by W.H. Harrod
I looked at my watch and saw four minutes had passed since the last time I checked. I’m not sure why I felt so nervous. Everything was proceeding as planned, meaning the Sheriff would pick me up and give me a ride out of town before the evangelicals arrived to do their righteous picketing chores later in the day, which I fully expected to be the last Saturday I ever spent in Jonesboro, Kansas.
The Sheriff, upon hearing me announce my plan to depart Saturday morning, graciously volunteered to pick me up at 9 a.m. to help me get on my way. So I cared less if the holier than thou picketers came to the diner and picketed all day long. My tour of duty in Jonesboro neared completion and, given the present circumstances, I felt a sense of relief. Where only recently I’d been showered with cookies by practically every mother and wife in town and thanked profusely for rescuing the diner, as well as revered for saving local jobs at the Justice City plant, I was now looked upon by some of the same people as a trouble making outsider. Things went pretty much all to hell following the debate debacle. I expected that when the picketers found out I’d left town, they would probably join with some of the other town folk and turn it into a celebratory parade. As much as I’d tried to convince myself this amounted to nothing more than a big mistake, and in actuality, I was the one who’d been wronged after trying so hard to help the residents of the community. Somewhere deep inside a little voice told me I’d screwed up again, as usual.
The plant owner had called back one last time to inform me he intended to consult with his attorneys to see about suing me for causing the deal to fail. He did somewhat back off his threat when I let him know I’d been informed about the unprecedented drop in dealer orders which he hadn’t revealed to the employees until I pressed them to investigate the matter further. The earlier mild uproar among the non-evangelicals regarding my performance at the debate looked to be gaining steam. While many of the locals such as the mostly addle pated geezers moved on with their lives fearing their brains might explode from having to deal with so much new information conflicting with their long established nonsensical right wing dogma, others had not.
Mary June became even angrier after hearing the news I wasn’t a Democrat. I tried to explain my side of the story by reminding her of my earlier strong opposition to my forced participation in the debate in the first place. But in the end, she was right. I had perpetuated my original lie to Preacher Roy first told on that fateful night during the ride back to the city from the roadside stop. From reports I received later regarding our rather loud meeting that took place Friday afternoon in the diner kitchen, citizens of the community now knew whom to turn to if they ever needed a backup if the town’s tornado warning siren ever needed repair. I had no idea the woman could yell so loud. And from what I surmised, what bothered her most was my inference that she, in some ways, came off as partisan as the nuts on the right. She did not appreciate my position that essentially both parties mostly busied themselves by hotly debating the so-called social value issues, while the real players from corporate America carried away the store. Mostly, she regretted my callously casting aside what she thought of as our special friendship. In the end, I gave up and admitted defeat. Just one more Christmas card I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about not sending.
Preacher Roy also disappeared after the debate. I guess this surprised me the most. Sure, he held strong religious convictions, but he’d always come across as a fair-minded individual to me. But then again, I reminded myself, the man did bludgeon me with a hard roll of sausage a few months back. But still, his absence surprised me, and I felt sad he had not come by the diner to say goodbye.
Junior Junior, meanwhile, thanked me again for turning the business around and assured me he would, henceforth, carry on in a more professional manner. All the while I listened I couldn’t help but notice bank deposit bags containing the previous days receipts piling up beneath the counter. Maybe the diner would survive his natural business incompetence, or maybe not. The world would not be any worse off if the diner went back to its old way of operation. Meaning everyone either avoided the place altogether or got back into the habit of griping to anyone willing to listen to their complaints about the bad food and service. That’s what I expected to happen if the two ladies left. But I doubted it would be a complete failure since Junior Junior, no longer the silent recluse, now jabbered away like a parrot. People, although still amazed at the transformation, remarked that they wished he’d go back to being quiet again. They now claimed the guy talked not only an ear off but also a leg. Even the geezers started commenting on his verbosity. It kind of made me feel good knowing someone else would continue raising their hackles once I disappeared. On a personal level, I expected to miss the easy opportunities the geezers presented me to smack down the incessant right wing neo-con horse crap they religiously toted from their home radios and televisions to the diner on a daily basis.
