Pickford Estates Intro chapters 1-4

People vs. Jimmy Purloin


I should’ve been celebrating the biggest score of my life that day. Instead I found myself locked in a jail cell that had invisible bars, and I was just sitting there arguing with myself about what it would’ve smelled like if I compared my life to one of those scented candles.

After much dilemma, after hours of deliberation, and just as the sounds of the early morning nature started penetrating the fortress in which I was confined; it finally hit me.

Indeed if my life had been a scented candle it would’ve been one of those layered candles that had a few different smells; with some of the moments in my life smelling like an apple orchard or some fruity shit like that, and other moments reeking of rotten Vienna.

It was that smell that reminded me of something the town plumber Abdul Mateen Fetid told me a long time ago in his thick Arabic voice, “Sometimes life can stink like shit my friend! But here in America you can be what you want to be, no matter how shitty the circumstance!”

He was right! Fortunately this was America, but unfortunately for Abdul and me; we both had the burden of being born in Pickford Estates where life was pretty much predisposed. I guess what I’m trying to say is that people born in Pickford Estates gave up on trying to be something they’re not and instead they focused on perfecting the occupation that had haunted their genial lineage for generations.

Just take a look at my longtime arch nemesis Raymond Roper the third. I mean what a dick! Everybody knew he’d grow up to be a dick too because he had it in his blood. I don’t mean little tiny dicks were floating around his blood stream either, I mean a dick as in detective. Just like his daddy and his daddy’s daddy before him.

That’s just the way it is in Pickford Estates. Old Man Fields plowed, Marvin Gardens had the best garden in town, and Ed Stoner got high every single day.

Coming from a long line of Purloins, it was my job at this point to convince this courtroom that in fact I was just a product of my environment. I figured that if I could do that I’d be listening to golden harps for the rest of my existence, if not it was probably going to be a flute or tambourine.





First Impressions are in Session


I remember walking through the courtroom literally shackled in restraint when a silent chatter erupted like a hundred pair of hummingbird wings. I noticed some faces that I recognized and some that I didn’t with the courtroom split in half right down the middle.

The brave souls that were there to lend me their support were on the right, the one's that wanted to see me burn in hell were on the left, and I was stuck in the middle thinking, "Why are these bastards on the left even here? What if we were all cast into hell right now and I was the only one with balls big enough to bootleg water?”

As I made my way to the bench my thirst for holding a grudge evaporated and a whole different feeling started to sink in when I noticed the jury in the box. I knew it was going to be strange having twelve people judge me, especially these twelve people.

Then just when I thought it was strange, it got stranger when I noticed the sketch artist. I don’t mean it was strange seeing a sketch artist at a trial of this magnitude, but it was strange that this particular sketch artist was actually a sketch. I mean I could actually see pencil outlining the limbs of her body, I could see eraser marks all over her face, and I could actually smell the red crayon beaming off of her red dress. Bottom line she was hot to trot!

The judge however looked just like I imagined he would and he was not hot and I wouldn’t have made it with him. He looked just like the guy on the Quaker Oats box which instantly gave me a craving for a chocolate chip granola bar, or oatmeal with the fruit swirl packet.

Only after making eye contact with the prosecutor did food become a distant thought.

Thoughts of Timmy were now etched into my brain and I couldn’t escape them.

Timmy Two-Arms Nosleeves was a local legend where I’m from so I didn’t know him personally. I can only tell this story like I heard it which went like this.

The year was 1950 and as far as the town of Pickford Estates was concerned it was just another year of disappointment. Again there was no rain; the economy was bad, and just like the 40 years prior the Pickford High Renegades assumed to accept the role as Whipping Boys for district 5 football.

What the Pickfordians (townsfolk) didn’t expect was that a freshman from the West End of town, by the name of Joe Baddluck would completely change things around there forever.

He took a rag tag bunch of guys and turned them around just like Adam Sandler did in that movie The Waterboy, or like he did in that movie The Longest Yard, or like Burt Reynolds did in that movie The Longest Yard.

The Renegades went from a 0-11 season the year before, to being the favorites to win State; which they easily would’ve won if it wasn’t for the Cobras (opposition) allowing twenty year old juiced up felons to play.

So instead of the blowout the hometown crowd expected, the Renegades found themselves in a deadlock with under a minute to go.

