by Jack Tunney
It was a place some people lived their whole lives and never left.
I pulled my Mercury into an open space outside a small diner and got out to stretch my legs. I wanted a hot shower. The kind where the water didn’t turn cold in a minute, and where there weren’t a dozen pairs of eyes watching. But more than that, I wanted a hot meal. Something served on a plate with real silverware – not slopped in lumps on a metal tray. Something I could recognize and taste.
Like a burger or a steak.
Maybe both, I thought.
I slid onto a stool at the counter. The waitress hurried toward s a corner booth, balancing plates on both arms.
I flashed a smile and picked up a menu.
“Be with you in a minute, hon,” she called, although I didn’t care. I was in no hurry and , like the song said, had no particular place to go.
I started with an order of chicken fried steak, green beans, and mashed potatoes, with gravy on the side. The vegetables were something different. You couldn’t pay me to eat one as a kid and the ones we got in prison were lifeless and chewy. These were so good I asked for another helping. The waitress slid a basket of biscuits towards me and I finished them in a couple of bites.
I polished off everything on my plate and told her I’d take a cheeseburger and fries when she asked if I wanted desert.
“Most people order pie,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
“That’ll be next,” I said.
“You won’t be disappointed.”
The apple pie was as good as she said, especially with the big scoop of vanilla ice cream she dropped on the plate. As I stuck my fork into the last bite, the waitress came back, wiping the counter and smiling.
“Haven’t seen someone eat that way in a long time,” she said.
“Been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal.”
“Wouldn’t exactly call this home-cooked.”
I smiled and shrugged. “Close enough for me.”
“Far away from home?”
“Haven’t really had a home in a long time,” I said.
She leaned over the counter. She was mid-forties and had dark hair pulled back in a bun, and although she looked trim, there were miles on her face and hands.
“Where are you headed?”
I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “No place special,” I said. “Guess I’m trying to find a place where I can settle down, find a nice job, and get on with my life.”
Something about that made her straighten up and give me the once over. Closer than when I sat down.
I had spent three years thinking about what I would tell people when they asked where I had been. I knew the question would come up sooner or later. Tell somebody you just got out of prison and they looked at you differently. But I had been taught to tell the truth, even when it hurt or made life uncomfortable. I figured it was time to give that a try.
“I’ve been away for the past couple of years,” I said, putting down my fork and pushing my plate to the side. “Made a stupid mistake and spent the last three years paying for it.” I looked her in the eye. “I’ve got an opportunity to do things differently,” I added, “and that’s what I’m going to do. Looking for a clean start.”
She nodded. She moved down the counter to take another customer’s order, and when she came back she had another piece of pie.
“I can box this up, if you want to eat it later,” she said.
I nodded and said thanks.
“Do you have a place to go? Some place to stay?”
I shook my head. “Not yet,” I said. “Looking for a job, too. I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“If you need a place to stay, my house is a couple of blocks away,” she said, sweeping some crumbs off the counter then wiping her hands on a towel. “I rent rooms for seven dollars a week. If you want meals on Saturdays and Sundays, it’ll cost nine dollars. It’s not much, but it’ll give you a place to start. Flat River’s as good a place as any to call home,” she said.
I could feel my face turning red. “I don’t know what to say,” I said. “Thank you.”
She smiled. “You remind me of my boy,” she said. “The way you eat like that. My boy Tommy was the same way. Like he had a bottomless pit inside his stomach.”
“Sure would like to meet him,” I said.
Something changed and her voice softened. “Lost him in Korea.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Without him, the house was just big and empty,” she said. “I take in a couple of boarders now and then, and suddenly it doesn’t seem so empty. Or lonely. There’s Mr. Frank who works at the bank and Miss Jefferson at the Rexall,” she said. “Hardly hear a peep out of either one of them. Don’t think they’ll even know you’re around.”
I thanked her again. She forced a smile and scribbled something on a paper napkin, then slid if towards me. “This is the address,” she said. “If you want to swing by after seven, I can show you your room and give you a key.”
“That would be great,” I said.
“If you’re looking for work, you might check down at the Esso on Main Street,” she added. “If you came into town off the Interstate, you passed it at the light.”
“Great.”
“Ask for Mr. Roach. He’s always looking for somebody to pump gas and clean windshields,” she said. “It may not be much, but it’ll put a couple of dollars in your wallet. As long as you’re dependable, he’ll take a chance on you.”
I got up and put a couple of dollars on the counter, along with another dollar for the tip.
“My name’s Nancy Lester,” she said, scooping up the bills and putting them in an apron pocket.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lester,” I said. “I’m Billy Flood.”
“Good to meet you, Billy.”
“I really appreciate this,” I said.
“I’m not doing anything I wouldn’t want somebody else doing for my boy if he was in the same spot,” she said. Her eyes glistened and she turned away quickly. “I’ll see you later, Billy.”
