PLACES; Eight Place Stories

by Ralph Bowden

  *****

  When Robbie and Farool finally left, about one, both were pretty wasted. Robbie had a lot of practice with the swinging door, but it whacked Farool twice before he made it through. Then he tripped on the threshold and finally had to crawl down the three steps to the parking lot to avoid falling. This experience brought his condition home to him.

  "Heeeey, I guess I haven't had this mush in a long time. Mush! Yesh, on you hushkies. Or is it cornmeal? Whatever, I think I need a bit of air and some stable and absorbent soil to pee on. Like a giant diaper, the earth is, soaking up beer processed by humanity. I say, is that buggy of yours trained to find its way home, or does it require guidance?"

  Robbie, struggling hard to show how sober and in control he was, managed to help Farool to his feet and then lurched toward his truck, using the few cars left in the parking lot for support.

  "Hit runs just fine, why I can . . . "

  Then they both spotted the sheriff's cruiser in a dark corner of the parking lot, near the public phone, lights off, but motor running.

  The implications began to percolate through Robbie's fog. "Hey, thass not fair. Give a man a fighting chance, why don't he? Dep'ty's never done that before. Shit, what's he expect us to do, walk?"

  "Well, as a matter of fact, I was leaning in that direction anyway, though actually I'm leaning in a lot of directions at once at the moment, and that might prove to be a problem. But it can't be more than about five hundred miles, can it? Surely, we could" – Farool fell against a car and hung on to the side mirror to avoid going down again – "maybe lope along on all fours and make it by Sunday morning – when I will become a Baptist and be washed of my sins in front of the whole sinless congregation."

  "Ain't no way I'm gonna let some fat-assed cop keep me from my truck. My truck and me can make it through anything, and . . ."

  "Ah, prudence! And what a marvelous opportunity to learn something of the law's intentions and practices. Oi!," Farool held up a finger, "I will speak upon the officer." He struggled to reset his feet under him and wobbled off in the general direction of the patrol car.

  "Hey man, he'll bust you for public drunk!"

  "Surely not. I'll wager he is a gen'rous gentleman like our friend Pete, as full of the milk of human compassion as I am of beer." He reached the cruiser, steadied himself on the spotlight, rapped on the windshield politely and called out "Ahoy, good sir, art thou within?"

  After a second, the light inside came on as the door opened and a burly deputy stepped out. He shone a flashlight on Farool.

  "My neighbor and I wish to express our deepest gratitude. Your timely presence has saved us from ourselves. Bad judgment it was on our part to consume to excess. Worse judgment would it have been to attempt to drive home. Now we shall walk and drink in the pure night air to clear our senses. Might I ask, sir, whether this represents a new policy on the part of the sheriff's office? That is to say, can we count on your presence at this time and place on future Saturday evenings? Such an assurance would do much to temper the untamed revelry which otherwise might burst forth into hideous highway carnage."

  Robbie was crouching behind a car just near enough to hear Farool's speech. He could not catch what the deputy mumbled back at Farool, though he could imagine the stupid look on his face.

  "Excellent!" Farool replied to whatever the deputy had said. "Surely it is a reasoned and wise policy. Please convey my compliments to the sheriff and assure him of my continued support at the next election. And let me emphasize that I say this not out of cynicism but of conviction. I personally will spread the word to my friends, the good patrons of Pete's Place, and exhort them to prudence, moderation, and respect of your authority. Again, may I count on your presence here a week from this time and place to back up my efforts?"

  The deputy mumbled something unintelligible.

  "I see. So your exact location at any time depends on calls to and dispatches from the sheriff's office. You cannot therefore guarantee exactly where you will be at any time? But are you generally assigned to a particular part of the county? How soon would a call, should I make one about this time of night, typically elicit your presence?"

  More mumbles.

  "Would such a call be regarded as a legitimate concern? For example, suppose I saw several obviously inebriated individuals such as myself and my neighbor," Farool looked around to try to spot Robbie, "preparing to take to the road, endangering themselves and possibly other innocent citizens. If I called the sheriff's dispatcher would I need to identify myself? Would I be cited for a false alarm if said inebriated individuals slipped through your most competent scrutiny by some chance?"

  This time the deputy was almost audible.

  "Wul, if youall was clearly intoxicated and turned in a frivolous call, we would be obliged to apprehend you on a charge of public drunkeness, and . . . ."

