by W.H. Harrod
“Hi, Will. Nice to see you, Will. Have a nice day, Will.” Time and again during the rest of the morning similar remarks greeted me when I came into contact with the townsfolk. Every single person stopping by for gas or food suddenly knew my name and went out of their way to make sure I remembered to have a nice day, a good day, or even better, a great day. I’d come up with one little idea and, all of a sudden, people treated me like a local rock star.
One young mother with a small child riding in her half-filled supermarket shopping cart placed a bag of homemade cookies into my cart as we passed by in the condiment isle. I’d taken a break from the backslapping going on at the diner and drove Junior Junior’s truck to the local supermarket to stock up on supplies not available in bulk from the wholesalers. Usually Flo took care of this chore, but that day I used it as an excuse to get away. The number of local issues I’d allowed myself to get involved with expanded weekly. The fact that more than a few locals now depended upon me for ideas to save their economic lives weighed heavier upon my normally weak sense of civic responsibility each day. These people did not drift around like me— they were dug in. Practically everything they owned, knew about, cared for, or dreamed of stood to be lost. The big ideas I tossed out so casually meant something in Jonesboro. If the plant disappeared into the giant corporate off-shoring vortex presently consuming the country’s manufacturing jobs, all those nice people’s economic lives went along with it. They became castaways, forced to move from place to place looking for the decent jobs needed to be able to afford a home and raise a family. Visions of the ‘Okie’ migration of the 1930’s came to mind.
Exiting the market pushing a shopping cart loaded with supplies, I decided I needed some air. I loaded the bags in the truck cab and headed out of town. I doubt my sudden idea to drive around the surrounding countryside, airing out my brain, would have appealed to me if a couple days of unseasonably pleasant weather had not descended upon our area of the state. I cared little about which way I headed, as it didn’t matter at the time. I simply wanted some fresh air to have a chance to blow through the few hairs on the top of my head. After half a dozen miles, I found myself headed for my most very special roadside rest area. Are karmic forces at work here? This thinking lasted until I reminded myself that we, meaning my usually dominant right brain with, hopefully, only minimal help from its sometimes very scary and eclectically inclined left brain relative, officially did not believe in all that eastern religion stuff. Nevertheless, the idea of spending a few minutes meditating atop my favorite roadside picnic table appealed to me. So far, mostly positive things came from my earlier visits. Maybe my luck would hold up and I would enjoy one of those epiphanies where people who sit quietly for hours, legs crossed, breathing deeply, being at one with the universe, or at least with that corner of the basement where their spoiled rotten kids had a hard time finding them, dreamed about.
As usual, the rest area was empty. I felt relieved, although I determined earlier that the general dearth of traffic in the area practically guaranteed it being vacant of humans. I allowed the truck to slowly glide to a stop a few feet from the weatherworn, yet still sturdy picnic table. Whatever conflicting thoughts banged around in my brain would now surely be put into some semblance of order. Optimism prevailed as I exited the truck to assume my usual position sitting atop the lone table. A familiar view, absent the oceans of wheat, greeted me. I breathed in the fresh air to clear my mind of all the turmoil hoping somewhere deep within my cranium, hiding out amidst the reportedly millions and possibly billions of brain cells standing by to provide guidance, I located those elusive cells possessing the key to my finding some much desired peace of mind. Then, after having been infused with a modicum of sanity, I expected to jump down off the roadside table and start running for my life as fast as possible into the next county and beyond. Never mind Junior Junior’s old truck. It would either be found and returned or at least hauled off to the scrap yard where it belonged. I would be free again! Free to head back to the Texas coast with no more responsibility for the lives of people I barely knew whose faces, unfortunately, had affected a change in the neuronal synapses of my brain. I didn’t want that because if there are changes in the neural connections, there are memories. And if there are memories, there existed the possibility for concern or, more importantly, guilt. I had experienced enough guilt in my life. I kept a mile long mental list of things I’d screwed up, so I sure didn’t need more.