ROUND EIGHT
My room at Mrs. Lester’s house wasn’t anything fancy. Most people would have said it was plain and simple. A bed with a patterned bedspread, flowery curtains over the windows, and a small, wobbly three drawer wooden dresser that was missing a knob. A small nightstand with a ceramic lamp was next to the bed. After my stay as a guest in the Missouri State Prison system, this room was like a Michigan Avenue hotel in downtown Chicago. Mrs. Lester gave me a key, pointed toward the bathroom down the hall, and told me I could use the phone at the bottom of the stairs whenever I needed it. She figured I would bump into the other boarders, but promised to introduce me if I hadn’t met them by the weekend.
After she left I opened the window and collapsed on the bed. It was like heaven. I had forgotten what a soft mattress, pillow, and clean sheets felt like. Outside birds were chirping, and a breeze blew in through the window.
A car rumbled past the house.
Somewhere down the street I could hear the voices of kids playing in a yard.
It felt the way I always imagined a home would feel.
The next morning I showed up early at the gas station like Mrs. Lester told me. Except for the Esso sign, it looked just like Gleason’s. There were a pair of dirty boots sticking out from beneath a Buick and I could hear the sound of a socket wrench working on the transmission. I stepped on the air hose by the pumps. When the bell clanged inside the station, the rest of the mechanic’s body slid out from under the car.
A tall, broad shouldered man in his mid-forties stood up. He had a buzz cut like the ones Marines wore, and arms that bulged under his work shirt. A hard, no-nonsense expression. He was a heavyweight squeezed into a shirt that would have been tight on a middleweight.
Inside the ring he might have given Tommy Knuckles a run for his money, and outside he was just as intimidating.
He squinted into the sun. “Help you with something, son?”
“I’m looki
ng for Mr. Roach,” I said.
“You got him,” he said, wiping a pair of greasy hands on his blue coveralls and sticking the wrench in a back pocket. “What can I do for you?
“Heard from Mrs. Lester at the diner you might be looking for some help. Thought I would apply,” I said. “If the job’s still open.”
“How do you know Mrs. Lester?”
“I’m renting a room from her,” I said. “She said to look you up.”
“You know anything about cars?”
“Worked in a garage outside St. Louis a couple years back,” I said. “Pumped gas. Changed tires. Worked under the hoods. A little bit of this and a little bit of that.”
Mr. Roach arched his eye brows. “That so? What brings you to Flat River?” he asked. “Why not stay in St. Louis? I would think a guy your age could find everything he wants up there?”
“Need a fresh start,” I said. ““Mrs. Lester says Flat River is a good place to get the kind of fresh start I want.”
Mr. Roach grinned and shook his head. “Nancy loves this town,” he said, “but that’s because she’s been here her whole life. Don’t think she ever got out of the county. Give her a taste of the big city and she might change her mind.”
“Seems like a nice town,” I said, looking up and down the street.
“Not a lot goes on around Flat River,” he said.
“That’s exactly what I need.”
Mr. Roach eyed me carefully. I kept smiling as I looked around the shop, taking it all in. The cabinets filled with tools, the tires stacked in racks, and the shelves filled with oil and lubricants were familiar. There was comfort in that.
“Had a string of guys show up here, saying they wanted to work,” he finally said. “Stuck around long enough to grab a paycheck and some bucks from the register when I wasn’t looking. Disappeared before the ink on the check was dry.”
I looked him square in the eyes. “I’m not that kind of guy. I got in some trouble and had to pay for it,” I said. “I’m trying to keep my nose clean and turn over a new leaf.”
“You’re not one of those guys, goes looking for a fight, are you?”
I shook my head.
“You drink?”
“A Bud now and then,” I said. “I’m a boxer. Beer doesn’t do me much good in the ring.”
Mr. Roach locked eyes with me. “Is that what happened?” he asked. “Got problems with your fists?”
“No sir.”
I started to tell him about St. Louis, Donny Wayne, and stealing cars, but he held up a hand to stop me. “As long as you’re not one of those guys who goes out to the bar, drinks away his paycheck, then starts up with anybody who looks at him the wrong way,” he said. “Got enough guys like that around here. Don’t need another one.”
“No sir,” I said again; firm this time. “I’m not like that.”
“About that time away,” Mr. Roach said slowly. “Guess if you served your time and the good state of Missouri is satisfied, it’s good enough for me. It ain’t my place to judge something someone else did.”
Mr. Roach looked me over for a second or two, sizing me up like guys did the first time you went toe to toe in the ring – trying to figure out what I had under the hood and what made me tick.
He wasn’t any different really than Old Man Gleason. He was just trying to see what made my motor run.
“The job pays a dollar an hour,” he finally said, hooking his thumbs inside the coveralls. “The day starts at seven sharp. Think you can be here on time?”
I nodded and smiled.
“I don’t want to be standing here with a line of cars waiting to be filled up, wondering where you are,” he said. “And I’m not calling Nancy Lester to find out if you’re still in bed. You get here on time.”
“You pump gas and check oil and clean windshields on every car that pulls in,” he said. “Get it right and don’t mess up, and maybe we’ll see about turning you loose on some repairs.”
“I’d like that.”
