by Richard Ford
About 9 p.m. Sable is out at the highway thumbing for a ride. Trailer trucks rush past throwing up dirt in her face. There’s a smell of diesel fuel, exhaust. Some vehicles, the drivers swerve like they’re going to hit her, surprised to see her, or jeering leaning on their horn. Then this mud-splattered pickup comes along at about twenty miles an hour, and slows. Some kind of farm equipment rattling in the rear. Old bald guy at the wheel. The pickup brakes to a clumsy stop on the shoulder of the road and Sable strolls forward calling in a sexy TV voice, Hi there mister! I’m hoping for a ride! And this old guy bald-headed and sweating in dirty bib-overalls, he’s peering into the rearview mirror but doesn’t say a word. Sable repeats she’s hoping for a ride, mistah. Sable perceives this john is old enough to be somebody’s granddaddy which is pitiful if it wasn’t so disgusting. It takes like three minutes to get the old guy to tell her climb into the cab, he’s tongue-tied and stammering and maybe has something wrong with him (speech impediment, hard-of-hearing, drunk), it’s going to require Sable’s undercover-hooker skill to get his ass busted. (Right! It’s Pop Olafsson. But Drake, in the unmarked van, doesn’t know this yet.)
Where’re yah goin’, the old guy asks. He’s mumbling, shy of looking at Sable full in the face. Sable says, Where we can party, mister, you’d like that? Huh? There’s such smells lifting off this guy, Sable has to fight the impulse to hold her nose. Almost, she’s going to have to do this and make a joke of it, manure-smell, barn-feed smell, whiskey-smell, body odor and tobacco and something sweetish like maybe licorice? Oh man! Wishing she could report to the team back in the van, what this scene is.
The old guy has the pickup in gear, doesn’t seem to know what to do: drive on? Move onto the shoulder, and off the highway? Sable keeps asking him wanna party mister, wanna date me, hey mistah? but he’s too confused. Or maybe just excited and scared, aroused. Not your typical john for sure. Flushed all over including his bumpy bald scalp, you can surmise sex is not too frequent with him. Looks to be late fifties, or older. His wife is old and fat and sick or maybe the wife has died, a long time ago the wife has died, some kind of tumor, she’d started off fat then ended weighing like sixty pounds, his memories of that woman, her last months, years, are not what you’d call romantic. You have to figure, maybe the wife was pretty once, maybe this old man was a sexy young guy once, not a paunchy old snaggletooth grandpa reeking of barn odors, and maybe he’s trying to remember that, lonesome for something he hasn’t even been getting for thirty years. So Sable is fanning herself with her hand cooing. Ohhh man am I hot, I bet you are hot too, I know a real cool place, up the road here’s the E-Z Inn you know where that is mister? in this husky singsong voice like Dolly Parton beating her eyelashes at him so the old guy is smiling, trying to hide his stained teeth but smiling, squirming a little like he’s being tickled, happy suddenly this is an actual flirtation, this is an innocent conversation with a woman who seems attracted to him, seems to like him, he isn’t thinking exactly where he is, why he’s here, what his purpose must have been driving here, north of Herkimer out to Route 33 and the Strip across in the next county a twelve-mile detour on his way back to the farm from picking up the repaired sump pump, no more than he’s thinking right now of his blood pressure he can feel pounding in a band around his head, makes the inside of his head feel like a balloon blown up close to bursting, heart racing and lurching in his chest like a pounding fist, almost he feels dreamy, he isn’t drunk but dreamy, a pint of Four Roses in the glove compartment he’s wondering should he ask the beet-hair woman would she like a drink? thinking maybe he will, he’s wanting to grab the woman’s hand and kiss it, kiss the fingers, a freckled forearm glowing with sweat, some kind of sexy red heart-tattoo crawling up the arm, it’s surprising to him, so wonderful, the woman is smiling at him, nobody smiles at Pop Olafsson especially no female smiles at him in this way, mostly he remembers Agnes scowling at him, staring at him like she was angry with him, crinkling her nose and turning her eyes from him not acknowledging him at all. He isn’t thinking this is Beechum County, this is the Strip, sure he’s heard about the Strip, been summoning up his courage to drive out here for months but now he’s here, damn if he hasn’t forgotten why. HEY MISTAH says the beet-hair woman like waking him from a doze, know what you look like a real sweet guy, I’m into older men, see? leaning forward so he can see the tops of her heavy breasts straining against a black lace brassiere like you’d see in a girly magazine, sweat-drops on her freckled chest he’d like to lick off with his tongue that’s so swollen and thirsty. All this while the beet-hair woman is speaking to him in her husky voice trying not to sound impatient, the way his daughter is impatient having to scold him