Streams Of Yesterday

by W.H. Harrod

Not bad. Not bad at all. You’re getting better and better at this ‘alienating the entire world’ crap. This time you succeeded in getting a man of God so mad he wanted to kill you with his food. There are millions of ordinary, mean-spirited ass holes in the world, but they’re mere slackers when compared to you, my friend. You are something special in deed.

  I paused for a moment in my effort to update my personal self-inventory file with my most recent relationship disaster. I searched for the right word or phrase to describe this most recent debacle. I had pushed right up against the limits of the universe of known inappropriate behaviors. Mostly I piss people off real bad, but this time my victim bludgeoned me with his food.

  Think about it. Here you are sitting alone on a filthy roadside picnic table, right smack in the geographical center of the country and miles from another living human being with only a half pack of Zingers and a bottle of water to get you through the night and without even a scrap of toilet paper. Do you think it’s essential to piss off every single human being on the planet? Do you always have to tell them how it really is?

  I soon realized this useless harangue was getting me nowhere. I’d chastised myself too often before with no positive results. I was right about my not giving a big crap. This still puzzled me somewhat because I hadn’t always thought this way. I’d made lots of friends over the years. Once a friendly enough and occasionally funny guy, I think some people even liked me. I don’t know what happened, but now I think the entire planet sucks. I don’t trust anyone. Nor do I believe anyone, and now I’m all by myself in this screwed up world. But as I said, I’m only slightly puzzled because down deep I believe I know the reason. I believe it’s because I know the truth. And what is that truth? It’s rather simple: In the scope of this unfathomable universe, the so-called intelligent creatures inhabiting or rather soiling this grain of sand called earth, in actuality, are merely a slightly more advanced form of destructive bacteria with an inflated sense of self-importance and a penchant for perpetuating ancient superstitions. That’s it! And when I tell this to people, most of them decide they don’t want to talk to me anymore.

  But screw’em! It’s not that big a loss because I don’t think I cared that much for the whole bunch of them anyway. There were exceptions. For instance, I love my daughter although my absences from her life indicated otherwise, and now that she’s an adult, she is paying me back by excluding me from her life. I also thought an awful lot of my ex-wife in my own screwed up way. I know it wasn’t love because I’ve been told that selfish and self-centered people like me don’t love. We only want to control things. Control is very important to people of my ilk, and if you can’t control it, then get the hell away because someday whatever it is may turn on you and hurt you.

  I paid no attention to the passage of time or the thought of getting up to hitch a ride to the next county metropolis a dozen miles away. I couldn’t let go of this insane event even though much earlier I convinced myself that I was the one in the right. I was the one a so-called man of God assaulted. That’s as far as the conversation needed to go. End of discussion, the man beat me with meat!

  Yet, I refused to let this most recent incident pass. I sat there going over the numerous times during my life when I found it necessary to tell misinformed individuals how things really are. I recalled a lifetime of instances where it became essential for me to enlighten the blasphemer of the truth as the truth giver knowist it. Even when speaking up caused ill feelings from the person being brought to task, I pressed on with my truth mission. But ultimately to what purpose? What good has making sure others know how you think and feel about any of a million subjects served?

  All of a sudden, I felt a profound sense of aloneness. My mind ceased churning the same pathetic facts over and over in my brain. I knew instinctively and perhaps for the first time in many years that there must be something better than this. I could not say what, but I knew I didn’t want to go on this way. As I pondered this thought, the surrounding sea of golden wheat appeared before my eyes as if I never noticed its presence before. As I gazed into the horizon, golden stalks of wheat swayed in the gentle breeze creating the momentary sensation of my standing on the shore of a vast ocean. In a sense, I did stand on the shore of an ocean all by myself, and I knew that I must find a way to cross if I wanted to go on living. Maybe I did arrive late in life to an idea as basic as this, but, nevertheless, the obvious way out of this screwed up existence now lay before me. Either I make the crossing or give it up.

  “So what are you going to do?” I asked aloud as I stood up from the picnic table. My options were few and, at the time, unattractive. I could stay there and perish from thirst and starvation or start walking towards the west to my next planned stop in Montana. But considering my penchant for losing friends and influencing people to try to hurt me, I decided I should think about the idea for a moment or even two. For as I recalled, the Preacher, who until his most recent moment of blind rage, was a person of even temperament. How might the evangelical group who owned the RV park and awaited my presence in Montana react under the same circumstances? Most of those people up the road were fanatics and survivalists. They might stick moose horns on my head and give me a five-minute head start. Going north didn’t make much sense, at least until I found away to allow myself to live among humans and keep my mouth shut.