“I said, maybe. Have to see what you got.”
“I won’t let you down.”
“We’ll give it a couple of days and see how it goes,” he said. “You don’t screw up too much, and we’ll look at making it permanent.”
I kept nodding.
“Got somebody I can call if I want to check up on you?”
I swallowed. “I can give you the name of the place I worked in Clayton,” I offered. “I stopped by on my way here, but Mr. Gleason isn’t doing too well, and I’m not sure the guy running the shop will be a good reference. But you can call if you want.”
Mr. Roach thought for a moment, and then gave a small shrug. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll do this on faith,” he said. “You do what I need you to do and keep your hands out of the till, and we’ll see how it goes.” He nodded. “Hard work that I can see for myself is better than hearing what somebody who used to know you might say.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“What’s your name?”
“Billy,” I said. “Billy Flood.”
Mr. Roach stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Billy Flood,” he said. “Be here at seven Monday morning and we’ll see what you got.”
ROUND NINE
It was an easy job.
There was nothing hard about pumping gas – no different than when I worked at Gleason’s. It’s the kind of job you don’t forget how to do.
It didn’t take long to settle in at the Esso. I showed up before seven every day, Monday through Saturday. On days when Mr. Roach needed me to work late, I did it without complaining. I made sure I cleaned every car’s windows, checked the oil without being told, and smiled at customers the way Mr. Roach wanted.
“Folks around here appreciate courtesy and extra service,” he told me that first morning. “Little things make a difference. Keeps them coming back here instead of the Texaco down the block.”
Within days, he had me rotating tires, and by the end of the week I was inside the garage changing oil. Had me fiddle around on a transmission and work on a muffler or two. Then he turned me loose on an old DeSoto that needed a ton of repairs, just to see what I could do. Before long I was under the hood almost as much as he was. By the end of the month, he had bumped up my pay by ten cents an hour. Along with the pay raise, I got new blue work shirts with my name sewn on the chest and an Esso Gas cap.
“Hard to believe you didn’t grow up around cars,” he said one day. “You got a good feel for how they run.”
My face was buried in a V-8. “Didn’t get behind the wheel until I was fifteen or sixteen,” I said. “But I was always curious about stuff. Liked knowing how things worked.”
Later that day, he stood by the pumps shooting the breeze with one of his customers while I hurried around the guy’s Chevy. The old man watched me like a hawk, even while he carried on his conversation with Mr. Roach. I cleaned his windows, checked the tires, then got under the hood to look at the oil.
“Might need a quart pretty soon,” I said, showing him the dipstick. “But I think you can make it a week. Won’t hurt the car none.”
The guy gave me a nod and smiled at Mr. Roach. “Got yourself an honest one here, Archie,” he said. “Kid down at the Texaco tried getting me to put in two quarts the other day.”
“You don’t need it,” I said. “Besides, I’d hate to see you waste money.”
“I think you understand more than just cars,” Mr. Roach told me later.
Life in Flat River fell into a comfortable routine the same way it did in prison. Days at the garage, dinner most nights at the diner, and back home to read before turning out the lights. I got myself a library card, and made friends with the kid at the newspaper store who always got me copies of Hot Road and the other car magazines when they came out. As May turned into June, faces around town became familiar and I didn’t feel like a stranger.
Some nights Mrs. Lester came home early and invited me down to the living room to watch TV. She was fond of I Lov
e Lucy and The Milton Berle Show. I was Gunsmoke and 77 Sunset Strip, but I didn’t mind.
After three years inside, it was nice sharing conversations that weren’t filled with anger and threats.
After a couple of weeks, Mr. Roach invited me to his home for Sunday dinner. “Think you might enjoy a home cooked meal, and my wife’s a pretty good cook,” he said. “The food’s as good as any place in Flat River.”
The food was better than any restaurant, and it wasn’t long before I became a regular Sunday guest. I filled my plate with so much food at every meal, I worried about moving from middleweight to heavyweight in a few months.
Mrs. Roach was a looker. An hour glass figure and a Veronica Lake hair style and, when she flipped the bangs out of her face, she had sparkle in her eyes that dropped you in your tracks. The only problem with meals at the Roach house was she was determined to set me up on a date with her niece Sally.
“She’s a nice girl,” she said.
Mr. Roach shook his head. “Martha. Billy can make his own dates,” he said. “Don’t go sticking your nose in his business.”
She crossed her arms and fired a killer stare at him. “Archie,” she said sharply. “He’s never going to meet anyone if all he ever does is work in that garage. The boy needs a life.”
“So, tell me about ypur boxing career, ” Mr. Roach asked one afternoon while we shared a couple of bottles of Dr. Pepper.
Sometimes when it got too hot inside the shop, Mr. Roach would grab a couple bottles of pop out of the cooler, pull up two chairs, and shoot the breeze. Other times, he hand me a bottle while I was working on a car. He was good about things that way.
I told him about boxing back in Chicago, and my journey through the middleweight ranks. I wiped the sweat off my face and went back to yanking on a wrench, trying to work a bolt loose.