Streams Of Yesterday Page 10

Well, okay then! Maybe next week you can join the ‘Let’s Brag On Jonesboro’ committee that’s forming to promote all the wonderful attributes of this obviously unique living, dining, and shopping experience hidden out here on the western edge of the world renown, Kansas Flint Hills.

  This thought and several others occupied my mind as I finished locking the diner door so I could get to my personal lair and start on my newest civic project. What is it you think you are doing? You don’t even like people, so why are you continuing to open your big mouth every time one of these hayseeds comes begging? Ultimately, nothing is going to be accomplished here. There will always be another Big Bob or some other blow hard shyster posing as a spokesman of the average, dull-witted American workingman or woman. Why do you think archaeologists forever have been uncovering dead civilizations from beneath mountains of dirt? They are buried and dead because humans practically beg for tyrants, hucksters, politicians, and evangelists to repeatedly dump loads of detritus onto their mostly pathetic and, ultimately, meaningless lives.

  The Mayor had left the diner in good spirits and in short order after I opened my big mouth and gleefully accepted the opportunity to come to the rescue of the city of Jonesboro again. Having come to my senses, I spent the next several minutes following his departure attempting to find a hammer so I could beat at least one of my fingers into a bloody pulp for not having the good sense to reply, “Hell no! This is none of my business!”

  Not having found said hammer, I commenced the lonely fifty-yard stroll across the gravel surfaced empty diner parking lot to get to my humble abode. There I would begin to review the newest and much larger pile of documents and personal notes presented to me by Mayor Jenkins. The Mayor, having thanked me profusely for offering to help, had immediately departed the diner on his way to sell a new auto insurance policy, as well as talk to a young couple thinking of selling their Jonesboro home. They could no longer afford it, they admitted to the Mayor, because the husband had lost his job at a distribution center in Salina. The Mayor hoped to talk the homeowners out of leaving the community. I agreed with him when he stated that things were much worse in larger cities. The small farm towns had benefited from the higher crop prices the past year. The local home values had held up better and farmland values increased significantly, while other investments tanked as city dwellers started dumping their surviving savings into anything not represented by mere promissory paper. In general, things looked to be better off down on the farm, for the time being that is.

  With plenty of daylight left, I paid little attention to where I stepped whilst giving the new documents a cursory examination as I proceeded across the graveled surface. So, I got caught by surprise when a small vehicle slid to a stop a few yards from my feet. I recoiled from the intrusion into my walking space and had in mind a few choice words for whoever this reckless driver turned out to be. That is until the dust settled and I recognized the offending vehicle.

  Sitting between my planned destination and me was none other than Mary June Jangle’s 1964 VW bug, and in the driver’s seat sat the owner. Only this time, she did not present me the bird. Rather, she presented a smile, which normally might be construed as an open invitation to polite conversation. Like that’s going to happen, I said to myself as I waited for her to put the car in gear so she could back up and come at me again. To my great surprise, something else happened. She turned off the engine, opened the VW door, exited the vehicle, and walked to within three feet of where I stood. Visions of my beaten and badly pummeled body lying in a heap upon the dusty gravel at the feet of a former peace-loving female hippie now turned Ninja man-hater flashed in my mind.

  “Why hello there, Mr. Will Clayton. My name’s Mary June, and I’ve heard some wonderful things about you. I hope you’ll forgive me for that unfortunate incident of last weekend. You see, I was having a really bad day.” She used one of her hands to keep her long blondish grey tresses from falling over her face while extending the other towards me in an offer of fellowship.

  “You’re not carrying a gun, are you lady?” were the only words I could get to come out of my mouth.

  My offhanded question must have puzzled her as she scrunched her forehead in response to my, I felt, appropriate question.

  “Hey, ass hole! Your showing up here caused me to have to close my business before it had a chance to get going. I’m being rather big about it, I think, by trying to open a dialog with the only other Democrat I know of in the whole damn town, so why don’t you cut me some slack.” Her initial smile had disappeared.

  “So you aren’t packing, is that correct?” I surprised myself with the fake show of misogynistic bravado.

