50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 5, The West

by Kevin B Parsons

  TJ paced, then stopped, his finger in the air. “I got an idea.”

  ~

  Jim Monroe slowed his pickup as he approached two bicycles on the side of the road. Two Amish women on children’s bikes. They looked short. Were they girls? No, they had grey hair. He shook his head. Must be something to do with the Sisters Quilt Show.

  “This is the stupidest thing,” Brad complained as the pickup passed, headed toward the huge Sisters mountains, a back-drop to the town. “What possessed you to think of these get-ups?”

  “First, we couldn’t wear our moms’ clothes, they don’t fit; second, the bonnets keep our faces from being seen, and third, Mom had them from the Spring Fling musical. And fourth, they fit perfect.” Brad pedaled on and the hem of his dress caught in his chain, twisting his foot off the pedal. He veered off the road and tipped over into the ditch, another one without water, but plenty of mud. He got up and wiped off the goo, then wiped his hands on the dress.

  “This is great. Just great. Why didn’t we wear our clothes, change at Sisters, do the deal, then change back before we leave for home? Then we won’t get our dresses caught in the chain. Or look like fools. We’ve got our clothes in our backpacks.”

  “Good idea.”

  They stopped and climbed a fence and walked toward a thicket of trees. Halfway there, Joe Robinson’s bull let them know he didn’t appreciate Amish women in his territory. They ran for their lives and leaped over the fence.

  “Wow, that was close,” TJ gasped.

  “I could feel his breath on my butt as I jumped the fence.” Brad leaned over, hands on his knees and caught his breath. “Wow, you tore your dress pretty good. And where’s your bonnet?”

  They looked into the field and spotted a lump of white halfway to the tree. “I’ll flip a coin to see who gets it,” TJ offered.

  “It’s your bonnet. You get it.”

  ~

  Three hours later they arrived at Sisters soaked in sweat, their costumes tucked away in their backpacks. They stood in front of the restrooms, hands on their hips.

  “Here’s the problem, the way I see it,” TJ said. “We go in the men’s room as boys and come out as women. Not going to work. But if we go into the women… ”

  “I ain’t going in the ladies room no matter what,” Brad stated. “I don’t care if I am an Amish woman.”

  “We’ll just ride out of town a little bit, change and come back.”

  ~

  “Linda, take a look at that,” Mrs. Buchanan pointed. Two Amish women set their bikes down, one with dried mud on her skirt and blouse, the other with a big section ripped and hanging open along her knee. “I don’t remember seeing any Amish women like that here before.”

  Grandma Mitchell patted her arm. “Everyone is welcome.”

  “I don’t want to stereotype, but they seem to walk like men.”

  “Let’s not be judgmental.”

  ~

  TJ and Brad walked through town and eased over to the bench. They sat on it and crossed their legs. TJ smacked Brad’s knee. “At the ankle. Come on, man.”

  “Sorry.”

  TJ slid his hand under the bench and felt an envelope. He pulled it loose and stuffed it inside his blouse. “I told you this would be easy,” he whispered.

  Six women surrounded them, hands on their hips.

  “I think you spoke too soon.”

  They tied the boys’ hands behind their backs with strips of fabric and marched them to the back of The Stitchin’ Post and sat them on metal folding chairs. Mrs. Buchanan paced in front of them, then stopped. “Where’s my quilt?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Brad blubbered, “we didn’t mean to hurt anybody. Please don’t arrest us please—”

  “It’s in the backpack on my bike,” TJ said. “Jeez, dude, stop crying.”

  Mrs. Buchanan turned to another lady. “Janice, could you check on it?” She turned to TJ. “Where’s the bike?”

  “You can see it from the bench. Red one. And could you untie our wrists? It hurts.”

  She crossed her arms in front of them. “Don’t be silly. It’s fabric strips. Now, ladies, what can we do to these young men?” A discussion ensued, with ideas ranging from calling the police to monetary restitution to punishment. Janice interrupted the debate with Mrs. Buchanan’s quilt, which they found to be in good condition.

  Then Carol Atherton came up with an idea.

  ~

  “Hey, dude, watch it. Your stitches are getting a little far apart.” TJ stuck the needle through the quilt and poked it back up though the fabric.