for dirtying the kitchen floor or leaving dishes in the sink not soaking, coming to the table smelling of the barn like he can’t help no matter how he washes, actually Glenda (his honey-haired daughter, divorced and with a grown son) isn’t his daughter but stepdaughter, all he has in the world having had no daughter or son of his own, he’d like to explain this to the beet-hair woman, maybe after they have a few drinks from the pint of Four Roses, the beet-hair woman is asking in a louder voice does he want to go somewhere with her? somewhere private? cozy? air-conditioned E-Z Inn? get acquainted? want to date? want to party mistah? what’s ya lookin’ at like that mistah? cat got your tongue mistah? or do you like maybe have to get home mistah, wifey’s waiting for you is that it? and the old guy is stricken suddenly fumbling a smile trying to hide the stained snaggle teeth saying fast and hoarse, Ma’am I buried my wife Agnes Barnstead back in ’54, and Sable gives a little cry of hurt and disapproval, Ohhh mister that’s not a thing to tell me, if we’re gonna party and the old guy looks like he’s going to cry, can’t seem to think what to say, maybe he’s drunker than she thought, so Sable says scornfully placing her hand on the car door handle, Damn mister maybe you don’t want to party, huh? maybe I’m wasting my time in this crap rust-buckle smells like a barn? and he’s fumbling quick to say no, no don’t leave ma’am, stammering, I guess—you would want—money? and Sable says sharp and quick, why’d I want money, mister? and he says, blurting the words out, Ma’am if—if—if we could—be together—and Sable says, Have sex, mister? that’s what you’re trying to say? and the old guy says, winded like he’s been climbing a steep stairs, yes ma’am, and Sable says it’s thirty for oral, fifty for straight, it’s a deal, mister? and the old guy is blinking and staring at her like he can’t comprehend her words so she repeats them, deal, mister? is it? and he says, almost inaudible on the tape being recorded in the unmarked van, yes ma’am.
Okay, you’re busted.
Like that it happens. Happens faster than you can figure it out. You’re busted, mister. Step out of the truck, mister. Hey mister out of the truck keep your hands in sight mister, we are Beechum County sheriff deputies.
In that instant Sable is vanished. The woman is vanished, it’s loud-talking men, men shouting commands, strangers in T-shirts yelling at him, impatient when he doesn’t step out of the pickup quick enough, he’s dazed, fumbling, confused looking for the beet-hair woman who was smiling at him, saying you ain’t kiddin’ me are yah? pullin’ my leg are yah? blinking at flashlight beams shining into his face confused he’s being shown shiny badges. Beechum County sheriff he’s hearing, informed he is under arrest for soliciting an act of sex in violation of New York State law, under arrest he’s on tape, keep your hands where we can see them mister, spread your legs Pops, y’hear you are UNDER ARREST, you been operatin’ that vehicle while drinkin’ Pops? He’s confused thinking his picture is being taken. Flash going off in his face. Hey yah pullin’ my leg are yah? he’s more confused than frightened, more stunned than smitten with shame, like somebody out of nowhere has rushed up to him to shove him hard in the chest, spit in his face, knock him on his ass, these young T-shirt guys he’s thinking might be bikers, doesn’t know who in hell they are though they keep telling him he’s under arrest there’s this weird smile contorting the lower part of Pop’s face like th
is has got to be a joke, nah this ain’t real, ain’t happening, he’s clumsy resisting the officers, gonna have to cuff you Pops, hands behind your back Pops, under arrest Pops, blinking like a blind man staring at a sight he can’t take in, tall burly young scruff-jaw guy in a black T-shirt—Drake McCracken?—he’d wanted to think was some nephew of his? in that instant Pop and Drake recognize each other. Drake is stunned like the old guy, sick stunned look in his face his sergeant sees the situation, understands the two are related, tells Drake back off, shift’s over he can report back to the station. One of the deputies has cuffed the old man, poor old bastard is pouring sweat moving his head side to side like a panicked cow, his wallet has been taken from his back pocket, driver’s license, I.D., name Hendrick Olafsson that’s you? Sable is walking away shaking her beet-frizz hair, laughing and shaking her head, the smell in that truck! smell coming off the old man! Sable’s undercover-hooker partner is cracking up over the old john, oldest john they’ve arrested on the Strip, poor bastard. Sable is saying some johns, the guys are psychos you can see. This old guy, he’s more like disgusting. There’s guys with strangler eyes. Guys with cocks like rubber mallets. Guys into biting. You can tell, there’s johns any female would be crazy to climb into any vehicle with, drive off with, shows how desperate they are, junkie-hookers, asking to be murdered and dumped in a ditch and their kids confiscated by the state, Jesus it’s hard to be sympathetic you mostly feel disgust.
