by W.H. Harrod
The rest of my Friday went much as usual. Things were falling into a pattern regarding my newest career change in the Kansas hinterland. I didn’t mind the routine developing around my management of Junior Junior’s restaurant. I pretty much exercised complete control of the business, and Junior Junior, to my knowledge, never actually said a single word about my management style. He did grunt on a few occasions when I pressed him on various issues. One day when I asked him what the day’s date was, he walked over to a wall calendar and pointed to the large black numbers indicating the day of the month. Maybe he really can’t talk, I told myself. But later, Flo assured me he could enunciate words somewhat clearly on those rare occasions when required.
One of those occasions happened soon afterwards when an oldster by the name of Jasper commenced to rail at Junior Junior over the $4.07 per gallon price of gas. He became very upset at Junior Junior, along with the government, and especially, those thieving ‘librals’ who stood behind the whole sordid affair. I had returned from a trip to the local supermarket where I’d picked up a few basic supplies to tied us over until the following Wednesday when our main supplier from Salina swung by with our regular order. I parked Junior Junior’s pickup truck off to the side of the lot out of the way of paying customer spaces and walked towards the restaurant entrance when I heard this Jasper fellow tell Junior Junior he was “damn sure not going to put up with rising gas prices any longer.” He said in a screeching loud voice that he would be going home to get his shotgun and “put a stop to all this thievery.”
I stopped dead in my tracks waiting to see what Junior Junior would do feeling sure he would break his silence in this instance. I saw Junior Junior grunt a couple of times which only seemed to incense this Jasper fellow even more. Jasper’s voice became even more shrill when he turned away swearing to exact justice as soon as he returned from home with his trusty firearm. As I stood watching and waiting for Junior Junior’s reaction, the afore mentioned claimant tottered towards his decades old pickup and after revving the engine until I expected it to explode, put the vehicle in gear and sped out of the lot at the pace of a dying turtle. Whatever’s going to happen is going to take a while, I told myself as I proceeded to deliver my emergency supplies to Flo who was in a snit at our having gone through the entire supply of carry-out condiments so soon. She showed no interest when I informed her an enraged older guy named Jasper went home to get his shotgun and intended to come back and shoot Junior Junior.
I dropped off the supplies and turned my attention back to Junior Junior and the public threat made upon his person. I wanted to see how this would turn out. Maybe now Junior Junior might actually speak a few words or, maybe, even form a sentence. My hopes were crushed when I overheard Junior Junior speak ever so succinctly into the phone to whoever answered his plea for help.
The conversation went something like this: “It’s Jasper again.” That’s all! After hanging up the phone Junior Junior went and sat down on a worn out old office chair he’d obviously made use of for years. I knew there wasn’t any need in my trying to get anything out of Junior Junior as to what he thought might happen, so I crossed over and sat down in the other equally worn out office chair. I figured if I hung by close enough I’d be sure to witness something unusual. I doubted a shooting would actually take place because Jasper didn’t look as if he had the gumption to lift a shotgun but, maybe, someone might get arrested. Junior Junior might speak some words or even form multiple sentences during the surely to follow police investigation.
Junior Junior busied himself all this time by scanning a crumpled up old magazine with a picture of a mule on the back cover. What lofty thoughts must be crowded into that glob of mushy matter residing in his skull, I opined to myself. I, on the other hand, made no effort to hide my own morbid curiosity at this pathetic modern day rendition of the long ago Kansas cow town shootout. No horses, no dirt streets, no swinging saloon doors, and no frightened citizens scurrying to get inside; only a lone, unarmed Mayberry throwback sitting quietly reading about mules seemingly unaware that a threat was made on his life and his property.
“Barley’s here,” came the cry through the door leading into the restaurant part of the building. Flo must have gotten over the condiment snafu. A smile lit up her face as she came through the same doorway carrying her purse and car keys, indicating an end of another workday. Time for her to go home and watch the afternoon soaps she usually talked about when she wasn’t arguing with customers or stalking another unsuspecting male.
Barley, the town’s Police Chief— if a guy with one part-time officer working for him and no jail to lock people up in can be called a chief— introduced himself to me the first day I reported to work at the restaurant. At first I did not know he was a law enforcement officer because he was dressed in regular civilian attire and didn’t carry a gun. He impressed me with his firm handshake and warm welcome. He said he looked forward to me getting his favorite restaurant back on the right track, and I should let him know if he could be of help. Another thing I noticed about him over the following days and weeks had to do with him showing no indication of being in lock step with the other local red state sycophants. On several occasions, I recalled him reminding the vociferous blue state haters and geezers that most of the mess the country presently found itself in came by way of the current administration having turned our country’s banking system over to individuals coming directly from Wall Street high finance whose intentions were to make loans available to every human being capable of signing their name to a mortgage document. I took comfort from the knowledge there were other voices of reason nearby whose thoughts were not always directed along purely partisan lines.
Like Junior Junior, Chief Barley showed no sign of being in any hurry to get out of his vehicle or get inside to talk to the person threatened. He slowly exited his decade old, and sadly in need of replacement, excuse for a patrol vehicle still missing all four wheel covers that were stolen several years earlier by culprits yet to be found out, but according to the Chief, still of very special interest.
“Hey, Junior Junior,” said the Chief as he casually walked into the station.
“Ungh,” came the even less enthusiastic reply from Junior Junior.