After checking my watch one more time and seeing that my ride would be arriving momentarily, I checked to make sure the few items of clothing and personal articles I owned were safely stored away in my new backpack I’d picked up at the volume discount store over in Justice City some weeks earlier not knowing at the time I would be making use of it so soon. I’m sure a slave laborer in some Asian backwater shithole made it, but what the hell. If things continued to disintegrate in this country, employers might soon be paying similar wages to the locals, allowing us to once again compete on an international level. Of course, that entailed the disappearance of ninety percent of our middle class and our standard of living descending to an unheard of level in the western world. But to the proponents of unfettered free market capitalism, it was merely part of the natural progression in the organization of all the necessary components of commerce. It represented corporate America’s version of Darwin’s “Origin of the Species,” which postulated that evolution must be defined as the survival of the fittest. Now don’t get off on some rant because you’ve got enough other stuff on your plate right now.
Flo, sure enough, did not disappoint me by going soft about my leaving. She merely informed me it was nice working with me, and she felt real sorry that having gotten my man tool shot off in the war, I had missed the opportunity to enjoy the company of a real woman. If only the rest of the world spoke as straight forward, I felt it would be a much better place. I can deal with candor much easier than obfuscation. Just tell it like it is, and then let’s get on with it. Some hurt feelings all around, sure, but oh the joy of the welcomed sense of clarity.
So what is there left for me to do? I asked myself, gazing around the clean room. I always tried to leave a place at least as clean as I found it. To bad that only applied to real property and not relationships. Get over it. This is what you do. You hang around long enough to get most everyone out of joint from telling them how things really are, and then you leave. So what’s new? Just get over it.
As if on queue, I heard car tires rolling over the loose gravel down below. Taking a peak through the crack in the door, I confirmed it was my ride out of town. My chauffeur did not bother getting out of his cruiser to announce his presence, nor did I wait for him to. Taking a last look around the apartment to satisfy myself nothing belonging to me lay about, I walked out the door closing it behind me and descended the stairs heading for the next uncertain stop in my life’s seemingly unrequited journey. Across the lot, the usual Saturday morning diner crowd, including the geezers, went on with life as usual. I did wonder who the geezers’ new target of mild ridicule would be. Off hand, no new candidate came to mind. I knew it wouldn’t be the diner staff since they were all locals. Plus, it was so much easier to make fun of outsiders.
“Morning, Will,” said the Sheriff as I opened the cruiser door.
“Morning, Sheriff,” I replied surprised to have detected a slight quiver in my voice. Now don’t go getting maudlin.
The Sheriff did not hesitate to put the idling vehicle in gear and head back to the main street, only yards away.
“I hadn’t asked,” said the Sh
eriff, “but are you heading east or west this time?”
Without hesitation, I told him my destination lay to the west.
“West huh?” he answered, sounding surprised. “I’d expected it would be a little late for you to be heading for Montana. I thought you would be heading south where you could stay warm this winter.”
“That is where I’m heading, but I want to make a stop at a place west of here before I make the turn south,” I told him.
“Sure enough, so what town we heading for then?” he inquired.
“No town, Sheriff. I want you to drop me off at the rest stop where you did before. I want to spend some time there reflecting on the mess I’ve created here, and then I’ll hitch a ride over to the next county seat and catch a bus heading south. It’s a nice early fall day, and I’m hoping I can clear my mind of a few things if I sit there awhile. I expect it sounds kind of silly to you, and maybe it does to me too, but for some reason that’s what I feel I need to do.”
