Streams Of Yesterday

by W.H. Harrod

The next morning I watched the text scrolling along the bottom of my small television screen, and I could hardly believe my thoughts. This thing might actually go down. I felt surprised that I even entertained such a idea. But this is the United States of America, the most powerful nation in the history of the world, I countered defiantly, refusing to give credence to my fears.

  No matter what morning news channel I flipped to, they all reported the same thing. Many of the largest financial companies in the country, as well as the world, were failing and several large banks had folded or had been absorbed by surviving institutions. Only days before Fanny Mae and Freddy Mac, the two largest insurers of home mortgages in the country, were taken over by the federal government in a desperate move to salvage a dying home mortgage insurance industry. All this happened because a bunch of Wall Street swindlers figured out a way to get nearly every financial institution in the country to lend money to broke people with no jobs and absent the credit histories supporting any ability or proclivity to repay such ill-advised loans. Essentially, if you had a heartbeat and could make an “X” on a loan document, you got a home loan. Even more ridiculous, all that toxic crap immediately got bundled into various exotic investment vehicles, assigned a top rating, and sold to the public through brokers or retirement fund managers along with any other scam that could be utilized to get this swindle into the hands or portfolios of maybe the most gullible humans on the planet. I’d personally decided, based upon a cursory examination some years before that my personal financial well being was of no particular concern to the Wall Street hawkers of investment vehicles catering to the narrow-minded adherents of free market capitalism. As an individual stockholder, I realized I sat at the bottom of the pile. No matter what, everyone else got paid or bailed out before me. Basically, I existed as nothing but an unsecured creditor. The only way for me to make any money was to try to time the market and sell my stock somewhere close to its peak during one of the mostly contrived economic upswings, thereby incurring a significant tax liability, or choose to employ one of the various tax deferred retirement vehicles that kept a person’s savings perennially exposed to the marauding market swindlers posing as fund managers.

  The DOW fell like a rock. It had lost almost three thousand points over the last few months. There was no telling how low it would go. I suddenly thought about how all this might affect the ESOP deal at the plant over in Justice City. Damn! This could get real bad. No sooner did this previously unthinkable idea crossed my mine than one of the talking heads overpopulating the cable news industry glibly announced the Federal Reserve had requested Congress pass a seven hundred billion dollar bailout to ensure the survival of the country’s largest financial institutions.

  I had to laugh at the balls these financial swindlers displayed. Having been exposed as liars, incompetents, and outright swindlers, they were back asking for more. They claimed that if their scurrilous institutions weren’t saved, the whole country risked going down with them. These guys had giant-sized testicles. Practically every word out of their mouths now underlined the stupidity of the investors as well as the taxpaying public. Though almost ninety percent of all stocks in this country were controlled by a mere ten percent of the population, it would be up to the unwashed masses, the owners of the ten percent of all securities, along with regular taxpaying, non-stock owning wage earners to bail these arrogant ass holes out. And my money said, the crooks would pull it off.

  My thoughts were abruptly drawn away from the circus I’d been watching and chuckling about on the television to the loud rapping on my apartment door. I hurried to see who was in such immediate need of my attention only to find an obviously perturbed Flo outside my door.

  Before I had time to say a word, she started right in, “Will, you got to get your rear end over to the diner real quick. We got a big crowd this morning, and as much as Junior Junior is trying to help, the poor man is well-past his pay grade when it comes to handling a crowd that’s getting more unruly by the minute!”

  Not waiting for a reply, Flo turned and headed back down the stairs. I looked out over the crowded parking lot and quickly noticed that more vehicles were present than usual. Why the increase in business this morning? I asked myself as I turned to go back inside to switch off the coffee pot along with the television so I could go over to the diner before Flo came back with a skillet to further press her point.

  The first person to spot me as I walked through the front door was Junior Junior. The immediate look of relief on his face said it all. All the tables were full with many customers having to set aside the dishes left by earlier diners. Also, the food bar looked to be running short of several items. I nodded to Junior Junior and went to ask Flo where she needed help first. She told me clearing the tables and dealing with the huge piles of pots, pans, and dishes in the back would be a good start, so that’s what I did. Not for an hour after I’d gotten all the tables cleared and the dirty dishes to the back, did I bother to look up from the dirtiest water I’d ever seen in the diner’s sinks. Taking inventory of my immediate area as well as the activity in the dining room, I realized we were making headway. I took a peek out front and saw that the diner still looked almost full, but that the pace had slowed appreciably. The food bar was restocked with the last pans of sausages, biscuits, scrambled eggs, and cinnamon rolls. If we were lucky, we might just make it. Flo, Mary June, and even Junior Junior looked to be moving at a more normal pace.

