The Secret of A Spicy Jalapeno

The Secret of A Spicy Jalapeno

By Charlie Courtland

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by Kelly E. Lee at Smashwords

Edited by Robert Helle

Copyright 2011 Kelly E. Lee

Enjoy more titles by Charlie Courtland

Dandelions in the Garden

The Hidden Will of the Dragon

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***~~~***

Prologue

A word from Joe Parker,

Some might say my job is unusual, if they knew what I did. Sheriff Caine, or just plain Sheriff as we call him in these parts, gave me the job title Skinner, but most people around town just call me Joe, Joe Parker. Being a skinner is nothing to brag about, it’s like what those self-important people call an organic farmer. I take something worthless like garbage and recycle it into something useful. It's not the prettiest job, but most jobs worth doing, aren’t. No one bugs me or bosses me around; besides, I kind of like working alone. I’m used to people avoiding me on account that I don’t smell too good. The stink of manure, the rot and tobacco soaks into the skin and gets on the clothes, and boy when it does, it hangs on something fierce. I don’t care what you try to use, whether it’s some kind of lemon cleanser or orange peel soap, once you get that stench under your skin, there’s no getting it out.

It’s not shoveling cow crap or brewing tobacco juice that’s earned me the title Skinner, but it’s how I use my knife to pry fat and flesh from the bone. It’s an art really, even though it sounds primitive, but now that I’ve mastered it, I realize just how blessed I truly am. I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but first I work the knife under the skin and shimmy it off in long, thin pieces. Lean strips are best to place on the fields beneath the polyethylene. That's the black plastic mulch stuff. I put the meat right on top of the cow manure mixed loosely with some sandy loam soil and the plants grow strong and hearty.

I begin with the thighs. The wet meat makes this sucking noise when I lift it from the bone. It reminds me of the slurping my uncle makes when he drinks noodle soup. I grin every time I think about it.

Then, of course, there’s the smell, again. Yeah, I had to get used to it, but it’s not so bad. Every body smells a bit different, but the smokers and abusers are the worst. The juices that ooze reek like old sweaty socks wadded up in a soiled diaper. Like I said, it’s probably not the best job, but it ain’t the worst, and I get paid more than most farmers in the area.

I suppose the job has its drawbacks—I’m always on call. I never know when the Sheriff is going to ring me up and I can’t never look at a piece of fried chicken, let alone eat a bucket. In the winter it ain’t so bad, but boy when that summer heat hits, it can be brutal. The meat decays quicker and the flies swarm like a son of a bitch.

When that phone rings, I know it’s him. I know he's got a job for me to do. His men back the truck up to the barn door and dump the load next to my block on a spread of hay. I appreciate that the slabs don’t have any heads; it’s better that way. I guess the Sheriff worries I might get wise or grow a conscience if I have to stare at a face or something. Either way, it doesn’t bother me none. It’s no different than carving up any other animal. But, it is kind of nice that no face is looking up at me, pleading for forgiveness – which, I ain’t going to give. The way I see it, they’ve been found guilty and been judged. I know they’d done something pretty bad if they ended up on my barn floor. I figure the sentence is justified.

When I’m done scraping the bones clean, I fold the meat in a layer of cheesecloth and wrap it in white paper, just like they do at the butcher shop, and stack it in the freezers in the cellar beneath the barn floor. Hauling the meat downstairs is nothing—it’s disposing of the fat and bones that makes my stomach twist. Actually, it’s that damn hopper contraption. That’s what I call the big metal vat. That machine makes me uneasy. It’s a bone bath, but it ain’t meant for washing, but rather for disposing of unwanted materials and there’s a lot of that laying around.

I can’t take credit for the invention though. It was the Sheriff that taught me how to get rid of bodies. His father was some big shot detective during the ‘70’s in Detroit. He told the Sheriff if he ever needed to make bones disappear that he should fill a tub with Drano, or some chemical concoction similar to it. He said to mix in a few other things I can’t pronounce, and then toss the remains right in. A man's just got to let it sit for a while, pull the plug, and swoosh, there it goes down the drain. Wait, I’m probably getting ahead of myself. You’re probably wondering how I became the Skinner in the first place.