The Sheriff thought about it for a short time before responding. “That’s fine with me, Will. I’m just sorry about the way this whole thing is ending. By the way, I’m convinced you’ve had the town’s best interest in mind all along. Sometimes people are just set in their ways and find it hard to look at things differently. I suppose I’m most surprised about Mary June’s reaction. I figured she’d be in your corner all the way. And I have to tell you I’ve never had much truck with that plant owner. I know more than one fellow who has come away from dealings with him with a bad taste in his mouth. The diner is doing better than ever since you got involved. I only hope that Junior Junior can keep it running half as well as you did. And finally, after the dust has settled with the investigations that are underway regarding the Bufords, I’m going to make sure the folks around town know it wasn’t that goofy Mayor who got things started. I just want you to know you’ve got a friend here if you ever pass through this way again. If you do, and I can be of any help, let me know, okay?”
I very much appreciated the Sheriff’s polite comments. It certainly differed from the conversation we’d had on our first trip to the rest stop a few months back. I tried not to paint the entire world with the same broad strokes because even though for the most part it existed as a violent and uncaring place, there were places where humans thought about more than making a buck and weaseling their way into heaven.
The Sheriff’s polite comments encouraged me to seize the opportunity I’d hoped for. I still needed to deal with that small matter of giving back Police Chief Barley’s hubcaps sitting in a box back at my former apartment. The ones entrusted to me by my Viet Nam buddy.
“Actually, Sheriff, there is one thing I might ask you to help me out with. I’ve recently come into possession of a certain set of hubcaps which I’ve discovered belong to the local Police Chief,” I began.
“You’ve got Barley’s hubcaps? Where’d you find them?” asked the suddenly invigorated Sheriff.
“I’d hoped you wouldn’t ask me how I came to have them. And I’m also hoping you will simply return to my former living quarters where they presently sit as good as new in a big cardboard box and pick them up and return them to their rightful owner. What do you think? I guess I’m looking for someone to help me rectify a silly prank that’s obviously gone on far too long.”
The Sheriff looked straight ahead never displaying any indication of his thinking. I sincerely hoped I hadn’t misjudged the man. An actual crime did occur. Maybe it did happen many years ago and the perpetrator happened to be a decent person who got drunk and did a silly thing, but it was on the books as a crime. I started to get a little nervous.
Finally, the Sheriff spoke. “I’ll tell you what. I’ve had a hunch about who did it for a long time. So I’m going to mention some initials to you. If you recognize them, merely keep quiet, and we’ll forget about this matter completely. Regardless, I’ll retrieve the items and make sure they are returned to the rightful owner. Agreed?”
I hoped I understood what he intended, which I thought was that if the initials he stated were the same as the ones I knew to be the culprit’s, just keep my mouth shut and the matter would be considered closed.
“Deal,” I said.
“J.H.,” he replied.
“There’s the rest area right up ahead,” I said, after observing a prolonged silence.
“Dang if it isn’t. Good eyes,” said the Sheriff implying the matter was closed.
Nothing had changed about the place since the last couple of times I’d been there. I did notice the over all affect the hot summer sun had on the nearby vegetation. Everything looked mostly brown and desperately in need of a couple of good soaker rains. The big oak tree still dominated the bleak and lonely site, offering a brief respite to a weary traveler. That’s where the Sheriff headed.
Arriving back at the rest stop it almost seemed as if everything had come full circle and all that happened back in Jonesboro was some kind of crazy dream. This was my real world and where I belonged, not involved in the trifling affairs of a bunch of squatters who having finally gotten somewhere else, dug themselves in deeper than a tick on a lazy hound dog.
“Well,” I said as soon as the Sheriff turned off the ignition. “Like Yogi said, ‘It’s like déjà vu all over again.’”