A full thirty minutes later I halted the imagined team of nearly exhausted draft animals toiling so mightily to pull the heavily loaded self pity wagon around inside the vast waste land sometimes referred to as my brain. I’d waited too long. I realized that I actually cared for some of the local citizens I’d gotten to know. Better that I’d left early on if I had wanted to leave. I also realized that even if I didn’t care a lick about the people, I absolutely loathed the scumbag corporate elitist and dirty politicians screwing the local people out of what little they still possessed. The only place I’m going is back to town, I thought as I vacated my spot on the sturdy roadside table. I expected that someday soon I would leave this place, but not yet. Some good people needed help.
Making my way from the, by now, friendly environs of my favorite rest area to the truck, I inherently knew this would not be my last visit. For some reason, my mind seemed to work better sitting atop a lonely roadside picnic table. Perhaps this was one of those places where different dimensions of existence, or reality, overlapped. I had read something earlier about various scientists promoting the idea of the existence of parallel universes— places that existed as mirror images of this universe. Wow! Does that mean I’ve been screwing up mine and other people’s lives in other places as well? I dismissed this unpleasant thought as I hit the ignition switch of Junior Junior’s eight-cylinder engine bringing the six or seven cylinders still working to life. Time for me to get back to tending to some of those many irons I had in the fire.
No sooner did I start backing the truck away from the bench to allow room for turning around and heading back to town, then the sight of another vehicle pulling along side jolted me to my senses. I had not checked the rear view mirror before putting the truck in gear. I felt lucky not to have caused a wreck. That lucky feeling left abruptly when I recognized the vehicle beside me belonged to Sheriff Slaybaugh. His original words of warning, spoken at this very place, came rushing to the forefront of my brain. “It goes without saying I don’t expect to ever see you back in my county again.” Like the famous New York Yankee baseball player and philosopher, Yogi Berra, once said, it was “déjà vu all over again.”
I resolved to accept my fate by putting the truck into park and turning off the engine. If someone made a move, I determined I would not be me.
“Afternoon, Will. Somebody told me I might find you out this way,” said the Sheriff as he exited his cruiser and walked around to the driver’s side of the truck.
“Afternoon, Sheriff, fancy seeing you way out here.” I immediately rued having uttered this flippant sounding remark.
“I figured I might find you here. A couple of folks in town mentioned they saw you heading out this way. Seems you are becoming something of a local celebrity. Lots of folks are paying attention to what you’re doing.” By the time the Sheriff finished speaking he stood right beside my truck’s driver side window.
“I’ve become more aware of that myself, Sheriff.” There existed no reason, as far as I could determine, for me to deny that fact.
The Sheriff hesitated as if uncertain about what to do or say. “Yeah, well …actually, I just wanted to come by and tell you a lot of folks in this county are very appreciative of your efforts to help out, …and I’m one of them. It’s sure gettin’ to look like my first impression of you was wrong. I wanted you to know that, Will. That’s all. Hope I didn’t frighten you by showin’ up here unexpected like I did.”
My eyeballs must have looked as if they were ready to pop out of my eye sockets. Talk about being shocked. Wow! Maybe a
ll this community mindedness had an upside to it after all.
“I appreciate your saying that, Sheriff,” I responded knowing relief must have been apparent in my voice. “I’ll do what I can to help, although, I sure can’t guarantee anything. Times are rough, and I expect it’s going to get even rougher in the future anyway it goes. But hopefully, if we can keep some jobs here, it will help out some.”
The Sheriff smiled, “I’ve also been hearing things about your being something of a deep thinker, Will. I’m looking forward to the coming debate, although, I personally never felt Cecil Wonkers was all that knowledgeable when it came to anything other than tellin’ folks how he was sure Jesus must have been a Republican. Plus, I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that crazy hippie lady giving Cecil a regular old butt kicking!”
