“It’s not much. Maybe it’s a start.”
“We ain’t got time to gab all night, Dan,” Gary said. “Burl, there’s two boxes of sandwiches and apples in the cruisers.”
“Any tiger milk?” asked Burl.
“Ain’t never been, don’t start expecting.”
“Pays t’ be careful here,” he acknowledged turning to two men standing nearby. “Smokey, you and Plug fetch ’em ‘nose-bags’ out of the ‘bubble cans’.”
Two men hustled toward the cruisers. Burl noticed Dan’s gaze following the one with a mangled arm. “Midnight creeper got him years ago. He does fine.”
The two men pulled the boxes out, carried them over and sat them by the campfire. Dan, Ben and Gary walked through the cardboard dwellings handing out sandwiches and fruit. The sandwiches were peanut butter and jelly. They kept well in the heat. For the first time tonight, each of Dan’s handouts contained a small New Testament.
Knowing Burl’s custom, they fed everyone else before offering the king a sandwich.
“Thank you, what have we?” he said peeling the bread back. “Peanut butter; one of my favorites. Goes well with stone stew. Would you like some?”
“I appreciate the offer,” Dan said picking up a small cup and dipping it in a steaming pot. He blew it cool and drank. Ben and Gary followed. While the empty boxes burned on the fire, they sipped stew and talked individually with the indigent tribe. The inhabitants distrusted outsiders, and had their own culture. With kindness and fair dealings over time the officers earned acceptance with the regulars. The newcomers respected Mister Burl’s authority. Within thirty-five minutes the officers returned to their patrol assignment.
“You know, Partner,” Ben said, “that stone stew’s BLAND! Might as well drink hot water.”
“What else have they to offer?”
“If you weren’t serious it’d be funny. That’s really sad.” Ben scanned the interior of an all-night-market as they circled through the parking lot. “Those visits make me uneasy.”
“I understand dogs makin’ you uneasy, but circlin’ an all nighter?”
“No, Box Town.”
“I don’t get it?”
“It confuses me. A few of them are like Fred, wanting to work, but hard times blindsided them. If they got a break, like Fred’s grocery job, things could be different. I can relate to that, but the majority have skills, could work, and some were professionals making more ‘an us. They’re content livin’ in a box! Don’t have to, so why do they?”
“It’s not the fault of Box Town, but the result. The product of, uh, how can I say it poetically? Uh… lives dashed against the reefs of a daily grind; hopes carried away by raging tides of empty meaning; broken people washed up on a deserted beach.”
“That’s, just existing!”
“Sometimes I feel stuck on a rudderless ship in a stormy sea. Be honest Ben, ever want to surrender and drift irresponsibly? Just existing?”
“Are you nuts? I’d shoot myself before I’d let my family live like that! You have?”
“Well, not so much Box Town, but the life of no responsibility.”
“Kinda enjoy my life the way it is, thank you.”
“I yearn for a cabin way back in the woods like Thoreau’s. Let the world march into the River Wesser, as long as I have my Walden Pond!”
“You wouldn’t be happy livin’ alone in the woods?”
“I’m not so sure, Ben. Thoreau speaks to my heart when he says ‘for what is the use of a house, if you haven’t a tolerable planet to put it on’. In case you haven’t noticed; society’s growing more and more intolerable.”
Is that why you took up policing; to make this planet tolerable? You’ve been smoking Mary-Jane in your pipe.”
“It should be more than tolerable. It should be a joy.”
“That’s not reality. There’s good and bad in everything. You put up with the bad to enjoy the good stuff.”
“Ben, what you don’t see is Box Town people feel totally insignificant. They see themselves only as a gear in the time machine propelling life toward suffering and death. Their hope for a utopia has evaporated, and they’re crushed by lack of purpose. Box Town is built on the ashes of destitute dreams and dehydrated hope.”
“I see; you understand them, because your dreams were bashed. Your own pity party? So, why haven’t you joined ’em?”
“A valid point.”
“And, your reason is?”