Well, this old guy! Old-timey farmer. Not a biter for sure, you see those teeth?
Pop is taken into custody, cuffed. Pop is transported in a van to the sheriff’s headquarters on Route 29, Beechum County. Pop is booked. Pop’s picture is taken. Pop is fingerprinted. Pop is one of seven “johns” arrested by Beechum County deputies on the Strip, night of July 19, 1972. Pop is fifty-seven. Pop is identified as Hendrick Olafsson, R.D.3, Herkimer, New York. Pop is confused and dazed and (maybe) has a minor stroke in the holding cell crowded with strangers. Pop calls my mother on the phone, it’s 11:48 p.m. and she can’t make sense of what he’s saying. Where? Arrested? Pop? Drunk driving, is it? Accident? Pop? Pop is wheezing and whimpering begging Mom to come get him, he don’t feel too good. (It will turn out, Pop couldn’t remember his own telephone number at the farm, he’d had for thirty years. A female officer on duty looked it up for him.) It’s a twelve-mile drive to the sheriff’s headquarters over in Sparta. Mom calls me (where I’m living in town, now I work at the stone quarry west of Herkimer Falls) but I’m out. So Mom drives alone. Arrives around 1 a.m. Mom is disbelieving when the charge is read to her, soliciting sex, plus a charge of resisting arrest, Mom insists her stepfather is not a man to solicit prostitutes, he must have thought the officer was hitch-hiking, Pop is the kind of man would give a hitch-hiker a ride, Mom is so agitated she repeats this until the desk sergeant cuts her off saying, Ma’am it’s on tape, it’s recorded. In the meantime Pop has been taken from the holding cell to rest on a cot. The cuffs are off, his wrists are raw and chafed and he’s disoriented but he’s okay, Mom is assured he’s okay, doesn’t want to be taken to a hospital. Mom will be allowed to speak with him and secure a lawyer for him if wished but she can’t take him home just yet, bail hasn’t been set, bail won’t be set until after 9 a.m. next morning when a judge will set bail at the county courthouse and Mom can return then to take her stepfather home. All this, Mom can’t take in. Mom is looking for her nephew Drake McCracken who’s a Beechum County deputy but she’s told Drake is off duty, nowhere on the premises. Mom is beginning to cry like Pop Olafsson is her own father not her stepfather. Mom is wiping tears from her eyes pleading Pop isn’t a well man, Pop has high blood pressure, Pop takes heart pills, this will kill him Mom says, there has got to be some mistake let me talk to the arresting officers, my stepfather is not a man who solicits prostitutes! and the desk sergeant says, Ma’am, none of ’em ever are.
Ever after this, Pop Olafsson’s life is run down like an old truck can’t make it uphill.
Nineteen days from the arrest, sixteen days from the front-page story HERKIMER FARMER, 57, ARRESTED IN “VICE” SWEEP ON RT. 33 STRIP and photo of Hendrick Olafsson in the Herkimer Journal, Pop’s life runs down.
He’s so ashamed, he won’t show his face. Any vehicle drives up the lane, Pop skulks away like a kicked dog. He’s dizzy, limping. Some blackouts he can’t remember where in hell he is, wakes up in a mess of hay and manure and the cows bawling to be milked. He’s drinking hard cider, whiskey in the morning. Heart pounds so he can’t lie flat in bed, has to sit up through the night. Mom is disgusted with him she hardly speaks to him, leaves his meals on the back porch like he’s one of the dogs. Other relatives who come around avoid Pop, too. I drove out to the farm, felt sorry for my mother but for the old man also he’s so fucking pathetic. He’s an embarrassment to me, too. God damn lucky my name is McCracken not Olafsson. At work the guys are ribbing me bad enough. Quarry workers, they’re known for this. To a point, I can take it. Then I’ll break somebody’s face. My fist, somebody’s face. Eye socket, cheekbone, nose, teeth. There’s a feel when you break the bone, nothing can come near. Out back of the high school I punched out more than one guy’s front teeth. Got me expelled, never graduated but it’s one good thing I did, I feel good about remembering. Every scar in my face is worth it. At the house I asked Mom how it’s going and Mom says see for yourself, he’s out in the barn drinking. Mom’s the one had to deal with Pop Olafsson at the court hearing over in Sparta, signed a check to the court for $350 fine, the old man pleaded guilty to the sex charge, “resisting arrest” was dropped, now he’s on twelve-month probation a man of fifty-seven! Mom is feeling bad we haven’t heard from Drake, you’d think Drake would come see us, at least call, say how sorry he is what happened to Pop. Like Drake stabbed us in the back, Mom says. His own family.
My feeling about Drake is so charged, I can’t talk about it.