  Before her quivering lips could formulate a retort, my potential attacker closed her eyes for a second as if trying to regain control of her emotions. “Okay, now I’m going to try this once more. I’m sorry for my rude behavior the other day. It was uncalled for. I hope we can get past it. It’s kind of lonely being the only admitted Democratic Party member in the whole town. But if you are not willing to forgive me, then yes, I do think there is a gun somewhere at home, and I may go and get it. So what do you say?”

  She smiled, but I think it must have been her eyes that put me at ease. The eyes will always give a person away if one is up to mischief. Her eyes radiated warmth. They were blue with a twinge of green, and they were definitely not the eyes of mean person. The last time I recalled seeing eyes so warm was back during the peace, love, and rock and roll days of the late ‘60s— before I went to war and before I came to know what it felt like to be terrified and afraid of dying.

  “I’d say I would like that. So what do we do now?” I tried to show what I hoped passed as a nonchalant smile and not the ‘ga-huk’ smile that all too often comes out when I’m happy. That’s the one where the cartoon hound with the big ears always expresses his happiness by going ‘ga-huk, ga-huk’ whenever the tom cat offers him a bone before dropping the anvil on his head as the dopey hound bends over to retrieve it.

  Not one to rely upon nature taking its course, the lady had an idea. “It looks like you’re done for the day so why don’t you take a ride with me. I promise I will get you back in one piece before dark. Okay?”

  I found myself moving towards the passenger side of the VW without ever having heard myself say a word in reply. Still holding the batch of documents given to me recently by the Mayor, I opened the VW door and lowered myself down into the passenger seat. All I can say is that from that low of a vantage point everything else is up. My unexpected host wasted no time getting the bug back on the road and began heading west. Less than a minute later we were past the city limits heading back over the same road Sheriff Slaybaugh and I had traveled together that past July. Surely she’s not going to take me back to the rest stop and kick me out like the Sheriff did? I asked myself as I sat quietly waiting for her to start the conversation.

  “Late afternoon is my favorite time of day around here,” she began. “I often take Lucy, my VW, out on the county roads to drive around and watch the sunset. It’s so flat here in places it’s almost as if I’m driving along side the ocean, especially, when the wheat is tall and waving gently in the breeze. It makes me think of all the wonderful days I spent on the beach in California. I could sit for hours watching my son and my husband frolicking in the waves. Those are just fond memories now, but once life was very good to me.”

  “I was told your husband passed away. I’m sorry to hear that. Where is your son living? Is he close by?” I had told Flo about the rigid digit incident, and she subsequently told me about the death of my new friend’s husband.

  My companion thought for a moment before answering. “No…he’s still in the Bay area along with his wife and two children. He’s very much into a communication technology industry career and lifestyle. He has a beautiful family. Unfortunately, his wife is not very fond of my lifestyle, my wardrobe, my attitude towards religion, and, especially, my politics. So we very rarely see one another. That’s one of th
e reasons I moved back here instead of bringing mom out to the coast. I got tired of being told to conform to their rigid standards of dress and conduct if I wanted to be included in their family events. My son hasn’t been back here to see his grandmother in almost twenty years. My mother hardly mentions him anymore. She may, in fact, be getting very close to not remembering him at all. Her dementia is becoming more apparent.”

  This story was not new to my ears. I’ve known other individuals, spouses, and children who tell the same story over and over. I personally can’t imagine many things more horrific than losing one’s memory or helplessly watching as a loved one slowly loses any recollection of their entire life. I somewhat identified with her offspring issue also. But it wasn’t my politics, religion, or dress my daughter disliked so much about me, but rather, the hurt I had caused her mother. And frankly, I agreed with her. I did cause my ex-wife a lot of emotional pain by excluding her from the greater part of my waking hours. I hadn’t physically harmed her or berated her. What I did was ignore her. I existed almost entirely within my own mind. I kept busy thinking about myself and how the world dealt with my personal wants, needs, and fears. I didn’t have time for anything else. In a kind of sick way it felt nice to in the company of another individual admitting to being afflicted with the same disease of self.

  “Did anyone come out of the ‘60s not screwed up?” I asked to my own surprise.