Now it doesn’t take ESP or any psychic ability whatsoever to figure out what happened and how the game played out but.

Joe Baddluck led his team all the way down the field to the one yard line only to get drilled out of bounds with only a few seconds left. When he tried to get up and get off one last play and be a hero; he realized he had a broken leg, a ruptured spleen, and somehow a gunshot wound.

Immediately Renegade Stadium went silent as the people knew the stench of failure would be loud enough.

That is until Coach Coachman of the Renegades looked up at the clock and realized that there was time for one more play, that although Joe Baddluck’s life had expired, he himself could still win the game and he himself could still be immortalized in Texas football lore.

So Coach Coachman did what any good football coach would do. He went with an import, this one from Mexico. His name was Manuel de Santos de la Nosleeves and he liked soccer, loved natural cures, also Manuel was nervous as hell because he had a 95% chance of being deported if he flubbed the kick.

What the hell does this have to do with Timmy Two-Arms you wonder?

Well, after Manuel de Santos de la Nosleeves kicked that game winning field goal he became a local celebrity. Women wanted him, men wanted to be him, and the children well the children finally had somebody to idolize.

This opened up so many doors for Manuel that were once closed. For instance, Jessica Footy the head cheerleader and semi famous local foot model; she used to look right passed Manny. To her Manny was just some Mexican who cut her parents lawn.

But after that kick was good can you guess whose lawn Manuel was mowing?

That’s right! Nine months later Manuel and Jessica were on their way to the hospital where the whole town gathered to witness the little miracle.
Grandparents, friends, the neighbors, politicians, even Coach Coachman showed up with the other cheerleaders to root on Timmy as he was being squeezed thru his mother’s dark gaping hole.

Then after a few pushes and a few grunts, out popped little Timmy and the crowd went absolutely nuts just like they did at the championship game. The only difference was that the hooting and hollering didn’t last very long.

The people of Pickford Estates quickly realized that they weren’t blessed with the next town hero but instead all they got was another Mexican/town freak. You see when Timmy Two-Arms was born he didn’t have two arms, he didn’t have any arms; he was completely armless.

People were pissed!

Grandparents, friends, the neighbors, and politicians all left the hospital. The Ol’ Ball Coach moved to Florida where there was some real high school talent and the cheerleaders left and went to Punchy’s for the best hot wings in town.

It was almost like they left feeling like they were the ones gypped out of something owed to them!

Even Jessica Footy looked at her swollen feet and wondered if it was worth it?

Poor Manny was so disappointed that he walked out of the hospital, and walked right out of Timmy’s life completely.

That little bastard didn’t stand a chance, and maybe if Timmy had shoulders he would’ve felt the weight of the world on them. And perhaps that weight would’ve been too much and if he had hands he might have shot himself. But that wasn’t in the cards either.

But what Timmy Two-Arms did have was better than any shoulder, hand, or royal flush. What he had was determination and drive, what he was packing was motivation and motivation is a mother fucker! Things that a person couldn’t or wouldn’t do are made simple with a little motivation, and Timmy learned this lesson early on.

I was told that you could see Timmy Two-Arms Nosleeves running up and down the streets of Pickford Estates with all sorts of football grandeurs in mind, “Touchdown Timmy!!!!” He’d scream.

By the time Timmy was nine he could run a 4.2 forty and had 36 inch vertical. By the time he was eleven he was the fastest person in the world and could jump over the moon which was a miracle the doctors couldn’t even explain, you know since he didn’t have arms.

Anyway by the time Timmy was a freshman in high school he had over 150 scholarship offers to division 1 colleges to run track with no intentions of signing any one of them. Timmy’s dream was to be a football player just like his daddy! So when it came time to try-out for the football team that is exactly what Timmy did.

Now what happened next is still talked about in some circles today.

Since Timmy’s speed and agility were legendary at this point the coaches of the Renegades were licking their chops and about four minutes into practice Coach Hone called Timmy’s number.

When he did, Timmy bolted onto the field and lined up at Flanker where the coach told him to run a post route. Then when the ball was hiked Timmy turned on the burners and jetted down the field leaving all the defenders in front of him.

The QB of the Renegades noticed Timmy Two-Arms wide open in the end zone and rifled a pass that would’ve drilled Timmy in the hands if he had them. Since he didn’t the ball bounced off of Timmy’s shoulder pads incomplete.

