Peter Franks stepped out of his car at dusk at the convenience store a quarter-mile from his home. The sun was going down so quickly that it was almost dark, although not quite if you looked far enough down the road toward the west. There was still a very slight glow in the sky, just enough to be interesting, and he stood and watched it for a few moments. It seemed like a peaceful end to a long day. He had awakened at about four that morning, and was only now close to getting home from work. It had been one of those days where things had to be done, they had to be done today, and he had to do them, or at least see that they got done.
Franks was a risk manager for a large hospital corporation headquartered in Nashville. He was originally from Marietta, Georgia, but had lived in the Midwest, mostly in Chicago and Indianapolis, and in parts of New York state, and Hartford, Connecticut, in his career in various financial fields. He had begun as a low-level finance employee for a large corporation, then had moved up the ladder, splintering off into risk management about ten years before. When the opening occurred in Nashville, it offered both a significant raise, and an opportunity to move to a lower-cost area, and he had leaped at the opportunity. He had settled in an older area off of Franklin Road, heading south out of the city, a large brick house with almost five thousand square feet. It was far more than he needed, but he had gotten such a good deal moving from north to south, and he believed in keeping a lot of his net wealth in housing rather than in more liquid assets.
The store was crowded, and the gas pump islands were jammed with cars. The doors on both sides of the store were opening and closing constantly, with a stream of customers entering and exiting, one behind the other. He watched the people filter in and out for a few minutes, leaning on his car and breathing in the evening air. It was warm, but there was a steady breeze that seemed to keep the air pleasant and dry, and he realized immediately it was one of those pleasant moments he might not repeat for a while, no matter how hard he tried.
Eventually, he started slowly from his car, which he had parked on the back side, down the left side of the store building. As he passed a row of pay telephones along the side of the building, he brushed by a dark-skinned man talking on the one closest to the door. Someone exiting the store was holding the door open for him, and he grabbed it and started to enter the building.
“Excuse me, Sir!” He heard the voice off to his right, almost over his right shoulder. It was the man at the pay phones, around thirty-five or so, with a beard and slightly bloodshot eyes.
“Hold on, Baby,” the man said into the telephone. “Hold on, Baby.” The man let the phone drop on its cord, without hanging up, and he moved closer to Franks. He held out his right arm and pointed off into the darkness, out toward the road and down it a little ways.
“Sir, I ran out of gas. Can you give me some money for some gas? I’m trying to get home.”
Franks looked out into the darkness. He didn’t see anything in particular, but he had no reason to doubt the man’s story. It was his habit to help anyone he encountered who asked for a small handout. Many of his friends, including most on the liberal side of politics, strongly disagreed with his actions in that regard, but he had always made his own individual decisions. He looked the man up and down, and saw nothing that would indicate anything out of place or improper.
“Let me get what I came for,” Franks said, pulling the door open wider. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Sir.” The man picked up the telephone and began speaking into it again. “I’m trying to get home, Baby.”
Most of the aisles in the store were crowded, and Franks had to work his way back to the coolers at the back. He took out a diet soft drink, then worked his way back up an aisle to the candy section. He glanced at the area by the cash register. A large group was departing all at once, and the area seemed to clear noticeably. He quickly selected a candy bar and walked to the register.
He opened his wallet and took out a credit card. Franks often used his credit card even for small purchases, as he was trying to accumulate enough airline miles to get a free ticket to California. It was only after the transaction had been processed, and he had stepped away from the register that he remembered that he might need change for one of the bills in his wallet. He sat his drink and the candy bar on a small ledge down a ways from the cash register and took out his wallet. As he expected, he only had five twenty dollar bills. However, by this time a number of people had gotten in line, and more were joining them, and it looked to be a long wait to get change. He turned and walked out the same door by which he had entered.
The dark-skinned man was still on the pay telephone, talking loudly and glancing at people as they passed him by in both directions. When he saw Franks, a look of recognition quickly appeared on his face, and he sat the phone back down, leaving it dangling on its cord again. “Hello, SirCan you help me get home?”
