Laid Bare: Essays and Observations

by Judson, Tom

  Mr. Burt Hendricks and Mr. Morris “Stewy” Jankowski, retired:

  “I don’t mind telling you me and Burt are kind of proud of ourselves for how that all turned out. Ain’t we, Burt?”

  “You ain’t lyin’, mister.”

  “Well, Burt and me come down to the Wal-Mart on account of it was Mother’s Day and I was picking up somethin’ special for the Missus.”

  “How much did that leaf-blower set you back, Stewy?”

  “That thing was on sale pretty nice. You shoulda seen Edna’s face when I came in after the V.F.W. and told her what I had just set in the garage for her.”

  “She liked it, did she?”

  “Who wouldn’t? So, there’s Burt and me in the parking lot out in front of the Wal-Mart and Burt says to me, ‘Would you look at that, Stewy? That there looks like an old Ford Falcon.’”

  “You ain’t lyin’ ‘bout that! And then you let out that low whistle like you do and said we oughta go over there and see that sweet old thing.”

  “So, Burt and me goes over to the car and I see it has New York plates on it.”

  “That was our first clue.”

  “Well, sir, there’s this feller sittin’ in the driver’s seat lookin’ through a whaddayacallit, a knapsack…”

  “Lookin’ hard for somethin’…”

  “And so I says to him, ‘That’s quite a sweet car you’re drivin’ there, mister. That’s a ’63, ain’t it?’ and he looks up at us and says, ‘Actually, it’s a ’61. You can tell by the turn signals in the grille.’ Kinda snooty, if you want my opinion.”

  “He said that like he was used to answerin’ that question, somehow. Said he was drivin’ all the way to California. Got all this way without any kind of car trouble.”

  “Burt and me started askin’ him about his car. That fool New Yorker didn’t even know what kinda engine was in it. You thought that was odd, didn’t you, Burt?”

  “I think he mighta been one of them ‘funny fellas’, y’know? You think so, Stewy?”

  “All I know is he was bent on finding something and he was looking everywhere. We followed him around the back of his car when he went lookin’ in the trunk and, well, that’s when we saw ‘em. Sittin’ right on top there like he was, well, like he was proud to show ‘em off or somethin’. Disgusting, if you ask me.”

  “You ain’t lyin’ about that! A bag full of drugs.”

  “Big ol’ bag full of drugs. Huh? No, sir, I couldn’t tell you what kind, but I guess I know drugs when I see ‘em.”

  “Sittin’ right there on top of his suitcase. Pills like you ain’t never seen. Buncha different colors and everythin’.

  “Damn liberal New Yorkers think they can just come out here and push their drugs. Yeah, well, when that damn liberal New Yorker said somethin’ about having to call his sister…”

  “Bet that damn liberal don’t even have no sister…”

  “…well, that’s when Burt and me called the Highway Patrol. Yessiree, just called right on over there to Guymon and reported that damn Jew druggie.”

  “Stewy’s a good American that way.”

  “Bob Young’s boy picked him up later on. Woulda got clean away if I hadn’t called it in.”

  “Yup, a good American.”

  “Nope, never did hear what happened to him. Yeah, well, Burt and me gotta get goin’. There’s some kind of meeting down at the V.F.W. we gotta get to.”

  “You ain’t lyin’ ‘bout that, Stewy. No sir.”

  Bud Grimsby, greeter:

  “hello welcome to Wal-Mart do you need a cart”

  Meghan O’Flynn-Steinman, attorney (non-practicing):

  “Well, yeah, I did think it was odd when I spotted him in that field. Especially in the Oklahoma panhandle. Although, after this trip I’m redefining my standard for ‘odd’. Leonard--Leonard Steinman, my husband—thought it would be this great idea for the whole family to drive cross-country to visit his mother. ‘Cross-country?’ You do that on skis, I said, not in a minivan with three kids and a dog! Sure, he goes into the city to the firm every day in his nice, cushy Lexus and thinks this is some kind of a treat or something. Well, let’s just say Leonard may be redefining ‘treat’ after this trip. I mean, up to St. Louis you could at least eat half-way decently, but just try to find something on the menus here that’s not fried or smothered in cheese. They even have fried cheese! And, can someone please explain to me when marshmallows became a salad ingredient? We ate at some dump where the hostess had, like, green teeth and this hideous bouffant. Don’t even get me started about the clothes. Jesus God! Here it was Mother’s day and the kids wanted to get me something. ‘There’s Wal-Mart’, they screamed. ‘And here’s the Nieman-Marcus catalog’, I said and threw it into the back seat. ‘Circle something and give it back to your father.’ Yeah, so, we’re driving on this boring, flat road through this boring, flat state on this boring, hot day in this smelly car on the way to California to see Letty Steinman (absolutely my most favorite person in the entire frigging world) and Sean—the oldest—says, ‘What’s that guy doing?’ ‘What guy? There’s no guy, Sean.’ And, then all the kids start screaming like they’re on fire or something (which, let me tell you, is a distinct possibility at this point if they’re not careful) and pointing into the field. Well, there’s this guy walking around some kind of junkyard. But, it’s not cars in the junkyard, it’s, uh, trailers or something. Y’know, like in a trailer park. Old, rusty things. Crap, if you ask me. But, he’s taking pictures of all this stuff, and his car—which looks like a piece of junk itself--is parked by the side of the road. It all seemed damned suspicious to me. ‘Maybe we should tell somebody,’ Leonard says. Very calmly I said, ‘Leonard, what does the fuel gauge say?… That’s right, full. Now, let me make myself clear--you’re not taking your goddam foot off that goddam gas pedal until we cross the state line and get out of this fucking state!’ Yes, Sean, Mommy said the f-word. Just deal with it. God dammit, would you all stop screaming! Oh, my god, I need another… Sean, hand me my purse. Now!”