  I realized affecting a change would not come about easily, much less overnight. I needed time to concentrate on the matter and get a handle on my antisocial thoughts. The only solution that came to mind urged me to turn around and head south to the Texas coast, back to my RV trailer waiting in storage in Aransas Pass. A quick call ahead to the RV park owner where I wintered every year between September and May is all it would take to get my rig out of storage and set up on a pad only two rows away from the park’s spa and pool.

  “Are you sure you want to live down there during the heat and humidity of the summer in an old RV that doesn’t have reliable conditioning?” I asked this question in a tone of voice that obviated my distaste at this prospect becoming a reality. South Texas in the summer did not strike me as a pleasant place for anyone with an aversion to sweat and humidity. People did not sweat in south Texas, they leaked!

  This new problem roamed around in my addled brain trying to secure a foothold along side other ideas making any sense as I became aware of the sound of tires rolling across the gravel lot separating me and my most recent new home from the highway. Still engrossed in my newest dilemma involving future travel arrangements, I felt a sense of irritation at the possibility of being distracted before I completed revising my plans. Can’t this driver see that the only picnic table at this rest stop is occupied? Maybe it’s the good Sheriff coming back to finish –

  My intended sarcastic response evaporated as the vehicle coming towards me rolled to a stop not ten feet from where I stood in front of the picnic table. I admit I was prepared for any weird occurrence given the way my day had gone so far. But not this. Looking dead at me through the dirty windshield of his banged up old pickup was none other than Preacher Roy.

  I’d expected anything but this. What should I do? Stay there and wait for him to finish the job he started earlier? Is he still packing meat? This is not funny, you idiot, I cautioned myself as I monitored every movement of the now glowering former man of peace. The Preacher did not move even an eyelash. Neither did I as I stared back. But I did not stand there doing nothing. I reviewed every escape plan imaginable. I realized my possibilities were limited. I could climb the tree— the only tree in sight for miles in any direction. But what if he’s packing something more lethal than a sausage? I could also run in any direction, as the terrain was parking lot flat no matter which way I looked. But I realized that sooner or later I would ultimately have to come down from the tree. Also, he could follow me in his truck no matter which direction I ran. I decided to wait for him to move first.

  It seemed an eternity until I heard the unmistakable sound of the banged up, old pickup’s
creaky door start to open. The pounding in my chest betrayed my unexpected attempts to portray the innocent man determined to be steadfast in the face of further injustice. See what he has in his hands before you make your move.

  With the truck door now open, the Preacher rotated his torso preparing to exit. Steady, man! Steady, I reminded myself. I could feel my spine stiffening. Here is where I would make my stand, I decided, having succumbed to an unexpected rush of testosterone. Let the forces of ignorance flail away to their sick mind’s content. For on this day a single man would stand up and say enough! Not one step further will I concede to the evildoers of religious dogma. From this day forward I—

  The menacing mass emerging from the truck turned to face me. I wasn’t ready for the sight I beheld— not that of a crazy man intent upon ridding the world of a godless heathen but, instead, a blubbering supplicant pleading for forgiveness.

  “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “Please forgive me.” Blubber. Blubber. Blubber. Blubber. I recoiled in shock. A great blubbering mass stumbled towards me with arms opened wide awaiting an embrace. For a moment, this became an even more frightening scenario. I had prepared myself for a battle. Instead, I now faced the guilt-ridden embrace of a two hundred fifty pound human sprinkler system. Taken by surprise, I stood defenseless while being enveloped within the desperate grasp of a man determined to do whatever it took to secure forgiveness.

  I stood there with my arms hanging helplessly at my side encircled in Preacher Roy’s unyielding grip. His large calloused hands attached to thick muscular arms— the product of a lifetime of toil in the fields— left no doubt as to whom decided when this unexpected love fest ended. The only coherent sounds coming from Preacher Roy in between the gasps and moans were pleas for forgiveness. Once a person manages to break through my highly evolved defense system designed to prevent me from becoming too emotional over other people’s silly problems, I sometimes feel dangerously exposed. Except for the fact I feared the moisture falling on the back of my neck might be snot instead of tears, Preacher Roy had gained my fullest sympathy. What in the heck do I do now? I asked this question more than once as I stood hoping Preacher Roy would soon stop for a break. I realized that as I alone supported the muscular two hundred fifty pound bawling penitent, this might go on for quite awhile.