  Upon further examination of the dining area, I noticed Junior Junior actually going among the tables chatting with some of the customers while he refilled their cups. Most of the individuals he chatted with seemed to be too amazed to join Junior Junior in the usual diner banter and merely smiled and grunted unintelligible replies. This didn’t seem to bother Junior Junior. He happily plodded along filling up one customer’s cup after another

  I suppose I had to admit that the geezers seemed to be the least impressed by the appearance of Junior Junior’s suddenly outgoing personality. Upon further thought, I also had to admit they in no way constituted any significant part of the city of Jonesboro’s brain trust. Possibly, they may have simply thought Junior Junior had experienced a bad day that had lasted the last five years. The one thing that stood out to me the most was the presence of the plant superintendent, Jack Fletcher, along with a couple of the guys that I knew to be part of his advisory committee. I instantly recalled my thoughts of earlier that morning when I pondered the possibility of the financial industry upheaval having a negative impact on the ESOP.

  Having made eye contact with the group, I made my way to their table. “Morning gentlemen, we don’t usually get to enjoy your company so late in the morning. Everything going well at the plant, I hope?” As the words came out of my mouth, I regretted mouthing the outright invite to bring me into another problem.

  “Matter of fact, they’re not, Will. Got a minute?” answered the plant superintendent.

  I knew the three men must have taken notice of the disappointment expressed in my now dour countenance. “Yeah. Sure. I’ve got a few minutes before Flo comes over and hits me with a skillet. What’s going on?” I responded.

  As usual, the two younger men deferred to their elder. “Some issues have come up of late, Will,” responded the plant superintendent. “Sorry for butting in unannounced this morning, but we decided we’d like to get your take on a couple of things that are going on.”

  I expect my surprise at his abbreviated response must have been obvious. “Going on where, in the economy, the stock market, at the plant, with the ESOP deal, in Jonesboro, in the world?”

  “I suppose all of those, Will, but I expect we should start with the economy. As you are aware, the stock market is taking a beating. That means our 401k’s are now worth less. Work is also starting to slow down at the plant due to the lack of new dealer orders for inventory. Seems everyone is scared, and they are cutting back. We’re beginning to wonder if this deal with the ESOP is still the right thing to do. We’d like to know
what you think?” The two younger men nodded their agreement.

  I couldn’t help but tell myself that this amounted to a pretty tall order for a guy emerging from washing pots and pans for two hours still wearing the same dirty apron tied around his waist to respond to. I realized I needed to choose my words with caution. These guys risked a large part of their life savings on the ESOP deal. It was no time to be flippant. I needed to either think long and hard about my answers or keep my mouth shut.

  I decided I had to be completely forthright with them. “Guys, if I could answer that question it would make me one of the smartest men in the world. Right at this moment, the absolute ‘best and brightest’ on Wall Street are scrambling to cover their own asses. These are insiders, mind you. So it stands to reason that if these guys can’t figure it out, the rest of us are screwed! These same best and brightest are right at this moment attempting to force the citizens of this country to bail them out, and I expect they are trying to jump ship themselves. But to give you my completely unprofessional opinion, we may be getting close to the point where it’s each man for himself. I assure you that right at this moment every broker and wealthy investor in the country is trying to cut their losses and head for the hills until this market finds a bottom. So that begs the question, do you guys want to hold your current positions in your 401k’s? Should you move it to cash and wait until the market bottoms out? Or, and this is a big or, do you exchange whatever value you presently retain in your 401k’s for ownership in a manufacturing plant? I don’t know the answer to that question, and as I said, the people who are supposed to are right at this moment running for high ground with your bail out tax dollars.”