“Well, as tantalizing as my Walden Pond is, I rejected it for the same reason as Thoreau. How’d he say it? When he came to die, he’d discover he hadn’t lived. I guess I’m too much like him. Afraid I’ll miss some great joy. If I surrender, I’ll never discover the purpose for which I struggled. To die never having had a purpose is unacceptable to me.”
“I got news for you, Preacher. A lot of what you think you’re missing is your own fault.”
“I won’t argue that. Maybe that’s why I’m so hung up on my itch: why am I here and where I’m going?”
“Again with the itch!”
“Maybe so, Ben.”
They patrolled quietly for several minutes before Ben spoke again. “Something else I didn’t get. I saw ’em.”
“Saw what?”
“Little black books. Them hobos don’t read. What’s that about?”
“Never know, but IF the Handbook has the answers. Maybe, I shouldn’t be the only one reading it.”
“Great, you’ve found your purpose and cured the itch.”
“No, not yet, anyways.”
“Then, what’s with passin’ out Bibles? Seems to me a bit hypocritical.”
“Not so. There’s a big difference. Hypocrites profess as true what they don’t believe. I’m up front. I’m not sure, but I think this Handbook of Life might have the answers.”
“You’re one confused puppy dog!”
“I think there’s a good chance the Handbook reveal our purpose. What better place than Box Town to test the theory?”
“Test it!”
“Oh come on, the Handbooks aren’t radioactive.”
“You’re finally comin’ unglued!”
“What’s it gonna hurt?”
“Give me a break. Let me see one of them Handbooks,” Ben said reaching for Dan’s pocket.
“Hey, don’t get personal!” Dan said batting his hand away.
“Pocket’s empty!”
“You really want one?”
“Sure, I got a right to be as fulfilled as them hobos.”
“Since you’re beggin’.”
“I ain’t beggin’! Forget it.”
Dan extended his hand. A small book flipped up from the palm.
“How DID you do that?”
“Do what? And, it sounds like beggin’ to me.”
“Never mind,” Ben took the book and opened it to the front. “As I thought! It’s a New Testament Bible!”
“I know what it is. I’ve been given ’em out all night.”
“That beats all. You, who swore off God, now passing out Testaments!”
“So, we aren’t on speaking terms, so what? If the instructions are in there, I wan’a look at ’em.”
“Uhhh? I’m not detective grade, but you’re either sandbagging’ me or gone ‘gonzo.’ What you expect those books to do? You see any evidence Box Town visits are changing anything?”
“I don’t know. How can we know if ANYTHING we do helps?”
“Take it from a guy who’s lit a bonfire of candles. You’re just doing personal penance again.”
“Okay Ben, I’ve wrestled with my motives. Do I really care? Tell me, Ben, how much is enough? A greedy nature encourages hoarding, because we never feel it’s enough. I fear poverty, and it causes me to be stingy. I have to fight it.”
“Sometimes I feel guilty,” Ben admitted, “Like I’m playin’ them for cooperation. Even so, I have to take care of my family first. Who else is gonna do it?”
“Good question, ’cause you can’t coun
t on God, if He don’t exist.”
“Since I do, I should be more charitable? What a pile of manure you’re spreading.”
“Not saying you’re family shouldn’t be first. I’m pointin’ out a simple reality: We’re all days away from Box Town. My nature tries to deny it, but I know it. Like squirrels in September, I’m bent to stockpile wealth and become materialistic.”
“So your charity allows you to overcome guilt for pursuing the American Dream; financial independence?”
“Au de contraire, my biggest fear is climbing too high, because if ever providence knocked me to the bottom, it’d kill me. I’d just lay there in my own little box.”
“You’d get back up no matter what knocked you down. Wouldn’t be tolerable to be around, but up you’d get.”
“Just to show you I’ve been reading it, the Handbook I’m not in control of much, anyhow.”
“Who’s it say is?”
“God.”
“Then why’s it so messed up?”
“Haven’t read that far.”
“Car 508, 508,” barked the radio, “domestic fight, 3910 Turrel Street, first floor.”
“Okay on Turrel,” Ben acknowledged. As Dan turned the car unhurriedly Ben remarked, “Hilda and Sam at it again. Bet he stayed out too late, came in too drunk.”
“You left out her side,” Dan added. “Out ‘boozin’ with a ‘floozy’.”