I actually laughed at the Sheriff’s humorous take on the upcoming debate. This whole unplanned event looked to be turning out as something of a blessing. I felt much better now than I did when I first arrived at the roadside stop. Partly because of my subsequent decision not to cut and run, but also for the Sheriff having the decency to come by and raise my flagging spirits by simply expressing his personal gratitude for my efforts to help his fellow Jones County citizens.
“Oh by the way, Will,” said the Sheriff just as he prepared to return to his cruiser, “I been picking up on some chatter about Big Bob Buford not being too pleased with your presence in the community. I want you to let me know if the man gives you any cause for concern, in any way. Will you remember to do that for me, Will?”
This is freaking great! The Sheriff, by his tone of voice, obviously did not have any warm and fuzzy feelings for the Bufords either. As we got deeper and deeper into all the potential legal issues surrounding the Bufords’ activities, it helped to know the chief law enforcement officer in the county backed you. When I returned to my apartment I intended to put a big red mark around today’s date on the calendar to signify a red-letter day.
“I’ll sure do that, Sheriff, and thanks for stopping by. I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure, Will,” responded the Sheriff with a nod before he turned to get back in his cruiser and drive away.
I drove halfway to town before realizing I was singing to myself. That surprised me, as I don’t sing. I can’t sing. Not a lick. So what the heck has gotten into you all of a sudden? All I did was take a ride out in the country, and the Sheriff came by and told me I no longer resided on his crap list. Was I that impressionable? I wondered. Had I become merely another one of those millions of laboring trolls groveling at the feet of the Boss Man? More importantly, why was I singing a song recorded by a now defunct British rock group complaining incessantly about having had a ‘Hard Day’s Night and I’ve Been Working Like a Dog?’ I never worked nights. And I’ve never worked like a dog either. Rather, I preferred to describe my work habits as more resembling those of a narrow-minded badger. Badgers are well known for their tenacity, and I kind of liked thinking of myself as being tenacious. But on the downside, badgers were also closely related to skunks. I didn’t like that part so much.
In typical fashion, I reveled in my recent good fortune for the time it took to get back to town. When I pulled out of the rest stop I soared with the eagles, but by the time I passed the sign telling strangers Jonesboro lay a mere five miles ahead, I sank back into the unresolved Buford mess. I still hadn’t heard back from UB2. The issue with the plant deserved a person’s concern and consideration, yet no one affected by it followed me around giving me the old evil eye. No doubt if I, we, failed, people would be upset, but I expect few of them would subsequently hope to see me get run over by a cattle truck. But again, by the looks I kept getting from Big Bob lately, I might do well to be on the look out for a fleet of cattle trucks coming my way. I made up my mind to try my best not to antagonize the guy any further. The man may very well be destined for some bad times ahead if only a few of all the potential charges stick. From what I witnessed and heard, all the guy had going for himself intellectually amounted to his years of experience with the town’s water and sewage department which taught him that crap, and water, flow down hill— not exactly the résumé of a scholar. I thought it not too far fetched to wonder if the man might not rustle up his gang and try to bushwhack me somewhere.
The diner sign appeared as a welcomed sight as I approached the city limits. Flo and Mary June probably wondered where I went since I’d been away for more than an hour and a half. If I delayed Flo from a hair appointment, I expected to be welcomed back with her trademark dagger look. It didn’t work that well on me, but many of the patrons acted as if they’d rather have a fingernail ripped off than find themselves in Flo’s cross hairs.
Sure enough, Flo stood waiting for me— glare and all. She never said a word, but she never took her eyes off me the whole time she gathered up her personal things to leave. Even after she exited through the front door and headed for her car, her steely gaze was cast in my general direction.
“I think she had a hair appointment,” said Mary June gathering her personal things in preparation for departure. “I don’t think she’s really mad though. I expect she’s just trying to protect her image, if you know what I mean.”
I turned to face Mary June feeling more than a little relieved to see the smile I’d become accustomed to seeing.