Franks hesitated, much longer than he would have normally. He was used to giving a dollar, five dollars, maybe even ten dollars once in an unusual situation, but he had never just handed a twenty-dollar bill to anyone he didn’t know. He thought about it quickly, made his decision, and opened his wallet and took out one of the bills. He handed it over to the man, who took it and scrutinized it closely, holding it within inches of his eyes as if he couldn’t really believe what he was receiving. The man looked up at Franks, with almost a questioning look in his eyes.
Franks was suddenly embarrassed by his generosity; he didn’t want to give the impression he was a wealthy man. “I had a good day today,” Franks said apologetically.
The man smiled and held the bill in both hands, alternately looking at it and up at Franks’ face again. “Thank you, Sir!”
Franks nodded and moved by him, heading to his car. As he passed, the man picked up the phone dangling on its cord and spoke into it.
“I’m trying to get home, Baby. I’m trying to get home.”
During the next two weeks, Franks had to make several trips to outlying locations of the company. The very next day, he traveled to Louisville, Kentucky for two nights, then back to Nashville. Two days after that, he drove to St. Louis and was there into the weekend before returning on Sunday. Then, on Tuesday of the following week, he flew to Raleigh, North Carolina, and stayed the rest of the week, flying back early Friday evening.
The early part of the week following the trip to Raleigh was occupied with clearing his desk, or attempting to, from what had accumulated during the previous two weeks. Franks was still adjusting to being as efficient as possible in the modern world of telecommunications. Many of the changes he had adopted had been by necessity, because the job required it in order for him to make decisions in as timely a manner as the company required. He sometimes had trouble pushing the envelope and learning time-saving techniques more proactively, simply because the techniques themselves changed so quickly.
His mind was a blank, therefore, when he pulled up to the convenience store the next time. The evening was quite different from the last time he had been there; there was a steady downpour of rain, and he had to wait in his car for a few minutes until the pace slackened. He opened the door and made a run for it, noticing as he went that the parking lot was almost empty this time.
He slowed when he got to the overhang along the side of the building and wiped the rain from his face and arms. He glanced toward the door leading into the store and noted a man using the pay phone just outside. The man glanced at him a time or two, but kept on talking.
When Franks walked past the man and put his hand on the door handle, he felt something touch his arm lightly. He turned around quickly. The man on the phone—dark-skinned, with a beard and an alert, almost wild look in his eyes—looked at him with a vague, pleading face.
“Excuse me, Sir. I’m trying to get home tonight.”
“What’s the problem?”
The man took a step or two towards Franks and pointed out into the street, into the darkness. “I ran out of gas out th
ere. I just need some money for gas to get home.”
Something seemed familiar to Franks, but he couldn’t place it. He looked out into the street to where the man had pointed, looking hard into the dark rainy night. He couldn’t see anything, but he didn’t think anything about it. Something seemed familiar to him, and he was trying to figure it out, without success.
“I’ll need to get some change. Let me take care of what I need to do inside.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Inside, Franks took his time picking out a few items. As he shopped, he thought about the situation, still trying to figure out what seemed familiar; he had a vague memory of someone asking him for money two weeks before. He suddenly remembered that he needed to get change. He made his way to the cash register and waited on the one person in front of him. He glanced out the window; the man was still on the pay phone, talking full steam and glancing around him regularly. When his time came to check out, Franks asked the clerk for a ten, five, and five ones in exchange for a twenty, but the clerk said all he could spare was two tens.
Franks thought about exiting through the other door and going around to his car the back way, but decided against it. When he left the store, the man looked up at him and smiled. Franks offered him one of the ten dollar bills, and the man took it and looked closely at it, holding it close to his face. He looked up at Franks. “Thank you, Sir, thank you.”
As Franks walked past him, he saw the man lift the phone and hold it to his ear. “I’m trying to get home, Baby. I’m trying to get home”
Nashville: The Mood (Part 2) Page 23