  My companion scrunched her brow and considered my unexpected question. Finally, after a noticeable pause she glanced towards me and, in what sounded like a serious response, answered my question. “No. No, I don’t believe I’ve ever met a single individual from that era who wasn’t in need of some serious counseling. And unfortunately for the country, the ones who needed it the most and never got it are now running the whole mess.”

  Her unexpected response to my non-question struck me like a slap to the side of the head. I never thought of that. We are running the country. And we’re all still nuttier than squirrel feces. “That explains why things are so screwed up! That’s the answer! We’ve got to get all these boomer nuts that came of age in the ‘60s out of leadership positions in the government and corporations,” I said aloud to myself.

  “What did you say?” asked my driver.

  “I said you’re right. That’s the problem. We’ve got to get all those post WWII kiddies, those Boomers, those draft dodging, dope smoking, anti-corporation, make love not war, take over the Dean’s Office, draft card burning hypocrites who gave up and went over to the dark side and took over the top positions in business and government out of office. We are our own worst enemy. And not only that, now we’re sucking the life out of the country with that non-existent Social Security Fund. There isn’t any money. Our generation spent it in lieu of paying higher taxes to wage wars and to build a bloated government bureaucracy. And what about Medicare and the prescription drug benefits for the seniors? Why do only the old people get socialized medicine while leaving millions and millions of younger citizens to the mercy of unscrupulous health insurance corporations or having to go without any coverage? If you add up the cost of paying Social Security out of a fund that doesn’t exist, Medicare, Medicaid, prescription drug benefits, interest on our astronomical and still growing national debt paid to mostly foreigners, and the total tax dollars allocated yearly to a defense industry also overused and abused by the former peace and love generation intent upon policing the entire world, we’re broke! The younger generations don’t have a chance. Their payments for taxes and Social Security are going into a black hole. This whole thing is nothing but a Boomer Generation Ponzi Scheme!”

  “Easy there, cowboy!” interjected my escort. “I’m just looking for some partisan companionship here, maybe a sympathetic ear from time to time. Wait until we get to know each other a little better before you go and suggest we plan an attack on the major institutions of the United States!”

  I grimaced as she read me the riot act. She was right. I did come on way too strong. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off like that. Hope I didn’t scare you, and, don’t worry, I’m not a violent person. It’s just that I only met you five minutes ago and you’ve helped me to clarify some things in my mind that amazingly hadn’t occurred to me before. Like the fact that we Boomers are likely to go down in history as the most incompetent, self-serving, dimwitted, hypocritical, and wasteful generation to ever exist in this country except maybe for those poor ignorant southern crackers who fought the Civil War on behalf of a disdainful, slave owning southern aristocracy.”

  Mary June now stared at me with something akin to a questioning look. “You got all that from that one sentence answer I gave to you just a couple minutes ago?” Before I could answer her look changed to one of I’m riding alone in the country with this nut?

  “No! I must have known this all along. It’s just that you said something that opened my mind to a deeper level.” I watched her to see if she really bought my deeper level B.S.

  She scrunched her forehead for a time trying to make some sense out of what I’d said.

  “Hey, I tell you what,” she said after more thought. “Let’s just put this on the old shelf and mark it for future discussion. Coming up soon is one of my favorite spots in the whole area. I often come out here just before sundown to sit quietly and meditate. Here it is, right up ahead. See the big beautiful black oak tree standing there so majestically all by itself? I love this spot. Some of my best ideas come to me when I’m out here.”

  Naturally I held strong feelings about this place myself, but I had no intention of confiding those feelings to her at this early date. I stayed quiet as she turned the VW into the familiar gravel parking area and, just like the Sherriff, proceeded across the rocky expanse to a spot under the stately oak tree next to the familiar picnic table. There she stopped Lucy and turned off the motor creating an uneasy quietness that begged to be disturbed.

  Before us to the north, south, east, and west lay that same vast nothingness, absent the harvested wheat that kept me company little more than one month earlier. I realized I no longer felt a stranger at the place where my life began to change. The notion occurred to me that, no matter what, I would recall my experiences here for the rest of my life. This spot, henceforth, provided me, I hoped, with a positive point of reference.

