volker took out the bottle. He’d selected a good brand. It was Gentleman Jack. Here at Nabber’s County Club, we’d accept nothing less. We passed it around and started getting wide and shooting the proverbial dung heap.

Nabber had endured a tough life, not quite growing as fast as the other kids. It seems his whammy focus was cutting others down to size. He liked big and tall things about as much as Napoleon Bonaparte would have liked guarding Yao Ming under the basket.

Getting him signed up was a snap. We got him hammered and told him all about the hive, Huggy Bear and the poor, little milk carton girl. Something burned inside of him when he heard about girl. Whatever it was, I was more than a little relieved it stayed internalized. Ground Zero was danger personified. It would a personal tragedy to get too far up on this man’s burgeoning enemies list.

************************** *************************************

Several hours later, we’d gotten out Nabber’s obligatory LA reefer stash and stoned up. We were flying high, laughing at dumb sh-t, and talking about stuff that really tough people did.

“So Repair Man,” Volker asked. “When you’re about to off someone who pissed in your Cheerios, what do you say to him first.”

Marijuana must be my dumb ass stimulus. I looked at Volker, cracked up laughing, and told him. “I can’t stand f-cking Cheerios.”

Nabber was so stoned he got positively jovial after that one. “You know…(cough, hack cough)…I never said nothin’ either.” He laughed. “But this time I got something to say to Huggy Bear’s Ass. ‘Only you can prevent forest fires.’”

Maybe the drugs made it a lot funnier than it was, but for Friday night at Pico and Union, that was as good as life was going to get. We were a team, The Three Bombed, Stoner Amigos. I wasn’t usually part of teams. This was new territory for Repair Man Jack.