  My fears were unfounded as I began to sense a lessening of the Preacher’s embrace. I instinctively prepared myself for the awkward moment sure to follow. I have never been good at accepting praise or apologies so I reminded myself to be gracious and not allow the other person to grovel or beg for forgiveness. I liked this about myself. I enjoyed those all too few opportunities where I had the chance to be magnanimous.

  “You’re a cruel son-of-a-bitch, Will Clayton!” The Preacher muttered these words as he stepped away to face me square up.

  Did I miss something here? I asked myself as I backed away to see if the Preacher held anything in his hands. There in front of me stood the same man who seconds before almost drowned me with his tears. What happened to my chance to be magnanimous?

  “Whaaa—” I began as the Preacher wiped his eyes with an oversized red bandana handkerchief.

  “No! No that’s not what I wanted to say,” interrupted the Preacher before I could finish my question. “All I want and need to say is, I am truthfully sorry, and I mean it from the bottom of my heart.” The Preacher looked to be a little more in control of his emotions by this time. Maybe there was yet an opportunity for me to employ my best, oh that’s okay, I understand, demeanor.

  “It’s all right, you don’t have to—” I started once more before again being interrupted.

  “But damn it, that weren’t right. You shouldn’t have said that right there in front of those folks. I can put up with the naysayers and the doubters because that’s my job. Many of those folks are just hanging on by a thread. You pull that rug out from under some of them, and there isn’t no hope left. So I’m sorry, but I had to do it. I hope you will understand and forgive me. I’ll get right down on my knees here in the gravel if you want, Will. I mean it! I’m asking you to forgive a sinner who has been trying all his adult life to be a better man.”

  This time, I waited to see if the Preacher had more to say. Instead he bided his time wiping his red, swollen eye sockets. This, along with his disheveled appearance, led me to believe the man might be sincere. I decided to make one more try.

  “Preacher Roy, your apology is accepted.” Now I intended to enlighten him on my theories regarding the wisdom of not bearing a grudge and also my philosophy on it not being my place to judge and—

  “Oh thank you so much, Will. I just knew you were not the type to bear a grudge. I said that same thing to the Sheriff. I said that man is not the judging type. But the Sheriff said anybody who gets knocked over the head with a sausage is bound to have a grudge. He said I was crazy to come out here to talk to you— that you might bring charges before the sheriff in the next county if I came out here and bothered you again. You’re not going to do that are you, Will? I sure hope you won’t because I, for certain, would have a hard time explaining to my parishioners how I was hauled to jail twice in one day and in different counties no less.”

  Before I could think of anything to say the Preacher crossed over to the picnic table and sat down on the bench several inches from where I stood. He looked to be a man tired beyond his years which I judged to be somewhere in his early fifties. Then he did something that gave me another jolt. He reached into the back pocket of his bib overalls and pulled out a half pint of booze. The best I could tell it looked to be a bottle of vodka. He then proceeded to unscrew the cap and take a long swig of what my old grandpa called the happy juice.

  “Will, I know you must think poorly of me now, and I admit to you that I am not the Christian that I ought to be. I want to let you know that I am trying to become the good man that many people think I am. I know my flock deserves better than me, and if someone would show up around here other than those holier than thou evangelical bible thumping charlatans who are so quick to sit in judgment, I would turn this job over to them in a second. But I can’t because there ain’t no one but me, and these folks are just gettin’ by day to day. They don’t need some pious fraud tellin’ them to pray harder and to be sure to put a little more in the offerin’ plate each Sunday. They need someone to help them find a way out of the messes they’re in. Somebody to tell them there are others who are suffering just like them who are willing to kick in as much as they can to try to find real solutions during this brief time we’re sojourning here on this earth.” Having had his say, the Preacher unscrewed the cap from his bottle and took another drink. This time he offered a drink to his roadside companion.

  I looked down at the hard labor roughened hand holding the half empty liquor bottle before I politely declined his offer.

  “No thanks, Preacher. I don’t drink alcohol.” I reminded him of this knowing we had touched on the subject before. But at the time, I did not know the Preacher took an occasional drink of the firewater that had caused me more than a small amount of trouble way back in my younger days. He caught me looking at the bottle with a puzzled expression and shook his head as he returned the cap to the bottle before putting it back into his rear pocket.