  “I like to sit on the table and feel the breeze in my hair,” were the last words I heard before my tour director exited Lucy and headed straight for the lone picnic table. I followed her in short order and took up my familiar position sitting atop the table with my feet resting on the attached bench. As far as feeling the wind in my hair, two things prevented that happening. First, I closely trimmed my hair every week. And secondly, my hair had thinned out on top to the extent that very little hair felt the breeze even if I chose to wear it longer. Fortunately, I long ago determined that a receding hairline caused the least of my worries. The way I figured it, I had it when I needed it. After thirty, if a man was stupid enough to get involved with a woman who judged men by their hairlines, he was screwed anyway.

  Still caught up in the shock of being brought back to my now favorite rest area, I forgot about being in the company of a woman who probably expected me to respond to her comments or observations from time to time.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” she said turning to look at me.

  “I’m sorry. I was busy admiring the view. You’re right about the comparison with the ocean. You mentioned you heard some ‘wonderful things’ about me. Would you enlighten me as to who is being so kind to my, I’m sure, undeserved reputation?”

  Mary June scrunched her brow while, I suspected, trying to recall having made the comments I alluded to. I, in turn, determined that she attempted at that very moment to concoct a plausible lie to cover the fact she’d heard no such remarks. Feeling sure I’d caught her in a little fib, I restrained myself from gloating.

  Suddenly she lost the look of puzzlement and replaced it with one of quiet confidence, fo
llowed immediately by an amused smile. “Not so fast, Sherlock! You’re not suspecting that I go around pumping sunshine up a guy’s rear just to get in his good graces, are you? You don’t believe I heard any such thing, do you?”

  “Well, there’s one way to clear up any doubts.” I, too, displayed my best I got you grin.

  “Well, okay then Mr. Doubting Thomas, how about this: Junior Junior told me you were a great guy just the other day.”

  “Junior Junior can’t talk. How can you expect me to believe such a crazy statement?” I practically yelled my accusation of willful deceit in Mary June’s direction.

  She returned my quizzical stare and responded with what I suspected to be feigned indignation. “Maybe he’s just particular as to whom he talks to?”

  I was unconvinced still. “Are you trying to tell me you have heard the man utter more than two words at one time?”

  “Yes, many, many times.” Her defiance seemed to be stiffening.

  I still had my doubts so I pushed her for proof. “What exactly did he say about me?”

  She looked me straight in the face, raised her eyelids in a display of feigned disbelief, and responded, “I saw him at the liquor store the other evening as I searched in vain for a nice red dinner wine and asked him how the new diner manager was doing. At first I don’t think he recognized me as he appeared kind of tipsy which is usual for Junior Junior after sundown. But right as he lifted two cases of beer and headed for the door I distinctly heard him say, ‘Good job, he do.’”

  “‘Good job, he do.’ You call that a sentence?”

  “It is for Junior Junior.”

  “Well then, I, for sure, want to get this documented so I can use it to boost my employment résumé. What was that again? ‘Good job, he do.’ Do you have a pencil? I want to write that down.”

  “You know what? I’m beginning to think that you’re a wise ass. Am I going to have to get you off this picnic table and give you a butt whipping in this dusty parking lot? If you don’t believe I can ask any of the old guys in town. I just about whipped the whole bunch of them back in high school. That’s the real reason most of them don’t like me. It’s not because of my politics it’s because most of the old timers in town remember getting their butts whipped by a female. Now are you going to be civil or what?”

  I had to admit I could not tell from looking how stout the lady might be. The loose fitting plain cotton dress hanging down almost to her feet gave me not a hint. She didn’t have the appearance of an overweight person and her facial features appeared well proportioned and easy to look at, but at approximately five feet eight or nine inches tall, she wasn’t a small woman either. Her arms were the only parts of her body displayed besides her head and they definitely were not the arms of a weakling, yet neither did they display the bulging sinews of the typical female body builder. Perhaps in this instance, discretion remained the better part of valor. Besides, I’d already determined I wanted to become better acquainted with this woman during the remainder of my hiatus in the land of tall wheat and, apparently, short tempers.