  "Yes, certainly – and justifiably. Capricious occupation of law enforcement, willfully diverting it from the possible prevention of potential big-game crime would clearly be most reprehensible."

  Robbie stayed crouched down behind the car. What the hell was Farool talking about? And how could he, drunk as he was, string long words together like that? Surely the deputy would haul Farool in for bullshitting him or whatever they called it in legal talk.

  "I'm sure all concerned citizens appreciate your efforts, and I personally appreciate your candor. We will now be on our way . . . "

  Fortunately, at that moment, the deputy's radio began squawking and he ducked inside the cruiser. Farool turned loose of the spotlight, and lurched from one car to another back toward Robbie's truck. Robbie, still trying to stay crouched down and out of the deputy's line of sight, slunk in the same direction, reaching the truck at the same time as Farool.

  "Hey. Get in," Robbie called, sotto voce, and opened the driver's door for himself. Farool stood in front of the truck, grasping the ram's head hood ornament for support.

  "Surely, you don't intend to direct this beast in your present . . . "

  "Hell yes. You think I'd walk? All we have to do is wait ‘til he gets a call to go somewhere else and leaves. Look, there he goes now." The cruiser's lights came on as it squealed out of the parking lot and headed down the road, blue lights flashing. "No sweat. We're going the other way."

  "I forbid it! How could I ride, after all the sublime flatulence I passed at him. Were you not convinced of the folly?"

  "Oh come on, get in. I'll take it slow and easy."

  "And by the road the whole way?" Farool demanded.

  "Yeah, sure."

  Farool went around, got in and fumbled in vain for the seat belt as Robbie started the truck and pulled out.

  Farool was uncharacteristically quiet. Robbie managed to keep the truck on the road for the most part, though it did sway and jerk in response to his coarse steering. Finally, as they approached the turnoff to Buford, Farool requested, "Perhaps you had better let me out. I fear I may foul your truck. Crawling in the gutter will purge my soul and revitalize my constitution."

  Robbie pulled to a stop. "No way, man. If you're gonna puke, okay, I'll wait. You'd never make it the rest of the way."

  Farool got out and promptly fell on his hands and knees in the ditch, retching and coughing. Robbie got out, found a more or less clean rag behind the seat, and went around to the ditch where he wiped Farool off and helped him back in.

  By the time they pulled into Robbie's driveway, Farool was semi-conscious.

  "I'll jusht shleep it off here," was all he could mutter. But Robbie dragged him out, hauled him across the yard to the back door, found his keys and, despite his own rough condition, somehow managed to open the door and get Farool to his bed. As he locked the door behind him and staggered across the yard to his own house, Robbie was dimly conscious of strange feelings. He had actually helped someone who needed it, someone worse off than he. The role was unfamiliar. He had played it several times in the service but it had not seemed as personally threatening then.
r />   The Keller Range Plant

  The quality control conveyor at the Keller Range plant started at 7 a.m. sharp. Finished stoves jerked into motion. Lola turned on all four elements of the first one and set the tester on them in her practiced sequence, sidestepping to keep up with the next. It was a routine she knew well; she'd done it for three years before last December, when Sherri started and Lola had transferred to the touchup spray booth.

  Mr. Coates walked by and stopped to watch as Lola checked the second unit. Without turning to look, she could feel his frown. He took his job as quality control supervisor seriously, never smiling, never joking around.

  Little Jim scurried up and started making excuses. Lola couldn't hear what he said over the general plant racket, but she knew Little Jim. He'd been hanging on as foreman of the QC line with excuses for years. The conversation was probably going:

  Mr. Coates: "Has Sherri called in?"

  Little Jim: "She'll be here any minute. She told me her car has been iffy. Lola can cover."

  Mr. Coates: "I thought she was on warning. Didn't personnel . . ."

  Little Jim: "That's expired. She's been real reliable this last little while."

  Mr. Coates: "Um."

  Out of the corner of her eye, Lola saw Mr. Coates walk on past, toward his office up front. She knew what would happen now. Mr. Coates would call personnel and find Sherri had been late punching in two or three days a week all summer. He would sigh, but do his duty, calling in Little Jim, informing him non-confrontationally, non-judgmentally but firmly that Sherri needed a second warning. Little Jim would protest that Sherri was a really good worker, that her husband had been away recently, her kid had been sick. Excuses. Mr. Coates would listen, look serious and a little sad, but insist, and provide the warning form for Little Jim to give Sherri.