Not being discouraged by this Timmy Two-Arms had a teammate of his pick him up and then brush him off. Then Timmy ran back to the huddle where he had a suggestion for the coach, “Coach let me run the ball! I’m pretty fast!”

Hone was pretty conflicted at first but he did finally give in, and boy howdy was he glad he did! It was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Coach Hone counted 37 fumbles on six plays.

But besides finding it hilarious, Coach Hone also found it warming and inspiring. He also seen heart, determination, and that never say quit attitude he wished all his players had. So Hone did the right thing and tried to find a spot for Timmy on the Renegades, trying him not only at wide receiver and running back, but also tried to get Timmy onto Special Teams.

It didn’t take long though. Only after a few onside kicks did Coach Hone get an awful feeling in his gut about putting Timmy Two-Arms on the Hands Team. This basically left the coach with no other option than to cut Timmy from the football team completely.

Now can you imagine what this did to that poor kid? With his dreams wiped away it was nothing but deep depression, no sense of belonging; this really ripped what was left of Timmy into tiny little pieces or at least his heart, and I’m sure of it; if he had hands he would’ve choked himself to death.

Ironic?

Not really. What was ironic is that when Timmy’s foster mother paid a shrink to help with Timmy’s depression the therapist stumbled across something.
She came to the conclusion that Timmy’s depression wasn’t because he basically had to live a completely different life than most people, or because he didn’t make the football team. In fact after 6 months of treatment she was convinced that Timmy wasn’t even suffering from depression but was suffering from discrimination. She told Timmy, “Sue the school board! My husband’s a lawyer!”

So that’s what he did. He took his case to court and he won. Now he had an automatic spot on the football team, that sense of moral victory, and oddly and ironically enough; a change of heart. Timmy Two-Arms Nosleeves didn’t even want to play football anymore. After his victory in court he now wanted to become a lawyer! Well actually at first he wanted to be a judge but knew that was just a pipe dream because he couldn’t bang a gavel.

As his dream weaved and he shifted focus and prepared for the future Timmy joined the debate team in high school where he made captain, was a frequent member of the honor roll, an academic decathlon member, he even took numerous field trips to the courthouse. He did everything a high school student could do to prepare themselves for a career in law, so it was no surprise when he got accepted to study it at Harvard.

And that’s where Timmy Two-Arms Nosleeves learned the law better than anybody else had before him. After breezing through law school the only thing left for Timmy to do was to take the Written Bar Exam and his dreams would finally come true.

The one problem with that was when Timmy went to take the Written Bar Exam he failed, because he couldn’t write, because he didn’t have hands.

Timmy Two-Arms never became a lawyer. He did however turn out to be just like his father and they eventually reunited. They both worked as grape stompers for some local wine company.

Now I can’t tell you what it was about the prosecutor that reminded me of Timmy, perhaps it was the prosecutor’s freakishly long arms. But whatever it was makes no difference because I did recognize the guy. He was a hot shot attorney from the Deep South with one of those cute southern nicknames.






Sworn, Born, and Porn


After the prosecution delivered an incredible opening; and after I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and after I swore to God; details of my life were revealed to the court as Bub probed, “Jimmy Purloin is that your real name?”

My birth certificate says my real name is Jimmy James Jacques Purloin. I was told I was named after my father but my mother wasn’t sure if it was a black guy named Jimmy, a white guy named James, or the French-Canadian Jacques that she met in Quebec. I was given my mother’s maiden name Purloin because it sounded studious.

I was born on some shitty old pool table, in the basement of some shitty old house, in a real shitty old town fifteen miles outside of Foil City called Pickford Estates.

I was an ugly baby! I’d pee my pants, shit myself, I cried all the time, and even ate boogers on occasion. People were always telling me, "You remind me of your mom!”

That bothered me growing up! People thought my mother Pearl was just some wet, shitty, booger eating, crybaby, when really she wasn’t. That honor went to my mother’s fifth husband Freddy Gems who was a real diamond.

He couldn’t read, or even write well, or tell you what the capital of Texas is, but he could tell you who won the Bud Bowl in 1987 and even give you the final score.