  I could see my response gave them no relief at all. Still, there were no simple answers to this growing travesty of justice. These guys still had options, maybe not the ones they wanted, but they had options. I knew from experience that whoever stood up and said “Trust me, I know what to do,” was going to end up the bad guy. These men were frightened, and they were looking for assurances, but I had none. The facts were that until now the prospect of swapping their 401k’s for ownership in their own jobs made sense. Now it may not, especially if the reason sales were falling off was due to the recession the country looked to be sliding into or due to more foreign competition that had already decimated much of the country’s manufacturing landscape.

  “We don’t know what to do, Will. Help us. Please,” was the reply from one of the two younger men, the fear in his voice obvious. I realized my admonishment to suck it up and make a decision based on the options I’d just presented had fallen upon deaf ears. These guys were not financial managers. Their skills dealt with assembling machinery and farming, and no doubt they were good at both, but to glibly tell them to make decisions relating to assuming ownership of a multi-million manufacturing plant was silly.

  I urged myself to keep my mouth shut and not to get in any deeper. This was not my problem. Hell, I was obviously going to be out of a prime dishwashing and floor moping job myself in short order.

  “Tell us what you think, Will, please,” came the plea from the plant superintendent.

  I had a bad feeling about this. I knew if this turned out bad, I would be the one to get the blame. Still, a part of me had a hard time walking away. My deep down, blue collar up bringing pulled hard on my conscience, and I could feel my resolve beginning to weaken.

  “Okay, here’s what I think you should do, if you still have any interest in taking over ownership of the plant. First, move your 401k funds to cash, today if you haven’t done that already. Secondly, make every effort to find out the real reason for the fall off in plant orders. Make the plant owner provide documented support in the form of sale orders supporting the plant’s continued viability. Actually, this should already have been done. Next, talk to the dealers personally and ask them what they are expecting in the way of business in the near as well as in the distant future. And if necessary, tell the plant owner you are going to need an extension on the closing date, especially if the information is not forthcoming immediately. Do this today. Any questions?” There weren’t, and the three of them hastily headed for the door.

  Looking around the diner to ascertain my next move, I observed things now moving more smoothly. Flo even wore something resembling a smile on her face as she inspected her tip jar that looked to be filled with greenbacks. I then, out of habit, searched the room for Mary June and spotted her cleaning up around the food bar. Her dour countenance told me she was of the same surely disposition as the previous afternoon. Junior Junior, to my astonishment, stood behind the register carrying on polite conversation with a couple of departing customers that acted as if they were talking to a man arisen from the grave. Having received a nod of approval from Flo, I decided to make my way over to the counter and have a word with him.

  “Morning, Will,” said Junior Junior as I neared the counter. If smiling and saying good morning to every customer turned out to be the deciding factor in whether Junior Junior could run a profitable diner, then he was going to be a successful man. Still, I intended to take a look at the past week’s reconciliation statements that afternoon after everyone had left for the day. Until then, I planned to help out wherever I could.

  For the most part, the rest of the day went as usual, except for a couple of mid-afternoon phone calls I received. The first one was from the plant owner asking me what the hell I was doing trying to screw up the employee buy out deal. The guy sounded in no mood to listen to my reasoning relating to the employees needing to perform some extra due diligence in light of certain troubling information, and he told me so. The second call was outright spooky. The caller did not provide his identify, but I’m almost sure it was Big Bob talking with a cloth over his mouth. The caller told me I had stuck my nose into something that was none of my business, and he intended to wait until things cooled down, and then someone would pay me a little visit. He did not elaborate further, but I assumed he was being facetious by using the term visit, also his tone of voice creeped me out. Talk about making friends and influencing people— I was on a roll. At the rate I was losing supporters, I figured after a few more days, the locals might go searching for tar and feathers. Carlton’s kind offer started to look like a good idea after all. If that didn’t work out, I still had my RV parked on the scorching hot Texas coast.

  What started out as a day with nothing much scheduled but the mysterious meeting with Jim Handley, the fellow Viet Nam vet, had suddenly gotten very busy. Considering how my day had progressed so far, I decided not to waste time anticipating our topic of discussion. I hadn’t come close to predicting any of the events that had risen so far that day. I decided to bide my time at the now deserted diner, and also, take a look at the week’s reconciliation sheets, along with the bank deposit slips. Surely, as simplified as the forms were now, even Junior Junior wouldn’t be able to screw them up.