“Mr. Clayton, and how are you today?” the Chief asked turning in my direction. My surprise at the lack of drama in the room must have been apparent to the Chief, but he went on as if his visit held no purpose. I imagined he might as well have mentioned the weather or the price of wheat given his nonchalant manner.
“Well, Junior Junior, I saw that the price of wheat dropped another nickel this morning. Hope we get some of that moisture that’s falling down to the southwest; we could sure use it,” said the Chief as if he’d read my mind.
“Ungh,” grunted Junior Junior once again.
Didn’t they realize that an extremely irate senior citizen was right at that moment on his way back to Junior Junior’s station with a firearm? Surely they must! But why then did they act as if everything was normal? Was there something I didn’t know? Did the guy just go home and forget all about it? Questions banged around in my brain, and I wanted answers.
“And you, Mr. Clayton, how is your day going? Well, I hope,” asked the Chief as if making a social call instead of responding to a death threat.
I had to know what was going on. “Chief, am I missing something here? Are you not concerned that the old fellow will come back with his gun like he said he would? And please call me Will.”
The Chief didn’t respond immediately but rather looked over to Junior Junior while exchanging a knowing smile. “Well, Will, he might be if he doesn’t get distracted by something else on the way home. It’s usually the last place he stops at that he remembers. Why he might be down at the roadside fruit stand admiring the melons and apples. If he is, he’s plum forgot all about this little matter. Only reason Junior Junior called me was to let me know that Jasper’s out and about. Besides, we took his gun away from him long ago. We just need to make sure he
doesn’t miss his turn at the edge of town and end up over in Justice City. That’s a forty mile round trip for me to go fetch him. What with Junior Junior charging the city so much for gas, we got to be careful or we’ll use up our fuel budget before we get finished with the second month of the new fiscal year.”
The pained look on Junior Junior’s face proved he’d long ago tired of hearing this all too common lament. The Chief’s laughter showed he also knew station operators like Junior Junior sat at the bottom of the oil industry food chain and played no part in the pricing decisions— they worked for mere pennies and did not deserve the public’s wrath.
No Dodge City shootout loomed after all. Nor did I hear any additional conversation from the “Sphinx of Jonesboro.” Too bad, I thought having hoped for a break in the monotony. I gave my excuses and walked back into the deserted diner.
Few customers stopped in between the lunchtime rush and the final spate of business transpiring between 2:30 p.m. and 3 p.m. when the few employees working in the offices and stores close to the diner ventured in for a mid-afternoon repast. After that, business amounted to practically zilch. That’s when I customarily locked up and started preparing for the next day. I devoted a couple of hours after locking the door to taking inventory and cleaning up what Flo hadn’t gotten to because of time constraints or because she’d gotten mad for not receiving enough tips. By this time we’d gotten most things down to a routine, and I found the remaining chores easier to accomplish. Usually by 5 p.m. I headed out the door confident the diner sat ready for Flo’s dour countenance to make its appearance at 4 a.m. the following morning.
This day looked to be no exception. I stood giving the diner one last look to ensure I’d forgotten nothing. Sure enough, the proofers sat waiting filled with frozen cinnamon roll pellets and the daily receipts were now in Junior Junior’s possession for the nightly deposit. All pots, pans, and dishes were cleaned and ready for the next day. All I had to do amounted to walking out the door and locking it behind me. Satisfied, I gave a last look through the large plate glass front window before I headed out the door. An old VW bug, looking as if it had not been washed in years, idling at one of the gas pumps caught my eye. Painted white lettering on the car door applied in a thoroughly unprofessional fashion formed the words “Peace & Love.” That thing belongs back in the ‘60s, I told myself while I stared at the strange sight.
“That’s not from around here,” I said aloud as I stood mesmerized by the flashback from my formative years. “Surely no one from around here would dare drive anything like that around town. That’s the kind of heap one of those hippies would drive.”
My mind froze in mid-sentence as my eyes focused on an individual observing my interest in the strange vehicle. It was a late middle-aged woman wearing a plain white full-length linen dress and vest like the ones stylish in the ‘60s. Her long grayish blond tresses, obviously uncombed since childhood and accentuated by a tie-died headband, left no doubt in my mind as to the identity of this individual. This must be Mary June Jangles, the hippie lady, recently returned from a forty- year sojourn in San Francisco. I’d wanted to meet this woman for sometime to tell her how sorry I was about her restaurant failure. Now she stood right in front of me filling her old VW with outrageously priced gas, while at the same time giving me …… the bird?
She must have seen the look of complete surprise on my face as I reacted to her unexpected, and I might add, inappropriate and undeserved gesture. It’s not my fault the farmers in the area compared her menu to the supply list they presented to the dealers selling them feed for the farm animals. They likened eating at her establishment to be about as close to grazing as they ever wanted to get. They wagered a person stood to have a better chance of finding a local insurance agent not belonging to every church and civic organization in town than a hunk of red meat in her kitchen.
Junior Junior arrived at the pump right as she finished filling her tank. He took out his big money stuffed cash holder and gladly took the several bills offered to him before including them with his bulging wad. He didn’t bother to say thanks or anything else as they both abruptly turned and went their own ways. I’m not certain, but I believe this obviously misinformed woman, the one who gave me the obscene gesture that I felt I did not in anyway deserve, smiled at me as she drove off the lot. Not laughed, smiled! There’s a difference. If she laughed that meant she considered me not worthy of a good face-to-face ass chewing. If she smiled that meant something else, and if it she meant something else, then maybe I’d get to see her again. For some unexplained reason, I liked that idea.
Chapter Seven