I sure hate to make it sound like Freddy was completely useless because he did collect cans and occasionally donated plasma to feed the addictions that consumed his very being. Cigarettes, television, gambling, and booze? That was Freddy in a nutshell!

My brother Filthy didn’t care much for Freddy either. Filthy was only a few years older than me but much more mature. He had been addicted to porn since I can remember. That’s how he got the nickname Filthy; when most of the kids his age were waking up on Saturday morning to watch Dungeon’s and Dragons and Kidd Video, he was waking to the sweet sounds of Johnny Wad, Titi Boy, and girls screaming about their boxes being on fire.

We were pretty much the All American family, at least for the times! We even had a pet that we saved from the streets. It was a cat named Jezebel and I hated that fucking cat just as much as I thought I hated the rest of my family. Shit my earliest memories are of me wanting to run away. By the time I lost my first tooth I had a bag packed ready to fly the coop.

I told the courtroom about the day that happened too. Not about the times I tried to run away but about the time I lost my first tooth.

That happened during the summer before I went into first grade. I remember I was eating an apple that I had stolen from our neighbor Mr. Appletree’s apple tree when I took a bite and jarred it loose.

Like I said at this point in my life I hadn’t lost a tooth yet, hadn’t even chipped a tooth, cracked a tooth, or even had a tooth ache. The bottom line I panicked, “Mom!!!!!”

My mom was standing next to me in the kitchen watching People’s Court on our little black and white kitchen television. Her response, “Jimmy James Jacques Purloin are you shitting blood? If not don’t bother. Wapner’s on the mound!”

“But my tooth is loose!”

“So go tie a string around the doorknob for Christ sakes!” My mother shouted.

My mother’s lack of interest in my tooth or in pulling it left me with only one other option besides the doorknob. So I walked into the living room where Freddy was coming down from a twelve hour network movie marathon. Freddy had also been drinking pretty heavy and smoked about three packs of cigs so I had to take a different approach with him altogether, “Hey Freddy you drunk bastard! I got a loose tooth and I bet you fifty cents you can’t pull it!”

Before I could get out another word Freddy had reached inside his trousers and pulled an old, dirty, crusty, rusty, looking handkerchief out. I don’t mean he reached inside his pockets either. I mean his trousers! I’m pretty sure Freddy kept that hanky tucked under his wiener; and as gross, disgusting, horrid, and repulsive as that sounds, it was also pretty amazing.

That hanky was illuminated by a bright yellow glow, almost like the hanky had been sent down from God himself. I even expressed it to Freddy, “Freddy your handkerchief is glowing!”

Freddy quickly explained, “That’s just an old piss stain! Now open your mouth!”

Instantly my tiny taste buds absorbed the sweaty, boogery, pee flavor that was oozing from the handkerchief into my mouth. Then on the count of three, Freddy pulled and I screamed bloody murder.

But with good reason! Freddy’s drunk ass pulled the wrong tooth!

I didn’t complain too much though because I figured that Freddy’s slip up would lead to my good fortune.

My brother Filthy had always told me the Tooth Fairy gave out a buck for every tooth so I wanted confirmation, “Is it true Freddy?”

“Uh….is what true?”

“Will the Tooth Fairy really bring me a dollar for every tooth I lose?”

Freddy exploded, “Where the hell did you hear that from?”

So I told him, “Filthy told me the Tooth Fairy pays cash!”

Freddy was so serious when he told me, “Your brother Filthy is a filthy fucking liar! There is no Tooth Fairy, or Easter Bunny, and might as well forget about the jolly fat man in the red suit!”

After shattering everything I believed in Freddy did give me some good news though, “Hey JJ……J!”

With a mouth full of blood I replied, “Yeah Freddy?”

“At least you aint the little bitch anymore! How does that feel?

I was rather shocked by those remarks. Freddy told me I would always be the little bitch. I wondered what brought on the sudden change so I asked, “Are you serious Freddy, why the change of heart?”

“Truth is I’m pretty proud of you right now! The day a boy loses his first tooth is the day he becomes a man, and he can start drinking!” Freddy declared.

“No Freddy I’m pretty sure it’s still a little early for me to drink.”

Freddy replied, “Are you sure? What time is it?”

It was 4:30 post meridiem but I explained to Freddy, “I don’t mean the time; I’m still under the legal drinking age.”

Oblivious to my age Freddy asked, “How old are you?”