  Boy was I wrong. It looked as if Junior Junior started out attempting to fill out the forms correctly and break down the receipts by category, as per the simple example forms I’d designed. But obviously, all the adding and subtracting and transposing numbers from the register tape to the reconciliation forms became too much for him. He had obviously become frustrated and went back to simply stuffing all the money, except enough to get started the following day, into deposit bags along with an estimation of the amount enclosed, and forgot about it. I found bags containing the three previous days’ receipts piled in a box below the front counter. I thought about it for a few minutes and then calmly put everything back as I found it. The man had somehow managed to survive for years before I came along, and I had neither the interest nor the heart to try to make him into something he did not want to be. If he wanted to pile his money under the counter, what business was that of mine?

  I looked at my watch and saw I still had an hour before my scheduled 5 p.m. appointment. I didn’t want to go back to my apartment, but there wasn’t anything for me to do at the diner. I could see my
time as a diner employee coming to an end, and that was okay with me especially since what I, at one time, considered to be a long shot option, relating to where I might settle down and get involved in life, continued falling apart by the numbers. I took a quick inventory of the things that weren’t going so well for me right then in Jonesboro. My friendship with Mary June, one of my staunchest supporters, was heading south at an accelerated pace. Next, all the work I’d put into turning the diner around looked to be for naught, and I soon expected to be out of a job. Someone, most likely Big Bob, left me a half-ass death threat because he knew or suspected I played a part in the investigation. In my latest attempt to help the plant employees, the plant owner put me at the very top of his excrement list. Preacher Roy wasn’t pleased with my performance at the debate where I’d loudly proclaimed his Boss had no plan to help us humans get out of the big mess we had gotten ourselves into. This made up an impressive list for a person residing in the community for less than three months. I took relief in knowing that nothing was left for me to get mixed up in or for anyone else to get mad at me over anything during the short time, I suspected, I would stay in Jonesboro.

  As I’d looked up, I observed Sheriff Slaybaugh’s cruiser pulling up to the diner front door. He’d remarked more than once of late how much he appreciated my coming forth to help the citizens of the county. Finally, a reason to expect some positive feedback, I told myself as he’d exited the cruiser and headed for the front door.

  “Afternoon, Sheriff,” I called out before he’d completed his passage through the front entrance.

  “Afternoon, Will,” came the quick reply.

  “Got time for some coffee? I got a fresh pot,” I told him.

  “I’d appreciate that, a fresh cup sounds good. I’d also request a few minutes of you’re time, if you would permit it?” came the reply from the Sheriff as he removed his Stetson and commenced to wipe his brow with an oversized handkerchief.

  “Sure thing,” I replied as I hurried to get clean cups, along with the pot of hot coffee sitting atop the counter. I knew from the tone of his voice this was not a purely social visit. Something else had come up, and one thing I did not need right at the moment was something else.

  I soon joined the Sheriff at a table. “So, what’s new? Has someone I don’t know come forth with a new complaint regarding my activities of late?”

  The Sheriff smiled as he helped himself to the coffee. He kept smiling while he doctored up his fresh brew from the carton of cream I’d also delivered to the table. I’d learned early on that the Sheriff preferred real cream.

  “Will, how are things going for you lately? I’ve heard Junior Junior is back and has jumped in to help out. Are things still going well at the diner?” The Sheriff took a long sip of his coffee as he finished his two-part question.

  This was looking bad. The Sheriff did not skirt an issue, so his actions told me something came up. “You may as well lay it on the table, Sheriff. I can sense something has come up relating to my presence here.”

  The Sheriff took another long sip from his cup and then set it down. “You’re right, Will. I’ll get to the issues.”

  Issues? With everything going on, we now have more issues? I must have been walking around in my sleep because I had no inkling as to what else I might have done to upset the community.

  “Will…have you heard about the new Evangelical Church located over in Justice City?” asked the Sheriff, before calmly taking a sip of his coffee.

  “Yes, I have. Preacher Roy has mentioned it from time to time. I don’t think he is all that impressed with their overall message or their inclination to pass judgment on people so off-handedly.”

  “Them’s the ones,” replied the Sheriff. “And they surely do use up a lot of time and energy letting everyone know what they think about folks’ personal thoughts and actions. I sometimes am amazed how certain people can completely do away with the many shades of gray and view life in purely black and white terms.”

