Rick Carter's First Big Adventure (Pete's Barbecue Book 1) (13 page)

      “What?  That’s not possible.”   Mel grunted harshly. “Holiday?  What holiday?”  He stepped back and looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of something that might help him understand why Pete’s place was closed.  Finally, he stormed off to the back of the small shack in his frantic hyper- articulated manner, leaving Rick alone, staring frustrated at the door.  A few moments later he returned and motioned for Rick to follow him.  As he stepped around to the rear of the eatery, the scent of barbecue grew stronger.  He felt like he was walking on the golden streets of heaven.  He had found nirvana, and it was calling his name.

      Pete’s front yard, which was the backyard of the diner, was just big enough to have two nicely built brick barbecue pits with a large cast iron grill sitting against the back wall of the diner.  This was the place where the magic happened, where the barbecue fairies came down from sunny clouds of puffy white and sprinkled magical barbecue seasoning on pieces of chicken and fish and beef and then sang sweet melodies of Elvis songs for your enjoyment as you willing got swept away by an explosion of taste and sensation that your taste buds were incapable of adequately translating to your brain.  Sound over the top?  Please, when in Guam stop by and try it for yourself then we’ll talk.

       Mel was backing away from a giant hug with his old friend and he was beaming a smile across his entire face. “Rick! This is the great maestro, Pete. Pete, this is Rick Carter, cab driver, and transport man,” he said, waving his hand back and forth. 

       Rick saw Pete standing over the large cast iron grill, a pair of tongs in one hand and a diet Pepsi in the other.  The smoke was wafting up from the grill and framing him in a strange aura of milky white.  He was a short Chamorro, thick-set and older.  His face was flat and dark, but his eyes sparkled with life.  He looked like a man who was used to smiling a lot and laughing.  He had those dark and tanned wrinkles around his mouth and eyes that formed when people spent more time laughing then frowning.   Rick looked at him and smiled.  It was the sort of thing everyone did around Pete.  You simply could not help but smile when around Pete.  He looked precisely how Rick had imagined him.  The only thing strange or unusual was that he could not tell how old he was, not even a hint.  He at once looked time-worn but his features seemed to change as he moved and spoke and there was a youthful spirit all around him. He stood over the grill in a tee-shirt and shorts, old, worn out flip flops, or zorries, on his feet.   He had an apron tied around his waist and midsection that bulged out with his round stomach.  The apron was smeared in old dried sauce stains.  His hair was salt and pepper, and he had no sign of a beard or mustache.  When he saw Rick he waved the tongs at him and said: “Hey, look its Rick Carter.”  He spoke with a thick island accent.   “It’s about time!”  He waved his free hand at Rick.  “We met on de sweet by-and-by, bra, you and me.  I been waitin’ to see you again.”

     Rick stopped short, not expecting such a greeting.  He was pretty sure he had never seen this particular Chamorro before, or any Chamorro for that matter.  In fact, he could safely say with confidence that he had never met any Chamorro before. “Say what?  Do I know you?”

      Pete smiled a strange and off-putting smile that sent a slight pulse of doubt and concern through Rick’s senses.  Pete’s personality had that kind of effect on people when he wanted it to.  “It not yet, bra. We got some time yet, yeah?  Den, who knows, tings happen don’t dey?”

       Rick shook his head.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

       Pete’s smile didn’t go away, and neither did Rick’s concern.  “How you like ole Pete’s?” He waved his thick and calloused hand toward the back of the diner.  “It what you thought?  You like de name?”  His accent was hard and slow which matched the way he spoke.  “I know you do.  And you like de barbecue too.  I remember dat.”  He said as he turned his head slightly toward Rick.

     “Uh, huh.”  Rick looked apprehensively at Mel.  “Mel what’s wrong with this guy?”

     Mel was chuckling to himself.  “Nuthin’.  He’s messin’ with you.  He does that a lot.  He likes to play with people.”

      Pete looked at Mel with the same unnerving smile, and then he let out a hearty laugh that echoed from the sides of the brick buildings like thunder, and he slapped Mel on the shoulder.  “Sit down, you two!  I got de chicken ready, just need some more love.”