Located Pop out back of the silo looking like some broke-back old sick man trying to hide what he’s drinking when he sees me like I don’t know Pop drinks? this is news to me, Daryl? Why I’d come was to tell Pop how sorry I am what happened, what a lousy trick the fucking cops played on him, but somehow seeing the old man, that look in his face like somebody who’s shit his pants. I hear myself say Hey Pop: don’t take it too hard in this sarcastic voice like I’m fifteen not going on twenty-five. A few days later Pop blows off the top of his head with the clumsy old 12-gauge, came near to missing but got enough of his brain matter to kill him. It was like Pop to take himself out in a back pasture not in any inside space that would have to be cleaned afterward, and not near any stream that drained into the cows’ drinking pond.
Pop left the dairy farm to my mother who never loved him. She felt real bad about it. I never loved the old guy either I guess but I missed him. For a long time I felt guilty how I’d spoken to him when he’d been in pain.
Soon as she could, Mom sold the property and moved to town.
Drake showed up at Pop’s funeral, at least. The church part. At the back of the church where he wouldn’t have to meet anybody’s eye. He was wearing civilian clothes not the deputy uniform. Soon as the ceremony was ended, Drake was gone.
A week after the funeral I’m at the Water Wheel with some guys from the quarry and there’s my cousin Drake at the bar with some off-duty deputies. It’s Friday night, crowded. But not so crowded we don’t see each other. Two hours I’m waiting for my cousin to come over to say something to me, and he doesn’t. And he’s going to walk out not acknowledging me. And I’m waiting, it’s like my heart is grinding slow and hard in waiting, like a fist getting tighter and tighter. It comes over me, Drake killed Pop Olafsson. Like he lifted the 12-gauge himself, aimed the barrels at Pop’s head and fired. Drake and his rotten cop friends they’d sell their blood kin for a fucking paycheck. I’m thinking He is a guilty man. He deserves some hurt.
Even then, if Drake had come over to me, lay a hand on my shoulder and called me Daryl, I’d forgive him. For sure.
It’s a few weeks later, I make my move. All this while I’ve been waiting. Past 11 p.m. when I drive to this place my cousin is renting in Sparta. For a while Drake had a girlfriend living there but looks like the girlfriend is moved out, this is what I’ve heard. Knock on the side door and Drake comes to see who it is, in just boxer shorts and T-shirt, and barefoot. Drake sees it’s me, and lets me in. His eyes are wary. Right away he says, I know what you want, Daryl, and I say, Right: a cold beer. And Drake says, You want me to say I’m sorry for Pop, well I am. But nobody made Pop drive out to the Strip, see. I tell Drake, Fuck Pop. I’m thirsty, man. So Drake laughs and goes to the refrigerator and his back’s turned and the claw hammer is in my hand, been carrying it in my jacket pocket for five, six days. I come up behind Drake and bring the hammer down hard on his head, must be the damn thing kind of slips my hand is so sweaty, it’s just the side of Drake’s head the hammer catches, and he’s hurt, he’s hurt bad, his knees are buckling but he isn’t out, he’s dangerous grabbing at me, and I’m shoving at him, and it’s like we’re two kids trying to get wrestling holds, and some damn way Drake is biting me, he’s got my left forefinger between his teeth biting down hard as a pit bull. I’m yelling, this pain is so bad. I’m trying to get leverage to swing the hammer again but the pain in my finger is so bad, almost I’m fainting. Drake is bleeding from a deep cut in his head, a stream of bright blood running into his eye, he’s panting his hot breath into my face, groaning, whimpering, a big hard-muscle bastard stinking of sweat from the shock of being hit, outweighs me by fifteen pounds, and desperate to save his life but I’ve got the hammer free to swing again, I manage to hit Drake on the back of his neck, another wide swing and the hammer gets him high on the skull, this time I feel bone crack. Drake’s bulldog jaws open, Drake is on the floor and I’m swinging the hammer wild and hard as I can, hitting his face, forehead that’s slippery in blood, his cheekbones, eye sockets, I’m walloping him for the evil in him fucking deputy sheriff betraying his own kind Like this! like this! like this! so at last his hard skull is broke like a melon, I can feel the hammer sink in to where there’s something soft. Such a relief in this, the hammer goes wild swinging and swinging and when I come to, the linoleum floor is slippery in blood. There’s blood on me, work trousers, work shoes, both hands wet with it, blood splattered high as the ceiling, and dripping. I’m stumbling over Drake on the floor twitching like there’s electric current jolting him but feebler and feebler. Making this high keening sound like Pop Olafsson singing, so weird Drake has got to be about dead but making this high sharp lonesome sound it finally comes to me, is me, myself. Not Drake but me, Daryl, is making this sound.