  This particular comment caught me by surprise. I’d never suspected the Sheriff of possessing anything other than a no-nonsense, purely linear mindset. It never occurred to me he knew “shades of gray” existed. I said nothing, hoping not to delay his revealing the new bad news to me.

  Not receiving a reply to his previous personal observation relating to generally depressing colors, Sheriff Slaybaugh continued, “Will, it looks as if this particular church group has learned of your recent comments at the debate where you said something to the effect that people came to this country to be free of religious persecution as well as from religious fanatics and that we were being distracted by all this talk of value issues and finding our way back to the promised land. Do those phrases ring a bell with you?”

  All the while the Sheriff was telling me the source of the problem, I unconsciously started to massage my temples as if that would make this newest headache go away.

  “Yes, I remember,” I answered while massaging my aching head. “You know, quite frankly these nuts are starting to take on all the irritating qualities of a bad case of hemorrhoids. There must be a lotion or salve out there somewhere that will make them disappear, don’t you think?”

  The Sheriff laughed at my observation before he answered, “I think I’ll just hold my opinions on this subject to myself since I’ve got to live here amongst them. If learning that they think so poorly of your ideas is bothering you, you’re really going to appreciate it when I tell you they are trying to get a permit to hold a protest march in front of Junior Junior’s diner this weekend, probably Saturday morning.”

  Okay, where’s that list of people who I recently determined are mad at me? I need to add about five hundred more people to it.

  “As I understand it,” continued the Sheriff, “one of their representatives is trying to locate the Mayor to get permission to march in the streets as we speak. But I understand the Mayor is holed up at his barn with his dogs and a shotgun, so that might become a problem for them. I’ll try to keep you up-to-date as I find out more about what’s happening. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Lots of folks around here aren’t that fond of their particularly aggressive form of religion anyway. I know for a fact, Preacher Roy isn’t very fond of them.”

  Listening to the Sheriff go on with more details relating to this bunch of dimwits’ shenanigans made my head hurt even worse. More and more, the prospect of finding a need to absent myself form this community’s petty affairs appealed to me. I wasn’t usually a person to feel sorry for myself, but I was beginning to get the feeling of being put upon. If one more thing—

  “Oh! And one more thing,” said the Sheriff. “I’ve brought along with me the most recent edition of the Justice City weekly paper. You might be interested in an article included in this week’s edition. One of their reporters did some checking on your background down in Texas and has come up with information that claims you are registered to vote there as an Independent. The story goes on to say that if that is the case, then why did you falsely represent yourself as a Democrat at the recent debate? I personally don’t care one way or another, Will, as I think I have a pretty good handle on your personal character, but you might be prepared for some back lash from some of the other locals, if you know what I mean. Well, I’ve got to be moving along. Thanks for the coffee, Will.”

  I sat there speechless. I had somehow, very stupidly, opened myself up to serious amounts of flack from religious zealots as well as political partisans from both parties. I was doomed. I just hoped there wasn’t a handy supply of tar and feathers around somewhere. And worst of all, Mary June! If she was mad already, she would be belching fire soon. So what’s it going to be— fight or flight?

  As I looked up I caught a last glimpse of the Sheriff exiting the unlocked front door. In a near panic, I headed in that direction to secure the premises until I could figure out a plan. I needed time to think. But that was not going to happen, because right as the Sheriff started backing out my Viet Nam vet friend pull
ed in for our appointment. Considering the new complications recently tossed into the middle of my ridiculously screwed up life, I’m sure I would have dived under the counter to avoid our scheduled meeting, but eye contact had been made, and I was stuck. I came near to praying that the man heading for the diner entrance did not carry with him another impossible problem for me to deal with. I felt the perspiration beginning to drip from my forehead. At times like this, I lamented not having an irrational belief in an ethereal entity like so many others did. An infusion of their delusional bliss at this moment might help. Instead, I simply stood there like a sacrificial lamb awaiting my next visitor’s plea for me to jeopardize both my mental and physical well being for the sake of the team, that for the life of me, I could not remember having joined.

  “Afternoon, Will,” came the greeting from the next supplicant who most likely intended to request nothing much of me excepting maybe what little was left of my life and sanity.