The Sheriff laughed and said, “Well pardoner, I’m glad you and I got past that last meeting we had right here this past July. There’s a lesson there somewhere, and one of these days when I retire I’ll try to figure it out. But I do feel safe in telling you that I’m glad I got to know you. I think you’re a damn good man, Will Clayton, and you’re always gonna be welcome in my county. I’m disappointed things turned out like they did back in town, but have no doubt about it, someday most of those folks are going to remember your name and what you tried to do. Hell! I’ll even bet that when they find out it was you who spearheaded the whole investigation into the Buford brothers’ schemes, you’ll be back to being a local hero again. And though I, for sure, can’t recall all the stuff you went on about in your debate speech, I certainly recall agreeing with a lot of what I heard. And you know what? Overtime, as things begin to fall apart in our country, like you’ve talked about, they, too, will see that a bunch of snakes were stealing us blind while we all sat around arguing about what the good Lord wants us to do to ensure that others live, think, say, and do like we think they all should.”
I was almost embarrassed by the accolades being shoveled my way by the truckload. I’m sure that the Sheriff saw the gratitude in my face. Still, I really didn’t know what to say. This was new territory for me.
“Thanks, Sheriff…that means an awful lot coming from you,” I told him as I extended my open hand. “If you’re ever in Texas, look me up.”
“You can count on it, pardoner!” he answered griping my outstretched hand.
Standing alone moments later, only the dust settling back upon the arid landscape gave evidence of the Sheriff’s departure. Things were back to normal. As that slightly unsettling reality attempted to find purchase in my consciousness, I moved towards my customary spot atop the lone picnic table I’d come to know so well. I possessed no real notion of how long this latest visit might last or exactly what I expected to accomplish by being there.
You’re not on a schedule anymore. No one is expecting you to be someplace, so just relax and let the feeling of freedom sink into your consciousness.
I sat there on the table in a semi-meditative state for a lengthy period attempting to purge my brain of all the commotion surrounding my life for the past months. I no longer owned responsibility for other people’s problems and expectations. Once more, I became the nomad wandering the countryside at my own pace. I took heed of nothing but those issues pertaining directly to me and the few square feet of earth I occupied at the particular moment. Lines of verse written by Longfellow, my favorite poet, came to mind.
Midnight! The outpost of advancing day!
The frontier town and citadel of night!
The watershed of Time, from which the Streams
Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way,
One to the land of promise and of light,
One to the land of darkness and of Dreams!
This is where you belong. Soon, this newest failed episode in my life would likewise be cast into the Streams Of Yesterday, along with all the other wreckage bearing witness to my life’s sad journey.
One to the land of darkness and of Dreams! This brought to mind a place where all doubt and disappointment would disappear. Humans needed to possess a reason to live. Not merely to exist. Yet, that’s what I did— I existed. Traveling from place to place, staying long enough to get people riled up. Only this time, in spite of my best efforts, I’d created a bigger mess. A profound weariness descended upon me. I knew this feeling well, and excepting my most recent failed attempt to pose as a normal human being, I’d given myself little opportunity the past several years to do anything about it.
Looking out from my perch atop the sturdy, weather beaten roadside table upon the vast expanse of emptiness surrounding me, I imagined myself adrift on the ocean. No matter the direction that I cast my eyes, safe harbor did not appear. The thought of going back to my lair on the Texas coast depressed me. But where else was there to go? Maybe nowhere?
The implications contained in those two simple words wrapped around my consciousness so strongly I lost all sense of time and geography. The solution appeared so simple. End it! Make all the self-induced doubt and anguish go away forever. Why not? What did I have to live for? A new brain wired similar to all the other limited gelatin masses residing in the heads of my fellow humans? I doubt it. World peace? Yeah, right, any day now. Awaiting a disinterested or non-existent God’s admonition for the zealots to lighten up on all the religious nonsense and to stop judging; to get rid of all the weapons of war; to share the bounty; to be happy because the here and now is all there is? I wish! Belonging somewhere, with someone? Too late!
Finally I came back to the starting point— make it all go away. A sudden peace descended upon me. The idea made sense. What did I have to live for?
Nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Three