“No takers. With them two, it’s always too late, too drunk, and out with a floozy.”
Sam Purdy sat on the bottom porch step. Hilda Fickens stood inside the screen door waiting and watching. When the patrol car pulled to the curb, Hilda bolted out the door and began flailing at Sam’s head. Too drunk to flee, Sam cowered trying to block her with the eggbeater action of his arms.
Sam appeared in his late forties, but wasn’t over thirty-six. His five-feet-eleven frame carried 125 pounds. Thin blond disheveled hair hung below his bony cheeks framing a week’s growth of patchy beard. His unkempt hair sharply contrasted with his carefully waxed handlebar mustache. The beard and mustache glowed of auburn highlights. Sam’s dirty stained T-shirt hung loosely: Torn neck to navel, one sleeve ripped off, the other stretched. A pair of faded blue jeans with the left knee ripped out, and black work shoes with no socks completed his dress.
Approaching, Dan thought, He is the love of Hilda’s life?
A couple years younger, Hilda stood five-foot-three and weighed 140. A red sock tied her bleached blond hair in a ponytail. The attempt to match colors with a red tank top and red underwear, which showed pink through the white denim jeans, failed miserably. The unbecomingly tight jeans bore patches in the seat, crotch, and knees. A pair of torn flip-flops miraculously clung to her feet. Her toenails displayed bright red chipped polish.
Nearing, Dan could see Hilda was attacking Sam with a large plastic fly swatter. And she is the love of Sam’s life. What a package! took both officers to intervene and separate an irate Hilda without doing or receiving harm. Once they settled her down on the far side of the porch, Dan went back to check on Sam. “You okay, Pall? What’s got Hilda riled?”
“I schwear Offisher, I ain’t done noshin. I wussh down to Murphy’s and hads me two – countsh ’em,” he held up three fingers. “Jush two beerssh. I schwears.”
Hilda’s hearing was never an issue. Sam’s statement rekindled her anger. She raced halfway across the porch shouting. “Out wit’ some fluzzy, Thinks I don’t knows?”
Ben managed to keep her at a distance, but he couldn’t stop her raging.
“You two timin’ two faced tail tuckin’ egg suckin’ belly crawlin’ c’yote,” Hilda yelled, unconcerned about neighbors. “Y’u run off and left me here in dis hot‘r’n Hades house to go flam dang some floozy! I slaves for y’u! I washes y’ur clothes! I cooks y’ur food! I lives like a slave, and what ’s I get f’r it? He runs off, stays out all night, and get soused with some floozy!”
“I dids no such a things, t’ere ain’t no osher womas I tells you,” he replied somewhat sobered by the excitement.
“Then how’s come y’u don’t n’er spend time wit’ me likes y’u used ta? If’n y’u ain’t got no floozy? Y’u ain’t ne’r here. Might as well not be married.”
“Hilda, we aints never gots married—no hows,”
“Same if, Officer. Common wed, whats we is. Same ’s married, taint it, officer?”
“No church ceremony?” Dan scolded Sam. “How long you been together?”
“Ne’r on sheven years,” Sam admitted holding up three fingers.
“Should be long enough to know. Why not have a church hitch you for real?”
“Church!” Hilda shouted across the porch. “Don’t go t’ no church! And, I’ll tells y’u why. He don’t keep no job, ne’r can he keep ’is word, and I ain’t makin’ no oaths to no God that ain’t gonna be kept. Common law’s good ’nough for ’im.”
“Welsh I don’t wansh be common laawsh no mor’,”
“Me ne’thers,”
Dan, seeing a chance to settle things for the short term, cut their argument off. “Enough’s enough. Both of you!”
“Enough of ’is trash, be right,” Hilda agreed.
Ben ignoring Hilda, turned his attention to Sam. “If you aren’t married to Hilda, you can’t stay here. You have some place else you can go for a few days?”
“Shure. I cans go live wisch my brosher over on Vicsher Shreet.”
“In that case,” Dan said, “I can divorce you two, but you, Sam, will have to go over to your brother’s and stay. You understand?”
“Fine witsh me.”