  “Oh, three weeks now and you’re the quilting expert.”

  “I know my way around a quilt, you must admit.”

  Brad tightened up his stitches, but didn’t admit TJ was right. “This is one terrible punishment.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. We’re outside Grandma’s quilt shop, it’s a beautiful day, and we’re not picking weeds out on the sidewalk at the school. And think of our creativity.”

  Brad looked around. “Shh, man. If anybody finds out, we are toast. We’ll be quilting until we’re old men.”

  “They’ll never notice.”

  “Never notice! They’re quilters, man. They look at every detail.”

  “That’s right. But they don’t look at the big picture.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Brad poked the needle through the fabric. He heard a car door slam, looked up, and groaned. “My worst nightmare has just come true. Look. Better yet, keep your head down.”

  TJ looked anyway. Katie MacGregor and Dawn Bellows hooked their purses over their shoulders and headed for the quilt shop with their mothers.

  “Hello, boys,” Katie said. “Pretty quilting. And I love the sign.”

  Dawn read the sign over their heads. “‘Quiltnappers.’ Nice.” They sauntered into the store.

  “I want to die, right now, right here,” Brad stared at the quilt and shook his head.

  “Nonsense,” TJ replied, “They said it looked pretty.”

  “They can put that on my gravestone. ‘He made a pretty quilt.’ Perfect.”

  “Just keep at it. I promise you, we’ll get the last laugh.”

  “I got a bad feeling.”

  ~

  “Can you believe this?” Brad stood and marveled at Grandma’s quilt, with a first prize blue ribbon pinned to it.

  TJ laughed. “And no one’s seen what we added.”

  Brad shushed him. “Quiet, man. Someone gets wind of it and we are in trouble once again.”

  They had endured to the end and finished the quilt. To their surprise, Grandma entered it in the county fair. It became the belle of the ball, famous for the fact that two boys quilted it as punishment for their kidnapping attempt. Furthermore, the masses gushed about how the boys had quilted it by hand. Whether it won for its reputation or notoriety, the boys didn’t care. Their chests swelled as they surveyed their work.

  “Good job, dude.” TJ slapped him on the back. “You’re quite the quilter.” He peered closer at their handiwork. “Although sometimes your stitches get a bit wide.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Want me to read what we wrote?”

  Brad looked around. “Sure. But be careful.”

  TJ put his arm around Brad and pointed to the cursive stitching. “TJ and Brad. BFF.”

  Idaho

  I noticed scrap metal in every state—tons of it—whether broken-down cars, abandoned farm equipment, or unrecognizable junk. Why don’t people pick this stuff up and recycle it for money? Then as we rode through Stanley, it seemed like a beautiful place for someone to disappear.

  SCRAP MAN

  Jerry stopped in the entrance to the driveway, the diesel engine of his truck rattling. Looking at the sign that read, ‘No trespassing, I will shoot,’ he put it in gear. “I hope this works.”

  He eased up the winding drive, splashing through puddles of freshly melted slush, the evergreen trees brushing both sides of the truck. Jun
e, but it snowed last night. Two more turns and the house appeared, a run-down log place littered with broken appliances, farm equipment, and tools.

  As he shut the truck off and stepped out, a man with wild scraggly gray hair kicked the door open and pointed a shotgun at him. He racked a shell into the gun and said, “Can’t you read?”

  Holding up his hands, he gave the guy his widest smile. “Just picking up scrap steel. Been working up the mountain. Did Lowman last week, and now working Stanley.”

  The gun didn’t move. But the guy’s eyes lost that killing look.

  “Got me a shears on a little excavator,” he pointed back to the trailer. “Cut it up, take it to the recycler. I do all the work and split the money with you. You get half the cash, the yard cleaned up, I sell the steel, and we both win.” He spat a brown streak onto the ground. “Win-win situation.”

  The gun wavered. The guy lowered it. “How much money?”

  He shrugged. “How much stuff?”

  Looking left and right he said, “Lots.”

  “Can I put my hands down?”

  “Oh. Sure.” He lowered the gun, stepped off the wooden deck, and held out his hand. “Mike. Mike Lyme. Like lime but with a y. I heard about you at the store the other day.”

