Wanted: Undead or Alive

What The F- Is He

The sky was turning from black to light gray when I stumbled upon a local Facebook group in which one person asked for a "tree guy" and the comment thread turned weirdly personal. Jerry Whitaker had been the best tree guy in three states, but several folks commented that his work ethic had slipped in recent weeks.

Five years ago, Jerry helped me out, and he was amazing, but last week he completely blew me off.

Me too. I expected more from a guy who had the kinds of ratings he did.

My brother swears by this guy, but he took my money and never even showed up.

Something's very wrong with him. I'm concerned. I met him at that big rally in front of the mall last summer, but I ran into him a few days ago and he said he didn't know or care who was running in the next election. How does a guy go from party organizer to not caring in a few months? My bet is some kind of serious illness.

Bingo.

That thread-within-a-thread took off on a whole divergent thread.

Emily Watkins needs to step up and replace him. She's been in the background for a decade. The party needs her stability and leadership.

She's been in the background for a decade because she has the personality of a damp dishrag. Troy Berry is the man for the job. He's got fire in his belly.

Berry is an ass.

Berry is THE MAN.

Troy's not afraid to throw punches when punches are called for.

Chantelle must have sensed the shift in my posture. "You find your skip?" She dropped her phone in her lap and stretched. The circles under her eyes were so dark it looked like she'd taken a punch to the nose. Not that I had room to judge on that front. I'd rather not know what my face looked like.

"No, but I might have found his next victim."

"Let's go."

All my reservations came rushing back and each of them brought friends. "That's not a good idea."

"Try to stop me."

"Chantelle—"

"Olivia—"

Jaja stirred, coughed, farted. It was so normal it nearly had me crying again. "Noisy women."

I closed my laptop and moved to stand beside his bed. "How are you feeling, Jaja?"

"I want to go home. The cooking here is terrible. This mattress is lumpy."

"We all want you home, but we need to make sure you're well first."

His gaze narrowed on my face. "What happened to you?"

"You should see the other guy."

When he shifted, both hips popped, and he grunted. "That's good. You give 'em hell." He peeked toward the door. "Don't tell your Busia I said that, though. She worries." He squeezed my hand. "She doesn't know you're tougher than you look."

I leaned down and kissed his forehead. "I think that might be the nicest thing you ever said to me."

"Don't get a big head about it."

After promising not to let my head swell, I told him I'd found a lead on an FTA and I had to run. "Give Busia my love, okay?"

He patted my hand. "She knows all about your love. We both do. Don't you worry about that." Then, "If you come back later, see about bringing me some fried chicken, okay? Not the grocery store crap. KFC or maybe Popeyes."