“Then why is she writing vulgar graffiti on Junior Junior’s truck window again?” I asked Mary June who by this time also became aware of her error in judgment.
“I think she does it because she likes you so much. She usually reserves graffiti for special people,” she commented still smiling.
I smiled back and walked over to the front windows to get a closer look at the newest graffiti to show up on Junior Junior’s windshield. Moments later, I turned back around to Mary June and asked her a simple question. “Butt wipe? Butt wipe, written on a windshield for all to see is an expression of fondness?”
Mary June never wavered. “Of course it is. You don’t see any four-letter words do you? If she didn’t like you she would use only four letter words. These are merely different words for expressing her love and admiration.”
I looked back towards the windshield. “One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four,” I counted. “Ah, excuse me, but I believe those are four letter words.”
Mary June frowned. “Okay, technically they are, but they are not the four letter words. Are they?”
“I see. Then what phrases might I expect when she does get mad at me?”
“You know, I really don’t think we want to go there. Even my own barely surviving sensitivity receptors recoil at the thought.”
I’d appreciated her humorous assessment of the situation. She knew I did not get bothered by much of anything Flo did. Flo was one of a small number of people in town who, in the language of the younger generation, had my back. Whatever happened I had little doubt whose side Flo supported. Actually, my small support group was growing. There was Flo; the Mayor; Preacher Roy, for sure; Sheriff Slaybaugh starting today; hopefully, Mary June; plus a couple more who might turn out to be candidates.
“You’re right,” I responded. “What about you? Is your schedule as full as Flo’s?” I’m not sure why I asked the question since it was certainly none of my business. I think I kind of surprised her because she took a moment before answering.
“No, I’d planned to take mom with me to the store to get supplies for making more pies. She really needs to get out more. The older she gets, the more afraid she becomes, and she’s becoming more forgetful. I’m just glad to be able to help her live in her own home during this later part of her life. I never figured I would end up back here doing what I am, but, in many ways, I’m beginning to be grateful for the opportunity. It’s easy to get lost in all the big city turmoil, don’t you think?”
I hadn’t been expecting to be quizzed on my geographical living preferences. “You know,” I responded with noticeable hesitation, “I fully expect I can find or create turmoil
wherever I am. That seems to be the case lately. My actual home is an aging RV with a broken air conditioner located at the cheapest RV park on the south Texas coast. I doubt that our very dissimilar living arrangements are comparable in any meaningful way.”
“Wow, you live on the Texas coast without air conditioning? I visited there once in the summer, and I almost died of a heatstroke. Maybe that’s the reason? Well, I got to get going. You know where to find me if anything comes up. See you tomorrow.” With that, she headed for the door.
I stood motionless, pondering what she meant by the ‘Maybe that’s the reason?’ remark. The reason for what? “Hey! What do you mean, ‘Maybe that’s the reason?’” I yelled after her. But my inquiry arrived too late. The door had closed behind her.
This is not fair. You can’t just walk away from borderline paranoid delusional types and leave such statements hanging.
Alone again, I took a quick inventory of my list of daily chores and realized many still required my attention before leaving for the day. This time, I locked the front door before I headed back to the kitchen. I’d learned enough by now to know that, most often, nothing good came through the front door during the late afternoons. If I did happen to hear someone pounding on the door, I could peek out the kitchen door window to see if the caller was anyone I wanted to talk to. I certainly did not need for another local do-gooder to show up with another civic problem for me to solve.
I looked at my watch to determine the day of the week. Really? You have to look at a watch to find out the time, and the day? Are the brain cells bailing out that fast? Glancing one last time at the vacant lot in front of the diner, I headed for the kitchen. Only one individual was on record as intending to contact me— UB2 had mentioned mid-week and this was only Tuesday. I suddenly liked my chances of being left alone for the rest of the day. As for tomorrow though, I knew I best count on even more sphincter tightening opportunities being presented.
Chapter Twenty-Two