***~~~***

The Big Idea

It all began when the Sheriff got the big idea to grow jalapenos. Joe thought it was a peculiar crop since the Pacific Northwest wasn’t the choice place for such a plant, but it was the Sheriff's revelation and Joe went along with it. The Sheriff thought it might be profitable since they could make all kinds of things with jalapenos, like jellies and that fancy stuff people put on meat, chutney jam. He said the stuff wouldn’t be like regular old jellies, they’d be gourmet and because of it, they could charge twice as much. Even though he presented this as a plus, the Sheriff wasn’t altogether that concerned with getting rich. Neither he nor Joe was the type of man to do something solely for monetary gain. The big idea came about as a necessary solution to a larger problem. It was becoming more and more obvious to them that they had to do something. Things were getting out of hand and the safety of the community was at risk. Both felt the choke of crime creeping nearer and threatening the town of Providence. With each passing year trouble from the city leaked further east. It was just a matter of time before a visitor could hardly tell the difference. Some of the people in Providence were even talking about locking their doors at night. Nothing that extreme had ever been necessary until lately.

The council is proposing to vote on raising taxes so the county can put an addition on the jail, the Sheriff complained.

Why’s that? Joe asked.

State inspectors came nosing around. You know those human rights advocate types, reported that the jail is at capacity. We either early parole or add on. I say transfer the scum out, but word is every suitable place is in the same predicament. The Sheriff sucked his teeth. Never used to be like this, not here anyways. I tell ya Joe, things aren’t getting better, they’re just getting worse.

After the Sheriff explained, Joe knew he couldn’t live with himself if he let the whole damn world go to pot on his watch. Plus, everyone knew the Sheriff was a God-fearing man of his word. He’d never lie to anyone or do anything misleading. He was a stand-up guy. If he said things were getting worse, hell, they were.

The Sheriff locked eyes with Joe. That’s what he did when he wanted to make his point understood. Now, these aren’t your common run-of-the mill violators like those forgetting to pay a parking ticket or snatching a pack of gum. No sir, they’re rapists, violent assaulters and drug addicts. He paused, nodding slightly. Then lowered his voice, And sex workers. They‘re the scum who take advantage of young girls or wouldn’t think twice about sticking a gun in your grandma’s face to steal her Social Security check. He straightened his posture, eyes fixed and arms crossed over his chest. He was a mountain, a human barricade. I’m telling you Joe, it’s just a matter of time."

After hearing what the Sheriff had to say, Joe agreed. He was convinced that he couldn’t stand by and let the town be polluted and overrun with garbage. It wasn’t just a moral issue; it was an environmental one too. So how’d you suppose we go about cleaning up the mess? Joe asked.

Well Joe, me and a few other men have given this a lot of thought and we’ve come up with a solution.

That’s when he explained to Joe just what he intended to do. The farm was the center of operation and Joe the overseer. It was the perfect location and growing jalapenos was the ideal cover. Joe reveled in the symbiotic relationship and was awestruck by the pure genius of the plot. It was environmentally and socially beneficial and no one needed to be the wiser. It was the ultimate win-win.

That’s how the big idea was hatched. When winter rolled around, the men got to work. The Sheriff along with the help of two inside men weeded out the offenders. They realized they couldn’t dispose of every criminal — that would draw suspicion and be downright irresponsible. So the Sheriff came up with a criterion, a code of sorts, for the men to follow. The scum had to be paroled early, a repeat criminal, and someone nobody would miss. They had to be the worst of the worst. They were litter taking up space and shaming all mankind. The jail was a landfill in need of an intervention. When the Sheriff found a criminal who fit the profile, he waited until they were released and snagged the guilty from wherever and had them brought to the farm. It was an out-of-the-way place set along a desolate road. The neighbors were few and far between and since the Sheriff was the landlord, it wouldn’t seem strange for him to visit. Besides, the farm was Joe’s home and everyone knew the Sheriff and Joe were friends, more like father and son really. Joe had come to live at the farm when he was barely a teen. Some thought he was a nephew or second cousin of the Sheriff’s, a burden, but a relation in need of caring. Whether assumptions were ever confirmed, no one questioned. Somewhere along the way, Joe being a ward turned sharecropper became an acceptable truth. Since it was the law looking over the place, no one would give a lick about what Joe was doing out at the farm. Even if curiosity was raised, all anyone was likely to see was Joe going about his business, planting and plowing. There was nothing new or suspect about that.

Only a select few were privy to the secret to growing a spicy jalapeno in Providence. It was the blend of a special additive mixed together with manure that brought the crop to glory.

It takes villagers to clean up a town, the Sheriff said. I pick ‘em, you two men snuff ‘em and Joe skins ‘em. He pointed at the other two men. Don’t go bringing them to Joe with any heads still attached. You take that body part to the place we discussed.