  “Afternoon Jim,” I replied half-heartedly. At the same time I spoke those words, my addled brain fought off a recurring vision of me striding along side Dante in the Divine Comedy as he neared the gates of hell. I saw myself looking up to read the inscription carved above the entrance, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” But it was too late for me because I already stood inside. My journey through the nine circles of suffering was well under way. Only here in Kansas, they called it Jonesboro.

  My newest visitor and I stood facing one another for a time before I finally regained my wits and suggested we take a seat at the nearest table. Once seated, I watched Jim busy himself checking out the entire diner interior.

  “Are we alone?” he asked after finishing his inspection.

  “Yes, we are,” I responded.

  “Good, because what I’ve got to say to you can’t go beyond the two people in this room, okay?” added the speaker.

  Here it comes. One more screwed up story about some rural idiot who shot out all the street lights when they were fifteen or who painted the ‘F’ word on the water tower thirty years ago or maybe it was really something evil like—

  “I was the one who stole Barley’s hub caps,” he blurted out.

  I’m sure my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. This didn’t make sense. This guy was an old man, and old men don’t steal hubcaps off of police cars. The evil deed had occurred several years ago, and even if one stretched several to mean, say ten years ago, that meant one of the few local citizens whom I’d not yet categorized as at least partially wacko, stole hub caps as a senior citizen. I really got to get the hell out of this place, and quick.

  “And why do you feel the need to tell me about this?” I calmly inquired.

  “Because my conscience is starting to bother me something awful, and I want to give them back,” he informed me in a pleading voice.

  I didn’t want to seem rude, but I felt more mentally exhausted by the second. “Then go ahead and give them back,” I responded, stating the obvious.

  “I can’t. If I do that, I can’t run for city office next term like my wife says I should. So you see, I need some help getting them back to him without the Chief finding out who did it.”

  If I ever got out of Jonesboro alive, I determined would write a book about my experiences in la la land. People couldn’t make up stuff like this. I would call it “Jonesboro Place” or “Confederacy of Dunces in Jonesboro” or better yet “Gone with the Jonesboro.” I saw a Pulitzer Prize on the horizon.

  I decided to make one more attempt to help the man. “Well, have you considered simply putting them in a box and sitting the box on his porch some night or maybe even mailing them to him without a return address?”

  “Won’t work! Barley’s got both the station and his house covered with cameras since the watermelon incident happened a few years ago. And the Postmaster has a memory like a computer. He knows who mailed every package for the last five years.”

  “What do you mean watermelon incident?” I asked somewhat meekly.

  “I mean I had nothing to do with it, and I have an iron clad alibi saying I was out of town fishing that weekend and, therefore, couldn’t possibly have been involved,” he countered.

  I could see my visitor becoming uncomfortable with my line of questioning. “Okay, two more questions, and then I’m done. First, why did you do it? Second, what is it you expect me to do?”

  “I did it,” he replied leaning closer, “because that ass hole gave me a ticket for running glass packs on my ‘65 GTO. And secondly, I want you to give them back for me.”

  “You mean, you want me to simply walk into his jail and tell him, ‘Here are your stolen hubcaps that I mysteriously found in a box sitting on a curb.’”

  “That’s right, that’s all you need to do,” replied my self-satisfied visitor.

  “But how am I supposed to know who the hub caps belong to?” I pleaded.

  “Oh, don’t worry! I’ll put a note in the box saying who they belong to,” answered my now confident conspirator.

  My head really started to hurt. “Then why didn’t you do that so I wouldn’t actually know who the real hub cap pilferer was?”

  Jim, the hubcap thief, sat for a moment pondering my last inquiry. “Oh crap. I should have done that, shouldn’t I? Well, too late for that now, isn’t it?”

  “So now,” I responded in a near pleading tone, “if I simply walk in there and refuse to divulge who I know to be the culprit, I become an accessory.”

  “Oh crap. You’re right! So what do we do now?” he begged.

  “We don’t do anything. You do whatever you choose, but leave me out of it.”

  “But I told you Will, I can’t run for city office with this skeleton hanging in my closet. I’ve got to purge myself of all those past indiscretions so I can proudly serve my community.”

  How could I argue with such solid reasoning? “Well then, what the hell! Sure, I’ll drop’em off on my way out of town.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two