      Rick shrugged his shoulders and gave into the deep urging of his stomach.  The heavenly smell of barbecuing chicken was just too much for his tired brain to take and, therefore, all manly jesting bouts were on hold until further notice.  He didn’t even try to argue but obeyed instructions and found a seat at the rickety dry rotted picnic table and waited for the smell to become the real thing.   Mel plopped down on the other side and shot him an expectant look.

      “What?”   Rick asked with his usual harsh taxi driver’s tone.

       “Nuthin’ just wonderin’ why you’re so quiet all of a sudden,” He responded.

       “My stomach is expecting.”  He narrowed his eyes at him.

       Mel acknowledged that he understood and then he went into another long story about Pete Reyes.

      Let’s talk a little about Pete Reyes.   There are easier things to try and do rather than attempting to sum up Pete Reyes.  His life was so full of fantastic and strange stories that if a biography was ever written it would fill a whole set of shelves somewhere between science fiction, fantasy, and cooking at the local library.   He was a local legend on the small island.  But, he was also a legend in the halls of the Company and that title went way back.  He started work with the Company long before the Japanese invaded in 1941.  He was born on Guam in 1920, the eldest son of twelve.  He was recruited by the Company in 1939 and working full time later that same year.  Then the war came along.  A lot of those first years with the Company involved the war, and all the fractures that resulted from the strain in various places all over the Pacific.  Those years of terrible sacrifice and death were difficult ones for the Company.  So much death and so many extreme events caused a great deal of fracturing that had to be attended to and it all culminated in the dropping of two atomic weapons.  That decision, though necessary for the war, caused a massive ripple effect on the reality streams that could still be seen in the Pacific even in modern times, even though most people had no idea it was there.  And Guam was the center of that effect.   Pete’s legend grew out of the war.  He was involved in some of the most severe cases the Company ever faced.  Eventually, younger agents learned to regard the stories with veneration, glancing up at his black and white Company photo on the Wall of Heroes as they passed by.  He was a ghostly, shadowy character to most, almost unapproachable.  The truth was much less dramatic.  His name was still spoken in awe.  So went the legend.  Real life often has a tendency to deviate slightly from legend.  Or it operates in a realm separate from legend.  Whatever the case, despite all the adventures, the weird and the impossible, at the end of the day, Pete was just as human as the next guy. His father and mother had brought him
up with the traditions of the ancient Chamorro; to respect the ancestors, the island, and the sea.  Knowledge came from the ancestors, your home came from the island, and your food came from the sea.  Anything else was superficial.  This meant that everything that fell within the three traditions was regarded with respect and treated with the utmost care and patience.  And one of those time-honored traditions was the art of the barbecue.  It is important to understand that barbecue on the island, real barbecue that is, was not your run of the mill backyard gas grill Sunday afternoon cookout.  No, this was a type of barbecue cooked with the faithfulness of time and patience and the proper mixes of seasons and marinating and the right temperatures from the right native woods.  It was a taste mastered from practice and years of love.  And it was a taste that was not meant to be merely good, but life altering.  This was Pete’s passion. 

     Thirty years ago, after abruptly and mysteriously retiring from the Company, he returned to his native land and announced to his surviving family members that he was going to open a diner and call it Pete’s Barbecue.  Many pointed out to him that the name was unimaginative, that he had been away too long and that no one cared for the old ways anymore.  He laughed at them and plowed ahead.  He was too old now to let nay-Sayers stand in the way.   He had come back for several reasons and barbecue was one of those important reasons, but not the only one.  Retirement and diner’s aside, Pete didn’t exactly leave reality fixing when he left the Company.  During his time with the Company, he had managed to put away a substantial amount of money.  He also knew a lot about how the Company operated and the gear they used to do the job.  So, he applied this money and this knowledge, built his headquarters on the island and went into free-lance reality fixing.  All of this was done quietly and secretly and with the full blessings of the Company itself.   His reputation ensured that the Managers would turn a blind eye to his free-lance work in exchange for which they expected his cooperation in certain matters conducted outside of Company oversight.  He worked as a contract provider, worked for himself and kept his own porting gear.  Not many people were aware of this side hobby, however. 