  “I reckon this looks a mite peculiar to you— seeing a preacher sucking on a bottle of liquor, don’t it? And I suppose it won’t help for me to tell you this happens not more than a couple times a year at most. But that’s the truth! I rarely resort to this stuff unless I just get to where I’m about to explode. And as I said, that usually doesn’t happen more than a couple times each year. Today, as you might imagine, was one of those times. I’ll be all right by morning. I have to be. Too many people are depending on me to be there for them. People are losing their jobs, their homes, their savings, and as I understand it, there are even more hard times ahead for us all. So today I needed a little more help than normal. I know what my prospects are in this life, and I ain’t complaining about the c
ards I’ve been dealt. Most days with a little help from my friends and the good book, I make out just fine. Every once in a great while, though, something comes along that really scares me, and I begin to have doubts. When I get real scared like I did today, I sometimes do some crazy things. If this is all there is for all those good folks who are suffering from so much sickness and poverty and sometimes just downright meanness on the part of their fellow man, I suspect, I just don’t want to be here much longer.”

  “Actually Preacher,” I said while he once more wiped his brow with the bandana, “I prefer to do as you do and try to stay out of the judging business. There are enough people around here and everywhere else doing too much judging as far as I’m concerned. I tell myself that all I want to do is live in peace and go about my way. But given this most recent incident where I once more opened my mouth when it served no good purpose, I’m going to have to go somewhere and work on that living in peace part. Before we part, I want to tell you I’m sorry for saying what I did. I realized while I’ve been sitting here alone I did it just to be mean and spiteful and to put you in your place. I didn’t even stop to think who else I might be hurting. I think I’ll just start heading back down to Texas and begin working on my own bad attitude. This has been a learning experience for me, too.”

  Having finished my say, I offered my hand to the Preacher who looked as if he were deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. He never once acknowledged my extended hand.

  “I guess I’ll be going now,” I said attempting to get at least some response from the Preacher before I walked out to the highway to start the first leg of my long journey south. But still no response came. “Well, okay. I’ll see—”

  “Don’t go, Will,” said the Preacher who awoke from his mental wanderings. “Stay here with us for awhile. Give me another chance. I think there might be things we can teach each other. Please!”

  I did not expect this response in a million years. I did not know what to say to the man. His idea sounded so preposterous. Stay here after everything that had happened? That defined insanity. The Sheriff promised to put me in jail if I ever showed my face in town again, and the locals might want to string me up for what I said. This isn’t called the Bible Belt for nothing! There also was the matter of what I would do for work. The harvest season had run its course and most of the custom cutters were on the roads heading north as we spoke. Plus, I needed time alone to rehearse the idea of not being such an opinionated jerk.

  “Thanks Preacher Roy, but—” Once more he abruptly cut me off.

  “Please listen to me for a minute, Will. There’s a job waiting for you in town if you’ll take it. Plus there’s room and board to go with it. This job would be just what you need if you really want to get more involved with others,” pleaded the Preacher.

  “Preacher, I—” still he refused to let me finish.

  “Will, this job is something you told me once you knew something about. Matter-of-fact, you said you once operated a couple of these same businesses.”

  “What?” my curiosity became aroused. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about operating Junior Junior’s café, Will. You’ve eaten there with me before. You know how bad the food is now. The man needs help. He needs it bad!”

  “He didn’t sound like a man looking for help when we were there for lunch last Saturday,” I reminded the Preacher.

  “Will, you know in your heart that Junior Junior is the worst cook in the world. He’s trying to do everything around there including washing the dishes. Pumps gas, runs the register all the while he’s frying eggs and sausage. That boy ain’t ever cooked a lick in his life until his crazy wife ran off with that pot and pan salesman last spring. Since then, he’s been moping around waiting for her to come back, and we’ve all been suffering something terrible. If we don’t get something done soon the whole town’s going to quit on him and go over to Sophie Watson’s daughter’s place where she fixes all that hippie health food. I’m tellin’ you Will, we got a real crisis in the making here. Can you help us out, Will? Please.”

  I didn’t know quite what to say as the idea sounded so ridiculous to me in the first place. Twenty years had passed since I owned a couple of small restaurants plus interest in a bar. I knew by this time I’d forgotten about everything I had ever known about the restaurant business. Plus, the Sheriff’s direct threat and the sure-to-be angry church members who overheard my mean spirited declarations to the Preacher came to mind. His idea did not make sense.

  “Thanks a lot for the offer Preacher Roy, but—” I started to say before he interrupted again.