I had just turned six but I guess that was old enough for Freddy because of his ranting and raving, “Yeah man you’re a man! Let’s fucking party!”

I was still conflicted about taking that 12 ounce shot of vodka he poured and laid out in front of me, and I probably wouldn’t have taken it if it wasn’t for more of Freddy’s goading, “Man you can’t be a pussy! A pussy is incapable of loving anything but dicks, and Jimmy if you love dicks than you’re a fag. Since all fags love rainbows and I hate them I’d be forced to kick you out of the house! Then what? You’d be a six year old fag living on the streets probably somewhere over the rainbow!”

I wanted to get that picture out of my head as soon as possible. So I decided to man up and I drank and drank until my liver felt like it took an uppercut to the chin. Soon after I started passing out but before I did I remember Freddy telling me, “I’m proud of you son! You are a man now! When you wake up you need to look for a job.”

When I did finally wake up that next day I found something under my pillow but it wasn’t cash. It was a token to Bun-anza which was a local strip club. Also there was a note from the Tooth Fairy that read, “Hello my name is the Tooth Fairy. Sorry I ran out of cash but please accept the token to Bun-anza you will have a great time! Also about the 50 cents you owe Freddy for the tooth he pulled he’s gonna need it by the end of the week or he’ll have to start breaking things!” Signed Tooth Fairy.

That sucked. I was depending on that dollar from the Tooth Fairy to pay Freddy the fifty cents I owed him.





P.E.A.R.


I remember as day one of testimony came to a close, I was thinking “What a breeze!”

And then telling myself that if the whole trial went like day one the jury would have no choice but to vote in my favor! But then came day two.

Bub started asking me the tough questions that most people in most trials wouldn’t want to answer. Like, “Mr. Purloin, do you remember how old you were when you started committing serious crimes?”

To me that was a loaded question because in my own mind I had been a felon since I could hop the fence and steal apples from Mr. Appletree. But deep down I knew what he meant and that wasn’t it.

I went on to tell the court about the time I woke up and went into the kitchen only to find Filthy reading an article about his favorite porn star Dickey McButts.

“Where is mom and Freddy at?” I asked

“They took (The Bobs) to breakfast. They won’t be back for an hour!” He replied.

When Filthy said (The Bobs), he was referring to my aunt Bobbie and my uncle-cousin Bobby. I know that sounds funny so I will explain; my mother’s sister Bobbie married Bobby, who was Freddy’s cousin. Since Freddy was my stepfather that made Bobby my step-cousin, then when he married my aunt Bobbie he also became my uncle. Hence uncle-cousin!

Anyhow the disappointment on my face said it all but I started whining anyway, “Why didn’t they wake me up to go eat breakfast? What am I supposed to do?”

Filthy assured me, “No worries little brother! As soon as you jump the fence and steal a few apples from Mr. Appletree’s apple tree you’ll get to eat, and I’ll take first prize in the first annual Pickford Estates Apple Retreat.

The Pickford Estates Apple Retreat or P.E.A.R. for short was just like the strawberry festival in Poteet. The only difference was that instead of a bunch of strawberries, we had a bunch of apples. But really it was just a way for the town to reconnect.

Plans were to have pie eating contest, apple bobbing, cake walks, a Ferris wheel, and maybe even somebody drawing caricatures; you know that sort of stuff?

The big event at the P.E.A.R. festival was supposed to be a cooking contest open to men, women, and children of all ages, and the competition would be stiff!

This cooking competition is what had Filthy hot and bothered. The best cooks in town would prepare a dish using an apple recipe, and Filthy was confident his ASS wouldn’t go unnoticed.

ASS (Apple Sausage Surprise) was a concoction invented by Filthy that consisted of three primary ingredients. First ingredient were stolen apples from Mr. Appletree’s apple tree, second ingredient were the two cans of Vienna sausage found in the pantry, and the third ingredient was a secret surprise that Filthy supplied. A white gooey substance.

My job was to get the apples and stealing apples from Mr. Appletree had become second nature to me. I thought nothing of it, even with Mr. Appletree standing on the other side of the fence waiting for me. He was just standing there with a 12 gauge shotgun shouting at me, “You aint getting these apples! Not today!”