  “Jerry Sanders. Nice to meet you.” The man’s hand felt wiry and calloused, with a crushing grip. Jerry smashed back.

  “Sorry about the gun. I like my privacy.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll show you around.”

  They wandered around the area as Mike pointed out relics and told the stories. “Tractor. Broke the transmission.” It lay rusting under a pine tree. “Broke that snowplow. Hit a rock. ’Bout put me through the windshield.” An oven, the door askew. “Crapped out. Picked one up in Boise.”

  “I can cut it down with that shears into manageable pieces and haul it away. Goes to China and they melt it for recycled steel.”

  Mike cursed. “Miserable Chinese. What can you do?”

  “They’re takin’ over this country, all right.”

  “Takin’ over the world, you mean.”

  He watched the wheels turn in the man’s head, probably calculating the money. “I bet you got a thousand bucks worth of steel here. Maybe more.” He scanned the yard and peered at a dilapidated barn. “Got anything in there? More steel, more cash.”

  Jerry watched the guy shift from foot to foot while rubbing his three-day-old beard. These guys always seem to have a three-day growth of beards. So when do they shave?

  “Naw. Just out here.”

  “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll unload and cut up that washer over there. Show you how it works. You like it, we’ll keep going. Otherwise I’ll just load my machine up and be on my way.”

  Mike spat. “Okay.”

  Jerry walked to the machine and removed the chains. He started the little trackhoe, lifted the boom, and tracked it off the trailer. The tracks squealed. He approached the washing machine and extended the shears, then squeezed the pincers around the control panel with the delicacy of a jeweler. “They don’t like the plastic stuff,” he yelled as he pulled the panel away. Next he cut the sides with the claw, slicing each corner to the bottom, then picked them and stacked them atop one another. He moved the claw away, set it down, and jumped out of the machine.

  Mike crossed his arms. “Well, I’ll be. That’s a fine piece of work.” He looked around the yard. “How about that rake?” He pointed at a tractor attachment.

  “I can cut it up, too,” Jerry said, “but we gotta have a deal or else I’ll just load up and go.” He held out his hand. “Deal?”

  Mike took it and squeezed it, hard. “Deal. Let’s get this done.”

  Jerry worked the rest of the day slicing and dicing hulks from the past. Mike found sections of cars behind the barn, a hot water heater inside some heavy brush, and a dilapidated welder deep in the woods. By quitting time the truck held neat piles of scrap and the yard looked three times bigger. Jerry jumped out of the machine. “That’s about all I can take. I’ll run this to the recyclers and get you your money.”

  Mike looked at him sideways. “How do I know you won’t just run off with it?”

  “Well, you can ask anyone in Lowman. Or I can estimate it and pay you now, but I figure low, you know.”

  He kicked at a clod of dirt. “Naw, I’d rather have more. But you better not screw with me.”

  “No problem.”

  “Okay then.”

  Jerry loaded the machine, fired up the truck and put it in gear. “I knew Daddy teaching me all about scrap would come in handy.” He eased the truck and trailer out of the yard.

  ~

  Two weeks later Jerry returned with the machine in tow. He pulled into the yard. Mike opened the door with the shotgun in his hand. Seeing Jerry, he set it in the rocking chair.

  Very good. “I’ve got your money.”

  Mike rubbed his hands together. “Good. How much?”

  “Eight fifty.”

  Mike stopped. The place grew quiet. “I thought you said a thousand.”

  “I got the weight ticket here.” He handed it to him.

  “How do I know you didn’t dump some of it and take it later?”

  “Well, I suppose you could have rode the seven-hour round trip to Boise with me then.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “I can get you more money if you got more stuff.” Jerry surveyed the yard, lacy green weeds cropping up from the dirt already. He noticed the barn and pointed “You got anything in there?”

  Mike rubbed his three-day-old whiskers. Finally he said. “I might.”

  “Well, do you or don’t you?”

  After a pause he nodded. “I do. Need you to cut it up, though, small. It’s a car.”

  “No problem. You got a title?”

  “No.”

  Jerry poked at a shovel with his toe. “Well, then we have to cut it up real small. Mix it with some other stuff. Cost us more to cut it.”