  “I beg your pardon madam, I wasn’t aware of your sensitive nature. You can rest assured I will remember my manners in the future. I would hope you could appreciate my hesitation in this instance.” There, that ought to calm her down.

  Mary June took her time deciding whether or not I was for real or just scamming her. “I’m very pleased to hear you say that, Will, because as I said, it’s important for us Democrats to stick together. Don’t you agree?”

  “Why Mary June, I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  My companion paused while making up her mind as to whether or not she should add me to the list of alpha males she’d beaten into submission during her off and on existence out here in the midst of a vast nothingness where just like in outer space no one could hear your scream.

  “Excellent, then I better get you back before they start celebrating those two trouble making radical socialists leaving town for good. Except in your case, they seem to be making an exception for you since you seem to be so community spirited.” Mary June made this remark as she arose from our rest stop bench heading for the car.

  I’d picked up on the mild sarcasm wrapped around the words in her parting remark but held my tongue for the moment. I liked this lady, and I decided to restrain my reportedly acerbic wit for the time being.

  Back in her bug heading home, I decided to let my host take the lead in offering polite conversation. I wanted a chance to show some of my innate charm. I suspected my earlier display of testosterone hadn’t won me any points. Plus, I felt delighted not to have been left adrift at what began to look to me to be a lot of weird people’s favorite rest stop.

  “I forgot to congratulate you on having the nerve to stand up to Big Bob and put him in his place. I only wish there were more people around here who did that. You must know that the man will never forgive you for calling him out in front of his posse, don’t you?” Mary June’s unexpected reference to that small incident surprised me until I reminded myself that in a small town nothing goes unnoticed.

  “I know. That was a stupid thing to do, and I swear I’m going to try to do better. I really don’t want to be so confrontational all the time. Not everyone is out to get me.” I’d begun to worry she was starting to think of me as a wise ass always looking for a fight.

  “Actually, I’m glad you did it. More people need to do the same thing, even me. The guy’s got me half scared. Every time he sees me, he gives me the creeps with that half-grin, half-leer he obviously enjoys showing off. Is that who the Mayor was talking to you about? The Mayor is a surprisingly decent sort once you get past his sale’s pitch, don’t you think? I don’t believe he’s that fond of Big Bob either. Do those papers you have there have anything to do with Big Bob? I’ve thought all along that the guy has his hand in everything that goes on at city hall.”

  As I sat there half-stupefied, I reminded myself again that it was foolish to imagine any real secrets existing in this small town. “I’m really not prepared to answer that question at this time.” I told her in my most business like tone. I didn’t expect my declaration of noncooperation to deter her, bur her next remark surprised me.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry. Just know that I very much appreciate everything you are doing. I know I come off kind of disrespectful at times, but I’m not. Just please remember that I am here to help you in anyway possible as you take on the problems of this small, but I suspect, corruption riddled town.”

  “Why, thank you. I’m very happy to hear that. I’ll keep it in mind as I go forward. But, does everyone in this community know just about everything I do or am thinking about getting involved in, at all times?” I asked.

  “Let me put it this way. When you’re outside your little apartment above Junior Junior’s garage everything you do or say is public knowledge. Please believe that. One other thing before I forget. There’s an actual Democratic rally going on in Salina this next Wednesday evening. I’m going, and I would enjoy your company. How about it?” I once more saw the warm and disarming smile that greeted me in the parking lot.

  My first thought was to tell this woman the truth about my real political affiliation since I sometime ago planted both my feet squarely in the middle of the road. Instead, I intentionally misspoke. “That sounds like an interesting idea. Can I get back to you tomorrow after I have a better chance of seeing how this next week is going to go?”

  “Sure, just try to get back to me by Tuesday. My mom’s number is in the book. The last name is Swenson.” Her smile hid any misgivings she may have harbored relating to my wavering on the invitation.

  Like the last time I rode into Jonesboro from the west late in the afternoon, I sensed events were in the process of dictating my future actions. And once again, I could only hope for the best.

  Chapter Eleven