  Mike Young, Oklahoma Highway Patrol:

  “I got word from dispatch at approximately 1:20 PM that a white male, apparently early thirties, was suspected of transporting drugs in his vehicle. Suspect was headed west on Route 64 and was driving a black 1961 Ford Falcon, New York tags. Apparently the call came in to headquarters from old Stewy Jankowski, who thinks of himself as some kind of deputy. Normally we wouldn’t put too much stock in a call from Stewy, but Burt Hendricks backed up his story so H.Q. figured we oughta take a look. I didn’t imagine he would be too difficult to spot. Heck, traffic is so light in this part of the Panhandle he’d like as not be the only car on the road. Sure enough, I saw him coming the opposite direction and made a U-turn and pulled him over. He expressed surprise when informed that his headlight was out, saying he had just replaced it the day before. I asked him to get out of the vehicle and the suspect complied politely. To be honest, I have to say he exhibited a friendly respect throughout the investigation. Well, until Patrolman Steeves showed up, anyway. When Mr. Judson—that was his name, Judson—walked to the front of the car and saw his headlight was functioning properly I informed him of the actual reason for pulling him over. He sort of stammered and appeared a little flustered at first, but when I asked his permission to frisk him he calmed down some. It has been my experience that most people seem to tense up when they’re frisked, but Mr. Judson didn’t seem to have a problem with it. I asked his permission to search his vehicle (and assured him, no, it wouldn’t be necessary to do a strip-search) and he immediately assented to the request. ‘Sure, go ahead, I know I don’t have anything,’ he said as I looked under the seats and in the glove compartment. I was surprised to learn he was driving cross-country in this particular vehicle, but he said he had had no problems up to this point. Normally I don’t converse much during a search, but, as I mentioned, he seemed friendly and like he wasn’t hiding anything. He was sort of thinking out loud wondering how the claim agains
t him might have been filed when he said, ‘A-ha! I know what it is you’re looking for.’ He really said ‘A-ha,’ like in a book or something. He then took me around the rear of the vehicle and opened the trunk. Sitting on top of his luggage was a large Zip-loc bag containing a variety of pills. He said, ‘Vitamins. Just a bunch of vitamins and supplements.’ He said he figured this was easier than carrying around a bunch of bottles. He guessed that was what Stewy took to be drugs. He was looking for his address book to get his sister’s number to call her for Mother’s Day when Stewy and Burt were hanging around. After a brief search of the trunk I called in a report to H.Q. and got word back that Patrolman Steeves would come to meet us with the drug-testing kit which would determine the nature of these pills. Being as the day was extremely hot, and Steeves was clear across the county when he called, I invited Tom, uh, Mr. Judson to wait with me in the patrol car. Y’see, his vehicle had no air conditioning. I was fairly certain his story was true, because if you’re guilty you’re gonna be a little nervous in a patrol car, but Tom seemed right at ease. He was telling me about his drive from New York and asking me questions about Oklahoma and about my job—he seemed especially interested in the official Highway Patrol uniform. I asked him if some of those supplements were for bodybuilding, ‘cause I work out pretty hard myself, and he seemed pretty happy to talk about all that. Said he could sure take some pointers from me, which I took as a compliment, for sure. I admit I was kinda surprised to find out he was almost 10 years older than me. I asked him if he had been through Louisville on his way out, ‘cause Diane—that’s my fiancée—she’s probably gonna be moving there for work. Tom sure thought it was cool when I told him Diane’s a jockey! Don’t know why that tickled him so much. Maybe he likes horses or something, I dunno. Anyway, Tom and I were comparing our leg routines when Fordy Steeves pulled up…”

  Medford Steeves, Oklahoma Highway Patrol:

  “2:28 P.M. I make visual contact with Patrolman Young’s vehicle, which is stationed in front of suspect’s vehicle. I am initially surprised to see suspect in passenger seat of P’man Young’s vehicle. I discuss situation with P’man Young and determine suspect is unarmed and not dangerous. Suspect attempts to converse but is rebuffed. P’man Young and I confer re. bag of pills. Initial conclusion supports suspect’s claim that pills are vitamins, but I test them to be sure. Test confirms pills are vitamins. Based on witnesses’ claim of seeing drugs, I determine suspect’s vehicle should be searched more thoroughly. When I remove rear seat suspect becomes somewhat agitated (moreso when I enlarge tear in headliner for visual confirmation.) I replace rear seat—no, sir, not because suspect insisted, because I desired to leave suspect with a good impression of the Oklahama Highway Patrol--and told suspect he was free to go. As I pull away I see suspect exchange words with P’man Young who then signals ‘all clear’ as suspect continues west on Route 64 toward the state line.”

  Diane Haverford, jockey:

  “I don’t know, maybe Mike’s just needs a break. First he tells me he’s not sure he wants to get married at all right now. I mean, I already told everyone. But, then he asks me if there are any good race tracks in California—San Francisco—because he thinks maybe he’d like to move out there. Oh--and this is weird—he wanted to know if I mind if he wears his uniform around the house. I think maybe I’m having second thoughts about all this myself. I was telling my girlfriend Andi about it, and she thinks I should wait; that I could just move in with her. Maybe she’s right. I don’t know…”

  Bud Grimsby, greeter:

  “goodbye thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart have a nice day.”

  RATTLESNAKES HAVE BEEN OBSERVED

  Since the dawn of man, homo sapiens have derived comfort from seasonal milestones. These events help maintain a cyclical sense of continuity that tells us no matter what cataclysmic turns may befall us, the world as we know it will carry on.

  Autumn has a particularly abundant selection of such occurrences. Rural folk look to the first frost to delineate one season from the last. Thick, hardy vines, which the day before trailed sturdily among the pumpkins and squash, lie watery and withered on the soil, itself now redolent of seasonal decay. City people watch for fur coats to sprout among the shoppers and business people hurrying along the broad avenues, their shadows growing longer daily as the sun struggles vainly to reach its proud heights of June and July.

  For me, fall is heralded by the arrival on store shelves of the first bags of candy corn. These bite-sized confections—known technically as melocremes—state, by their very presence, “There’s no turning back: ready or not, here comes fall.”

  Each year I consume vast quantities of the stuff. But, perhaps, never as much as on a 10-day driving trip my husband Bruce and I took through Montana in the early 1990s. I need snacks on a long drive. Especially ones that will satisfy my insatiable sweet tooth. And, since this was The Year of Losing Weight, those snacks had to be fat-free, a characteristic that, happily, candy corn possesses.

  The previous December, after bidding our final Christmas party guest farewell, Bruce leaned over me as I slouched in the big comfy chair, chin on my chest, covered in cookie crumbs. “Honey, you’re really gaining a lot of weight,” he said, clearly fearing the argument that was to come. I just laughed. He was right, after all. True love (and pints of Häagen-Dazs every night) will do that. So under the tree that Christmas Bruce found a gift certificate for “One Thinner Husband”. I was very clear that it didn’t have to be me. Six months and 50 pounds later, Bruce, deciding a tune-up was better than a trade-in, redeemed the certificate for little(r) old me.

  Sitting in the passenger seat, my feet up on the dashboard, I could shove fistfuls of candy corn into my mouth with impunity as we drove across Montana. Bruce and I would sing along to the oldies station on the radio and when we stopped to pee by the side of the road, we got a kick of a sign that read, “Rattlesnakes Have Been Observed”. The passive voice gave the warning a half-hearted feel that made the serpentine menaces seem almost benign. I pictured the maraca-playing animated snake from the credits of “The Lady Eve” waiting patiently by the side of the road to welcome visitors to The Treasure State.

  We were thrilled the first time we crossed the Continental Divide and, by the twentieth time we crossed that demarcation, we’d scream out the window, “Who cares?!” We went on hikes, praying we’d see a bear, only to run like girls when we rounded a corner and found a buffalo sleeping in the sun. We rented a cabin on a lake and dined al fresco as the sun fell lazily behind a snow-capped mountain across the water. And we hiked into Glacier Park, where winter had leap-frogged fall and made us glad we had brought our heavy coats and warm hats.

  But, most of all we laughed. And laughed and laughed. These were ten days in our marriage after I was fat and before Bruce was sick and it was a time I will forever use as the standard by which I judge “happy”.

  We returned to New York to find summer was still very much in evidence; that relatively-temperate island has a way of holding on until the last possible moment. But I had half a bag of candy corn left from the trip, which proved the season really was about to change.

  Bruce had to work the day after we flew home and blew me a kiss from the bedroom door on his way out. As I dragged my sleepy, unemployed butt into the kitchen to start the coffee, I saw that on the kitchen table, spelled out in letters of orange, yellow and white candy corn were eight letters: I L-O-V-E- Y-O-U.