  “Okay.” He wheeled, led him to the barn and slid the door aside with a screech. Jerry followed him in, the darkness yielding to light from the doorway and cracks in the siding. Mike pulled a tarp off a red car.

  Jerry whistled. “Whoa. That’s a... what?”

  “Ninety-one.”

  “Yeah. A Dodge Stealth.” Jerry whistled again.

  Mike stood back and held his arm as if presenting the car, like Vanna White. The machine sat low on its haunches and looked ready to launch. The body looked pristine, the red hood reflecting the light like fresh fingernail polish.

  Jerry whistled. “Nice car. You want to cut it up?”

  “No questions,” he warned. “Cut it small.”

  “Cost you more.”

  “You pushing me?”

  Jerry remembered the shotgun, the remote area, the warning in the man’s eyes.

  “No, no. I do this a lot. Had a pickup in Lowman, a truck outside of Baker City. No problem.”

  The guy nodded. “Okay, then. What’s it all worth?”

  Jerry scanned the area, jammed with compressors, steel tables, tractor and car parts. “So... the rest of this stuff, too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Probably seven hundred. It’s a guesstimate, but I’ll give you the weight tickets and we’ll settle up at the end. Just like last time.”

  “Don’t screw me.”

  “Don’t worry.” He held out his hand, big smile. “Deal?”

  Mike shook it. “Deal. When do you start?”

  “Right now. Tell you what. I’ll go unload the shears. Why don’t you clean out the inside of the car? Be sure to check the trunk; never know what you’ll find. And take those plates off it.”

  “Okay.”

  Jerry strode away.

  ~

  Mike hurried to the passenger side of the shiny red car, opened the door and grabbed paperwork out of the glove box. Excellent! He always feared this car would be his undoing. Someday, someone would come here and identify
the notorious bank robber’s car. Now this guy’s going to cut it up. Floyd Granstrom will be gone and Mike Lyme lives on! Perfect.

  He threw the papers in a barrel. I’ll burn this when he’s gone... I better wipe this car down... prints... can’t be too careful. He snatched a rag off the workbench and wiped the dust off the door, then moved to the driver’s seat.

  ~

  Jerry rounded the corner and out of sight, then ran to the front of the house. He picked up the shotgun from the porch and tossed it in the front seat of his truck and locked it. He peered at the time on his cell phone—2:03—and punched in a text message:

  delta team subject in barn go at 14:06.

  He opened his toolbox on the side of the truck and donned a flak jacket and helmet. He checked the breech in his rifle and headed for the barn. “After seventeen years, Floyd Granstrom… I got you.”

  He stopped at the corner of the house and waited for the team. They appeared from every corner. Woody, Thomsen, Miller, and Calhoun. He held up two fingers to his eyes and then to the barn, and they moved in. Miller broke the door, Calhoun yelled, “Police! Put your hands up!” while Jerry and Thomsen got behind him. Granstrom stepped out of the car and Calhoun said, “Get on the floor. Now!” Jerry cuffed him.

  ~

  The team cleaned up the area, taking prints, guns, knives, and searched for evidence. Sitting on the step of his truck, Jerry was filling out a report when Miller opened the front door and yelled, “Bingo! We found the cash.” He brought a scuffed briefcase, set it on the trailer deck, and opened it. Dollar bills sat in neat piles.

  “Doesn’t look like two million,” Jerry took a bundle and flicked through it.

  “There’s plenty more. Another briefcase and two suitcases. Smells like mildew, under the floorboards all this time.”

  “It would buy stuff, all the same.” Jerry returned the cash. “Funny, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “The guy got away with two million dollars, and we tripped him up with the promise of a couple thousand.”

  Miller clipped the briefcase shut. “Just goes to show you.”

  “What?”

  “Doesn’t matter how much money a crook has. Always wants more.”

  Utah

  We rode through Panguitch on our ‘50 States’ adventure, where they celebrate Quilt Walk, remembering nineteenth century Mormon pioneers who got caught in a fierce winter of snowstorms and almost perished. They knelt and prayed, found an unusual answer to their prayers, and the rest, as they say, is history. I took artistic license here, so please, don’t sue me. Note: No quilts were injured in the writing of this story.