  Later that morning, after Sherri finally showed up and Lola was back in the touchup booth, she saw Little Jim again, and knew it was happening according to her script. Probably between scenes two and three; Little Jim had seen Mr. Coates, but hadn't given Sherri the warning yet. He looked as joyful as a Calcutta leper. His bald spot glistened with sweat even though the plant was still cooler than usual. Clouds were holding back the Kentucky summer.

  Husband Joe came around during break. Lola told him what had happened. He looked disgusted. "And I suppose Little Jim will wait until the end of the shift to do it. You'd think he'd want to get it over with. What's he care?"

  "You don't see it? Plain as anything. He's stuck on Sherri. Always hanging around like he's waiting for her to come into heat."

  Joe snickered. "That's my girl. Talking like some hussy. At your age. What would your Sunday school class think?"

  "Well, that's really what it is. She has that available look about her, you know," Lola said.

  "She is real cute . . . though sorta trashy."

  "That's better." Lola changed the subject to Nancy and Sam coming over with the grandbaby that evening and the doll clothes she needed to finish.

  Just before lunch, Lola caught sight of the electric fork truck from the warehouse zipping by the touchup booth. The new guy. Lola didn't know his name but remembered the gossip – that he’d landed this job through some relative on the board of directors even though he’d just got out of jail. She thought there was a wild, shifty look in his dark eyes. He wasn't much otherwise. Skinny, old acne scars, and needing a shave and a haircut – at least by Lola's standards. She peeked out to watch. The fork truck skidded to a stop by the QC line. Sherri looked around and came alive. Wild-Eye grunted and gestured. Sherri chattered, letting two ranges pass without testing, punching in the bypass code that she wasn’t supposed to know – Little Jim had probably provided it. Then the line shut down for lunch, and Sherri and Wild-Eye rode off together on the fork truck – strictly against the rules.

  At lunch, Joe was on a maintenance call. One of the punch presses was down. As top troubleshooter, he would be tied up until it was on-line again. Lola ate with Maria, the other girl in the touchup booth, and Phyllis, who had the station next after Sherri in the final QC test line.

  "Little Jim is such a wimp," Phyllis complained. "He's not doing her any good, letting her get away with stuff like he does. Did you see her ride off with that creep from the warehouse? He's only been here a week. Didn't take him long to spot her. She told me she thinks he's a hunk."

  "Yuk!" Maria stuck her finger down her throat as if to throw up. "She's a tramp. That's all there is to it. Just look at her! Bottle blond, all that makeup, and I’m sure she’s had a boob job."

  Lola didn't say much. She had standards about gossip. But she couldn't help wondering what Wild-Eye and Sherri were up to. When she finished her salad and deviled egg, she walked to the loading dock to check what it was doing outside (raining, lightly) and to look in at the warehouse. The three warehouse guys and Jerry, of security, were doing a hand of hearts, as usual. The two propane fork trucks were parked nearby, but no electric truck, and there was no sign of Wild-Eye or Sherri. If they had gone somewhere, Wild-Eye would have left the fork truck at the loading dock. So they were probably still in the plant. Maybe back among the warehouse racks? No, that would have meant driving by the hearts players. Jerry would surely have written them up for riding two on a truck.

  Lola checked her watch. The line would start again in ten minutes, and she needed to use the ladies’ room. She hesitated briefly, then turned and darted down the aisle beside the warehouse wall into a dark, unused area of the plant toward the old foundry. The EPA had declared the foundry contaminated ten years before. Rather than clean it up, the plant owners had sealed it off. The few cast iron parts they still needed for stoves could be imported cheaper anyway. The last time Lola was back here, the roll-up door had a padlock on each side. Now the door was closed, but the locks were gone. Squatting in the dimness, she saw tire tracks in the dust. That was enough. She scurried out through the derelict machinery to the light and noise of the main production lines.

  Back at QC, Little Jim was at the control panel and sweating. It showed through his shirt. Phyllis stood at her station, just putting out her cigarette. But no Sherri, so the line couldn’t start. She was already a minute late. Lola put on her respirator while wondering how long Little Jim would wait.