  “Will, just come back with me and let’s go see Junior Junior and talk it over. Then if you still want to go on your way, I’ll drive you to Salina tonight. I promise. That beats the heck out of you trying to start out hitching a ride on this lonely old road that will be lucky to see a dozen cars come along all night. Don’t worry about the Sheriff. I reminded him I was the wrongdoer. Those folks who were unfortunate enough to witness another one of my fits of craziness won’t have no opinion about it one way or another come tomorrow. Come on and get in so we can get back and talk with Junior Junior before he goes home and starts drinking. That’s the only way he says he can get to sleep. I sure feel sorry for the poor boy. He always treated that woman so good, too.”

  Five minutes later I found myself riding in Preacher Roy’s dirty old pickup miles away from the roadside stop heading back to the thriving city of Jonesboro, Kansas, population 1,044. Located smack dab in the middle of Jones County, it existed as a town that knew its best days were in the past and took every opportunity to tell the world about how in 1872 some ruffians came to the then county seat and stole all the legal records under the cover of darkness and absconded to that cursed den of thieves and known Baptists called Justice City. There they stayed while conspirators at the state government made up mostly of Baptists at the time refused to intercede in what they considered a purely local matter.

  “What kind of people are the folks of Jonesboro,” I asked as we drove along. “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean,” interrupted the Preacher. “You mean are they like those people that followed that insane preacher down to South America and ended up drinking the funny fruit punch? Considering what I did, you got a right to ask those kinds of questions. But we’re not like that at all. You’ll see. I promise you.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just never got to know many people in the community having spent most of my time at your farm,” I answered.

  “Just wait. You’ll see that we are fairly normal folks around here and always have been. Nothing out of the ordinary about this place, for sure.” The Preacher smiled trying to assure me he knew what he talked about.

  The Preacher adjusted his rear view mirror to redirect the rays of the sun now penetrating horizontally through the rear window of the truck. As he did this, I considered his statement about his small community being ordinary like other communities. This interested me as I generally held that most communal living arrangements were fraught with idiosyncrasies.

  “I’m sure you are right,” I answered, “but I am curious as to the liberal usage of the letter ‘J’ around the area. For instance, all the main cities in the county begin with the letter ‘J.’ Jonesboro, Justice City, Jenksville, Julip, and so forth. The county is Jones County. The main street in town is named Jefferson. Your last name is Jennings. I’m possibly going to be working for a guy named Junior Junior, and by the way, what’s Junior Junior’s last name?”

  The Preacher’s look told me he didn’t exactly appreciate my line of questioning. Here I go again.

  “Johnson,” the Preacher said in a weary voice.

  “Johnson?” I repeated with a note of inquisitiveness in my voice.

  The Preacher looked straight ahead as he responded. “James Joseph Johnson Jr. Jr. That’s the man’s name. His daddy was the actual Junior though. I guess people around here just like the name Junior. So
when the real Junior’s son arrived he became Junior Junior. People around here wouldn’t take kindly to a name like James Joseph Johnson III, if you know what I mean?”

  I knew I should stop as my brain started to ache, but I had to know more. “You said he had a wife?”

  “His wife, if he still has a wife, is named Judy.”

  “How about his dog? What’s his dog’s name?” I couldn’t stop myself. I had this almost giddy feeling for some odd reason, kind of like back in Nam when you crawled out a muddy hole after a mortar attack and felt happy just to be alive. Where guys that didn’t even like each other joked and kidded around with one another until the euphoria of still being alive wore off and they remembered they were still living in a rat infested shithole that would be shelled a hundred more times before their rotation date came around.

  This time the Preacher took a deep breath and closed his eyes before answering. Sort of like folks do when they are meditating.

  “His dog’s name is Jesse # 3 or J3 around town.”

  I had room for one more and no more, “And what kind of dog is it by the way?”

  The large head sitting atop the Preacher’s equally large torso began to turn in my direction until I could make out the unmistakable malicious grin on his face. “It’s a Jabrador. Ha, ha, ha! Now, are you happy? You’re right! If they were to outlaw the letter “J” we would probably not be able to communicate with each other around here. Ha, ha, ha!”

  He got me, I admitted as I watched the Preacher enjoy his clever comeback. This guy’s okay. The man possessed a sense of humor and wherever there is humor, there is hope. I looked out upon the flat horizon spreading out forever before me with a different perspective. Hope, I said to myself. I hadn’t thought of that word for long time.

  Chapter Three