     Rick watched Pete effortlessly tend his barbecue like a ballet dancer as he lovingly inspected and cared for each morsel over the flame of the pit.  He finally appeared out of the smoky haze with a paper plate piled dangerously high with savory, heavenly chicken parts and he sat them in the middle of his old warped picnic table.  Rick’s eyes followed every move the plate of chicken made until it rested safely in front of him.  His attentions were captivated and he suddenly didn’t care that he had been awake for nearly two days, that he had been listening to the world’s longest windbag for seventeen hours and that a strange Chamorro woman had suddenly appeared out of the door behind him with her hands full of paper plates and old silverware that didn’t match and began setting the table.  His eyes never wavered from that plate.  Mel, who was less distracted, acknowledged her with a smile like a ten-year-old.  He wasn’t surprised by her sudden appearance.  He acted as if he knew she was there all along, although she had been perfectly quiet and hidden.  Pete promptly and nonchalantly introduced her to Rick as his wife, Maria.  She was about his height, maybe a smidgen shorter, and looked his age and moved quickly in and out of the house with the skill and speed of an autobahn enthusiast.   She didn’t look up or speak but jetted back and forth from their little one room home with item after item.   At last, she came back with some potatoes and rice.  Every dish on Guam had to have some rice with it.

    Pete plopped himself down beside Rick, laid an old rag in front of him on the table and folded his arms on top of it, looking expectantly at Mel and Rick.  He loved it when people ate his barbecue, especially for the first time.  He was waiting for Rick’s reaction.

     Rick didn’t wait for an invitation.  He reached over and with one large hand scooped up two big pieces together and deposited them on his paper plate like a giant claw machine.  He grabbed the one nearest and began biting into it hard.  It was time to put this heavenly smelling meat to the test.  His first bite would tell-the-tell.  Rick was neither shy nor embarrassed by his appetite in the presence of others.  He figured it was their job just to keep their hands and feet out of the way.

    Pete was satisfied with the response.   He basked in the glow of victory, his smile changing to deep happiness.  “So, I get this call.” He began, speaking to no one in particular. “This call from an old friend.  He tell me he comin’ to see me.  So, Pete tinks, get de barbecue ready for him.  But, guess what? He don’t show for two days.  So, Pete wonders what de matter, maybe he can’t get his port to work.   Now, two days later here he is, and with Rick Carter no less.  Rick Carter de taxi man.  So, now ole Pete he wonders what dis is ‘cause he don’t hear nuthin’ ‘bout Rick Carter.”  Pete’s eyes were narrowed at Mel watching him scarf down a chicken wing.

      Rick looked uncertain back and forth between the two of them, his mouth full, wondering, among other things, why Pete preferred to refer to himself in the third person.

      Mel looked up unconcerned; his fingers already stained with barbecue sauce.  “Sorry, Pete.  We flew commercial.  And I didn’t know at the time that Rick was going to be with me, not until yesterday.”  He mumbled.

      Pete turned his head slightly and sat back crossing his arms across his large protruding stomach.  “Now, ain’t dat somthin’? Commercial?  Now Pete he really wonderin’ whats goin’ on now.”  He looked over at Rick.  “Ders only one reason a pupil of mine would use commercial.  What you runnin’ from dis time?  What you do wrong now?”

     “Hey!”  Mel almost spit his chicken across the table.  “Why’s it always got to be like that?  I can’t just fly over and see my uncle?”

       Rick looked up sharply. “Uncle?”  He mumbled.

      Pete chuckled. “Dat what he calls me, Uncle Pete.  You see I know dis kid a long time, Rick Carter.  I trained him.  I taught him good, too.  Dats why he flies commercial when he could just port here in seconds.  ‘Cause he hidin’ from somethin’ or somebody.  Only reason to fly.  I taught him dat, too.”

        Rick looked at Mel.  His friend was growing increasingly uncomfortable.  Obviously, there were bits of the story that Pete hadn’t been told and Rick sensed a reckoning was coming.

      “You know,” Mel spoke openly now. “I’m not exactly a kid anymore.  I’ve been independent for a long time, Pete.”