That day when I stared into Mr. Appletree’s cold blue eyes I could tell that he meant business. So I had to let him know that I wasn’t playing either, “Make your move you ol’ geezer! Make your fucking move!” I screamed.

Then as fast as I could I ran over to the apple tree and grabbed three of the biggest, ripest, reddest apples I could get my hands on.

A beret of salt rocks was unloaded in my direction, but luckily for me Mr. Appletree was a horrible shot and I made it back to the house unscathed holding three of the best apples in all of Pickford Estates.

My brother Filthy couldn’t have been happier either, “You done well little brother! If you get a spoon I’ll let you eat my ASS.”

No thanks! I wasn’t interested! I was more interested in what was going on in the world of General Hospital. When I was a kid my favorite show was General Hospital and I almost missed it playing around with Mr. Appletree that day.

This was around the time when Domino kidnapped Frisco with Felicia thrown around there somewhere; so you can only imagine how pissed off I was when the show was interrupted by a news flash, “Biggest jewel heist in American History! Sixty million dollars in jewels were stolen from the Pickford Estates National Bank of Savings!”

I tried to change the channel but the robbery was being covered on all of them. One news anchor said, “It’s just a sad day in America when eighty million dollars in jewels simply vanish!”

Channel 12 reported, “One hundred million dollars in jewels….stolen!”

By the time Chief of Police Raymond Roper Sr. arrived on the scene the heist was worth over a hundred and fifty million dollars, and the four assailants had disappeared into thin air. The only thing left behind at the crime scene was a clamshell, which was the trademark of a notorious crime figure in Pickford Estates underworld known as The Clam.

Just as the news report came to an end my parents and (The Bobs) walked through the front door with bacon on their breath. Before I could start complaining about not getting any breakfast my mother started grilling me, “Did anybody call the house looking for me? Did anybody come by?”

“Like who?” I asked.

“I don’t know you’re Grandma, bill collectors, somebody like that?”

I explained, “Grandma died three years ago! If she called or came over it means earth is being invaded by zombies!”

Then Freddy had to throw his two cents in, “You know who else was a zombie? Jesus, it’s right there in the bible. Look it up!”

The conversation was brought to a halt when the timer on the oven went off. Filthy’s ASS was done baking and it was time to walk over to Westwood Park where the P.E.A.R. was taking shape.
You should’ve seen all the faces and food that covered the grounds, with hundreds of dishes entered in the contest. I had never seen so much food. I felt like I was at Wonka’s factory or some shit! There were crumb cakes, cookies, muffins, and pastry. There were soups, salads, and even an apple tart that had my name on it.

As the competition began the judges started to make their way around to the different dishes and I noticed my brother sweating profusely, “What’s the matter? You look like Sandusky at the Ice Capades!” I commented.

“I think I’m about to have a nervous breakdown!” He screamed.

I tried to comfort him, “Filthy your food looks fine. I’m sure the judges will love it.”

“I’m not worry about my ASS!”

“So what is it?” I asked.

“I forgot my lucky bottle of lube!” He replied.

This was big! Filthy carried that little bottle of lube everywhere he never left home without it. He got that bottle of lube at a porn convention in Foil City when he was three. It was actually used on a real porn shoot by Filthy’s idol Dickey McButts.

So I figured I’d do Filthy the solid and get that bottle of lube for him so I asked him, “Where is it? I’ll go get it!”

“It’s in the bathroom please hurry before the judges get to my table!” He pleaded.

My full intentions were to go home and get Filthy’s lucky bottle of lube and get it back to him before the judges made their way to his table. However plans often go awry.

When I got to 8th Ave. (my street), the entire block was taped off by police, ambulance, and fire trucks. I noticed the cops talking to my mom so I hollered, “Mom what the hell is going on here?”

My mother informed me, “Mr. Appletree is dead! He was in the backyard holding a 12 gauge. Must have been chasing off a burglar.”

A policeman came over and asked me if I noticed anything unusual and I answered honestly, “No sir! Nothing out of the ordinary!”

Mr. Appletree was 107 years old but it wasn’t his old age that killed him. I knew in my heart of hearts that he had a heart attack while defending his property from me; thus he died leaving me a killer.

The P.E.A.R. was immediately cancelled leaving the contest without a winner

Only right thing to do though having a P.E.A.R. without Mr. Appletree was like having a hamburger without the bun. It just wasn’t right!