Joe didn’t like that he wasn’t in on this part of the process, but he had made the request. It was a condition he put on skinning, that nothing could have a face. He couldn’t abide by having anything looking at him. Even when he killed animals, he had to chop off and toss the head. Couldn’t stand those staring eyes boring into him.

How come they get to know everything? Joe asked. What if they go telling?

The Sheriff squinted at the men. You two gonna tell anyone?

No sir, they said in unison.

How ‘bout you Joe? the Sheriff asked.

Well hell no! I gave my word.

Seems we all gave our word. He put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. We’re in this together. All for one and one for all, that kind of thing. I trust you men, like I’d trust my own sons.

The Sheriff’s claim put Joe at ease. He felt ashamed that he had even questioned the loyalty of those standing in the intimate group. The Sheriff would never allow anyone to participate who wasn’t an upstanding person. Trust, honor and servitude were the three most important rules a man could live by.

***

It took time to collect the necessary provisions and plant the first crop. Joe kept tabs on the inventory and when the freezer was full and the season right, he called the Sheriff to report it was time. On that day, Joe lifted the hatch and descended down the wooden stairs that led to the storage beneath the barn floor. Sitting side by side were a pair of ice chests, the purgatory for the wicked.

Joe slipped on a pair of gloves to protect his hands from frostbite and removed the white packages of meat from the interior shelves. He laid them out and patiently waited for them to thaw. There was no sense rushing the process by means of artificial defrost. Proper preparation of the fertilizer was a vital part of the process and Joe wasn’t about to let anticipation get the better of him. In the meantime he busied himself with other chores. Every now and then he’d give a poke to see if the hard bricks of sliced flesh had softened. Once he felt the squish and bounce of supple meat, he gently unwrapped the butcher paper and stacked the strips on the rear of the wagon hitched to the tractor.

The Sheriff drove while Joe hung off the back of the wagon tossing meat on the mounds of tilled dirt. The thing was, the fresh meat attracted damned flies and they buzzed something awful, annoying Joe as he covered the earth with the offerings. The grave-like rows lined the field, open and raw, baked in the warm spring sun. To Joe the place looked like a big yawning mouth full of sacrifice. It’d been a beautiful scene if it weren’t for the flies nipping at his ankles and arms taking little bites, stinging and itching like a bad case of poison ivy. There was no use complaining. Every miraculous picture had its dark side. Joe understood this more than most. Besides, the flies were an unfortunate part of the job. As much as the pests bugged, they were necessary, just as necessary as the rest of the process. However, Joe decided he didn’t have to like it, and he didn’t. He truly hated them maggots with wings.

Before sunset, the Sheriff and Joe made one more run over the field covering every mound and row with polyethylene. This was the trick, the big secret to making it all break down. Besides, with everything covered, nobody suspected a thing. The plastic kept in the heat and moisture while also protecting the compost from birds and predatory pests. It was genius and organic. Oh don’t worry, Joe didn’t throw away the plastic when he was done, he made sure to reuse it whenever he could and when it was beat up or torn, or didn’t mulch away, he’d drive it to the recycling facility in Portland so it could be made into something useful. He was a stern believer in going green and all that stuff. Recycling was progressive and Joe was a pioneer.

When he was sure the weather was steady and the starters big enough, he’d go over the rows stabbing holes through the plastic and shoving the baby plants in the ground. He’d finger around to make sure everything was decomposed before he ran the soaker hose along the fields to water the delicate roots. It all worked out too. Joe kept thinking as long as what they were doing benefited the community, than it wasn’t any of his business to question. All he knew was the rot made the best damn fertilizer. Until now, he had tried just about every combination and sworn growth accelerator on the market. Hands down, nothing could compete with the black gold beneath the plastic. It was a shame he couldn’t share his discovery with the world, but he knew the world wasn’t ready to hear. Sure, some people would get it, what he was doing, but others would argue morality or humanity or some sort of ‘ity’ to prove a point. Then he’d have to worry about the FDA, CIA, FBI or some other government-appointed organizer with a string of initials. It didn’t matter much anyways; he wasn’t the type of guy who wanted recognition or credit. He wiped his brow and told himself that just seeing those jalapenos was enough satisfaction. Holy Hell, they were the damnedest jalapenos anyone had ever seen. He was certain of that! Joe hadn’t yet picked a favorite, but the Sheriff’s was a pepper named ‘Devil’s Fire,’ on account that it was the meanest, spiciest jalapeno