Free Signs of Struggle by John Carenen

Arvid.”
     
    “Strange bird. Yeah, Iowa’s been pretty swell to me since I got back here, just a few days ago, actually. Just super peaceful.”
     
    “It is a good place,” Lunatic said. “A beautiful land.”
     
    “Thank you for telling me about your people, and what the eagles mean,” I said.
     
    Lunatic nodded, asked, “When will you acquire another wife?”
     
    “Shortly after I win the Nobel Peace Prize. The time for another wife has passed,” I said.
     
    “You do not look old. You do not act old. Your chest is deep, though not as deep as mine; your arms are large, though not as large as mine; and your stomach is flat.”
     
    “And not as large as yours,” I said, craning my neck in an exaggerated attempt to see over the bar. Moon’s stomach was flat, too, but also thick. Maybe a forty-four. Mine is a thirty-six, despite the beer. Used to be a thirty-four. Smaller frame than Loon Moon.
     
    He ignored the jibe, said, “Also, I must say your neck needs some work. How many winters have you seen, forty, forty-two?”
     
    “I have seen more than forty winters, less than sixty, oh Wise One.” The Chippewa looked surprised, then shrugged his shoulders as if the information were irrelevant. He said, “There are some women nearby who would make fine wives. The women of Iowa are fair, with fine breasts and strong thighs, although they have too much education and do not keep their ideas to themselves. Also, some are too thin. They exercise and starve themselves to look good for men who would rather have some appropriate plumpness. Nevertheless, there are opportunities. I will look for you,” he said.
     
    I had finished my first Loony Burger. “Don’t worry about me, Moon, I will find my way, and right now my way does not include romance.” Liv Olson came to mind just then. Hmmm . I munched on my fries. I finished my beer.
     
    “I said nothing about romance. I speak of marriage, white eyes.”
     
    “Been there, done that, got the joy and the beauty and the t-shirt,” I said. “I do appreciate your concerns for my love life, however.”
     
    “I accept your rejection.”
     
    “Are you married?”
     
    “Not the type.”
     
    “Girlfriend?”
     
    “Plural,” he said.
     
    “Where? In the back?” I stretched and stared toward the back door.
     
    “Wherever I go. Vulga, Monona. City girls. They have sisters.”
     
    “But not for me,” I said.
     
    “You are an enigma, O’Shea,” Lunatic said.
     
    “And you are Ashinabe, Moon, not to mention Ojibwa and Chippewa.” I stood, grabbed a napkin from the bar, wiped my mouth, and asked for a doggie bag for my second Loony Burger. Lunatic produced a white Styrofoam box and placed the second burger inside. He closed the lid and secured the little tab to hold it shut.
     
    “I think it’s time to visit with the Sheriff. I thank you sincerely for the insights into the story of Mi-Ge-Zi.” My use of the Anishinabe word pleased the bartender. “See ya later.”
     
    “Yes, see you. By the way, do you think Larry was somehow involved with what went down out at the farm with his brother?”
     
    "Does Beyonce float?"
     
    I waved and turned to leave and nearly bumped into Horace Norris, who had appeared behind me. His old eyes were moist and calm. He said, “I’m sorry for your great loss, sir. It’s a sad thing.” Then he turned and shuffled back to his booth and his beer as I shouldered by the double doors and strode into the sunlight.
     

 
    I decided to hoof it to the Sheriff’s office eight blocks away and leave the truck in the parking lot. It was already warm, ninety degrees according to the Hawkeye State Bank time/temperature sign. No sense in waiting for it to get hotter before going to meet The Law. The opportunity to field test the effectiveness of mega-doses of ibuprofen on my thigh was another motivator. And a short walk would let me grab a closer look at Rockbluff’s downtown. I set my Styrofoam box in the