Dan turned back to Hilda, “You want a divorce too? You’ll have to pay your own bills?”
“I pay the bills anyhow. He don’t have no real job. ‘Sides, he drinks up ’is money. Yeah, what I got t’ do?”
Ben looked questioningly at Dan who winked.
“Hilda—Sam,” Dan began solemnly, “you both know I’m ‘ordinated’ by the state—right?”
They had no idea, but nodded.
“Very well, then. Hilda, put your left hand palm down on Ben’s badge; and yours, Sam, on my badge – left hand Sam – left hand – easy – don’t fall over. Now raise the right one—the other right one Sam—left on badge, right in the air. Very good, Sam. Now hold it.”
There they stood on opposite ends of the porch, positioned side by side, yet separated by fifteen feet. Hilda’s one hand spread on Ben’s chest the other in the air like some frail Statute of Liberty. Sam stood similarly, swaying and waving as if bidding friends a bon-voyage. Dan craned his neck to face away to avoid the stench of Sam’s alcoholic breath. There they posed in view of numerous curious neighbors attracted by the commotion.
Dan couldn’t resist the theatrical nature of the circumstance. Taking hat in hand, he began in a loud voice, “Dearly beloved we are gathered in the presence of these witnesses,” waving his arm across the crowd, “for a most ‘unsolemn’ occasion. If any have reason these two should not be ‘dis-unioned’, speak or forever hold your peace.”
“Huh?” Ben asked.
“You have reason?”
“No, not me.”
Speaking to them in turn, Dan instructed, “I, say your name…”
Dan waited while they answered in unison.
“Having lived in common law marriage with, say the other person’s name…”
Again Dan waited for them.
“Having given true and earnest effort to compliance of that common law…”
They repeated the phrase.
“And here-to-with, having failed for reasons other than my own…”
Again they repeated the phrase as best they could glaring at each other and becoming noticeably louder when saying “other than my own.”
“Declare I, to disavow, decease, and descend my love for thee.”
Each stammered their version of the last phrase, and Dan sidestepped having them face each other across the porch. That made Hilda nervous.
�
�I ain’t a gonna kiss no dog face varmint!”
“No, no, no kissin’,” Dan assured.
“Oh, alright then,” she said resuming her Statute of Liberty pose.
“By the power vested in me by the governor of this state; this common law marriage is ‘dis-unioned’.”
Dan immediately looked Sam in the face, “Get your clothes, we’ll take you over to Victor Street.”
Sam, scurried, as best he could in his condition, gathered some clothes, and shoved them in a large paper bag.
“I’m ready.”
After they dropped Sam off at his brother’s and called back in service Ben asked, “Common law divorce? That’s not in the Procedure Manual. Where do you come up with this stuff? What in God’s green acres is ‘Declare I disavow, decrease, and dispend my love?”
“Not sure that’s exactly what I said.”
“Close enough.”
“You fussin’? Next time, you face to face it with the lizard breath drunk. Gag a maggot I tell you!”
They both chuckled then fell silent for a few minutes reflecting on the absurdity of it all. But, Ben couldn’t let it go. “Where’d you get that ‘disavow’ phrase?”
“Not from any book you’ve read.”
“What does it mean? I hope the onlookers couldn’t hear you.”
“Had to ‘dis-unionize’ them somehow. It sounded pretty authoritative to me.”
Another pause ensued before Ben broke in chuckling.
“I heard it with my own ears. Tell me the crowd couldn’t. Tell me it’s okay for me to show my face around there again.”
“Honestly,” Dan said, “their relationship reminds me of what my granddaddy called ‘two ticks and no dog’. No wonder it don’t work.”
“Partner, what scares me the most is you don’t even have to think stuff up. It just happens, doesn’t it? Comes natural to you. I know you’ve got more marbles than most, but they’re floatin’ loose.”
“Oh, shucks, Ben. You’re jealous ‘cause the voices only talk to me.”
“Surreal thoughts just hover around waiting on your summons. And what’d we gain with all the theatrics?”
“How often do we get dispatched to the Hilda-Sam fights?” Dan asked.
“Once a week or more.”
Game of the Blues Page 13
