Top Dog

by Gary Clifton

“Boy, what the hell you doin’ just standing there?” bellowed Snake Caples. It was his first day on a new job and he had just encountered a young, well-dressed African-American man apparently loafing on the job.

Fred “Snake” Caples had always been one tough sucker on an average day, and it went downhill from there. Born the youngest of eleven children to a sharecropper couple in deep Louisiana, he’d started mean and got meaner. Beyond mosquitoes, copperheads, and thin red soil, nothing of significance had happened until Snake came along.

Jailed three times for brawling, Snake dropped out of school at fourteen. Big, burly and aggressive, he had no problem convincing the foreman at the Ruston sawmill he was much older. In ten years of backbreaking labor, Snake had worked his way upward to day foreman. In five more, he was the superintendent of the big Caster Brothers mill in Vernon Parish.

Nobody liked Snake, including himself. He never managed to land a wife or a girlfriend, or even a close friend. Management catered to a man like Snake for his total lack of compassion. Late for work: “You’re fired.” Call in sick: “Better show a bloody stub.” When Snake Caples ran the operation, employees were terrified when he came near.

Then, just before his thirtieth birthday, he was hired as the general manager of the Custer-Spinski Lumber Company of Shreveport. The pay was great, the benefits better. Snake drove up to the new jobsite on a Sunday.

A Sunday? Church and the Lord? Hellfire, who has time for that foolishness?

As he neared the outskirts of Shreveport, he was infuriated when an Arkansas State Trooper had the unmitigated cheek to red-light him down. He piled out and roared, “What the hell...?”

The African-American officer, fortyish, big and muscular, stepped toward Snake and said calmly, “Sir, get back in your vehicle, please.”

“Boy, I can stand wherever the hell I please.”

A practiced expert in fielding racial slurs, the trooper took a quicker step and said softly, ”Or I’ll put your ass back in it, sir.”

Snake melted back into his driver’s seat. The trooper snapped on his body cam.

“Why you stoppin’ me? Ain’t y’all got real criminals to catch?”

“Sir, you were doing eighty-six in a seventy-mile zone. License and registration, please.”

“Eighty-six? No way. You jes’ screwin’ with me ’cuz you got some kinda quota?”

“No quota, sir, I can write as many tickets as I need to.” He scribbled in his summons book, then turned it toward Snake. “Sign here, please.”

“What’s this gonna cost me, boy?”

The trooper tapped his pen on the corner of the summons. “Uh, sir, normally, two hundred, plus court costs.” He gestured to an orange “Road Construction” sign a block or so ahead. “Since your offense was in a construction zone, the judge has the option of doubling the fine.” He checked a square at the bottom of the ticket.

Snake snapped, “You’re stealing my money. People like me pay your salary and you treat me like a common criminal. I demand to talk to your supervisor.”

The trooper stepped back, pulled a handset from his belt and said, “L12T to S34, I have a Signal 37 Westbound on I-40 just east of State 136 demanding to see a supervisor.”

When Snake heard the female voice respond, he blurted, “Never mind no supervisor. The governor will hear from me.” He spun away.

* * *

Snake’s blood was still up the next morning. He’d called ahead the week before with orders for all hands of Custer-Spinski to expect him. Of the reign of terror school of management, his style was to terrify far and wide with radical punishment. He intended to fire at least one employee in the first ten minutes. His reputation preceding him, the entire staff was standing at semi-attention as he strutted through. Any malingerers avoiding his acid glare would pay.

That was when he encountered the slender young African-American man, hands in trousers pockets, leaning on a wall next to the water fountain.

Snake snapped, “Well boy, what are you doin’?”

“Uh... nothing but waiting to see you,’” the young man stammered.

“How much do you get paid, boy?” He plopped a ham hand on the kid’s shoulder.

“Uh, I don’t actually know for certain, sir. It varies.”

Snake, sensing a crowd had gathered to see the new muscle man take control, fumbled in his pocket. Pulling out a roll of bills, he counted out three hundred . He handed the cash to the young man, and in his best bad-guy voice, said, “Here’s a week’s severance pay. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass, dude.”

Stunned, but with trace of a sardonic smile, the young man cleared the door, a handful of greenbacks in hand, and walked away.

Satisfied he’d established discipline, Snake turned triumphantly to one of several startled witnesses who’d gathered. “Boy, who do I see around here to get my money back?”

The portly, balding man hesitated, studying his feet. Everyone else nearby froze.

Snake leaned into the man’s face. “Dammit, what was that clown’s job, anyway?”

The man studied Snake for several seconds, buttoned his suit coat, then answered sharply. “Sir, that young man is the son of the owner and also the vice-president in charge of operations of the Good Value Hardware chain. They operate eighty-nine stores across the southern United States and purchase about ninety percent of our lumber output. Mr. Dupree flew up from New Orleans to meet you.”

“Oh my...” Snake collapsed in a lobby chair.

The graying man continued. “Mr. Caples, I’m Alfred Custer, CEO of this company. Seems we have a problem.”

Snake looked up, speechless.

“I’d like to say, I certainly hope you didn’t sign any long-term leases hereabouts, sir.” He handed Snake three hundred-dollar bills. “And, Mr. Caples, try not to let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”