by W.H. Harrod
The sight of the Jonesboro city water tower in the distance brought me back to reality. The Preacher had asked me to make a communal commitment— to take on a job that invited the criticism of the entire community if I failed. Preparing food for hungry and often discriminating people is a risky business at best. I recalled a number of uncomfortable instances where I stood toe to toe with irate customers apologizing for mistakes they’d already half eaten. It’s my belief that people generally have more patience with a defective product if part of it is not in their stomachs. I wanted to get along better with the world in general, but doing it as a cook gave me cause to hesitate.
“So how long have you known that Junior Junior wanted help?” I inquired casually so as not to let on that I harbored serious doubts.
The Preacher hesitated a moment before turning to respond. “Well, actually, it’s just me and the other folks in town who are looking for help because we can’t go on puttin’ up with his terrible food any longer. We’ve been planning to bring the subject up real soon. So it looks like this is going to be the day.”
“So he knows nothing about this idea of yours?” I asked.
“Well, I’m sure he’s suspecting something’s going on because he’s hardly getting any tips now. But because the service is as bad as the food, I’ll admit he may not have figured the whole thing out yet.” The Preacher offered this last observation as an afterthought.
“And is the part about the room and board your idea, also?”
“Will, I’m going to ask you to trust me on this, if you can.” The Preacher’s tone sounded serious. “I’ll admit the details are not all worked out nice and smooth, but this is going to happen, one way or another. The townsfolk won’t put up with this much longer, and no one believes his wife is coming back anytime soon. We sure didn’t expect this opportunity with you would develop the way it did. But it did, and I intend to make the best of it. And as I think about it, it’s not too great a reach for me to come to the conclusion that maybe I was suppose to whack you on the noggin with that sausage— probably not as hard as I did, but I have to tell you truthfully that I’m starting to feel less guilty about the whole thing.”
I instinctively knew it served no purpose to argue with the man. Besides, I wasn’t looking for a job, so the Preacher bore the burden of selling the deal, and I doubted he could. On more than one occasion I had displayed my displeasure at Junior Junior’s sloppy attempts to feed me runny eggs that I left untouched. I called his dog a useless fleabag the day it urinated on my foot while I stood at the counter paying for the food I left uneaten on the table. I didn’t think Junior Junior liked me much if I was honest. The man resembled the goofy mechanic wearing the turned-up baseball cap on television some years back, and he possessed no concept of banter. As for the Preacher, how could I go about reasoning with a man who suspected God caused him to bludgeon me with meat so I could become a fry cook? If things went the way I expected, I’d be getting a free ride to Salina in a couple of hours. But just to grease the wheels on the vehicle I hoped would be carrying me away from this insanity, one more matter needed to be brought up.
“You are sure that all the church-going folks in this town will be tolerant of a heathen in their midst, but I wonder if you still haven’t told them the worst part yet?” I knew this comment would get the Preacher’s attention.
“What do you mean the worst? What else is there that I don’t know about you?” The concern in the Preacher’s tone showed his earlier optimism had diminished.
“But I thought you knew,” I said with feigned disbelief.
“Knew what?” he asked, his concern changing to fear.
“That I’m a card-carrying Democrat! I expect the people of this community can put up with a heathen much easier than they could a Democrat. That’s all I’ve heard them talk about at the diner. They’re asking what the world is going on when those crazy Democrats are trying to get a crazy, half white/half black liberal elected president.”
“You’re a Democrat? I never heard you mention that before. How come you didn’t tell me that?” asked the Preacher, his concern apparent.
I refused to give the Preacher any help. Besides, I was not a Democrat. I always voted, when I bothered to vote, as an Independent. “What difference does it make as long as I was just passing through?”
“Oh my lord, a Democrat! Now that is different! The folks around here can forgive almost anything but that. It was hard enough for them to have to put up with two of them. Now with you, that would be three. That’s a fifty percent increase!” said the Preacher as his resolve melted before my eyes.
His admission regarding the existence of other souls in town crazy enough to admit to their membership in such a heretical political organization increased my interest. “There are other Democrats in town? Who are they?” I asked.
“What?” responded the Preacher from deep within his own thoughts regarding this most unexpected and disturbing bit of information. “Why one of them is Sophie Watson’s daughter, Mary June. She used to be such a levelheaded girl until she went to San Francisco. I think she was a hippie. She got herself educated and came back here a few years ago after her husband died. She had all sorts of crazy ideas about saving the environment. She even talked to some of us farmers about growing crops without chemicals. Called it organic farming. The poor woman’s daft! As far as the other one, we don’t know who it is, yet.”
“Is she the one that’s doing the cooking at that place where they specialize in health food or as you refer to it, them hippie fixin's?”
“That’s the one. She’s a real nice lady— don’t get me wrong. She helps out in every community effort we get going. People respect all the stuff she does to help, so I guess that’s why they put up with her being one of them Socialists Democrats.”
This last remark caught my attention although it did not surprise me. This statement typified what I expected to overhear in any conversation taking place within the city limits of Jonesboro. I knew it was a waste of time, but I could not resist inquiring about the facts or logic supporting the socialist tag now commonly attached to the term Democrat.
“Preacher, I’m confused here. Why do you refer to Democrats as Socialists?” I patiently awaited his reply.
The Preacher scrunched his forehead as if he were experiencing a sudden pain. “Will, this is just common sense. Like I said to you before, any political group who takes the hard-earned money of folks and gives it away to others who didn’t work for it is Socialist. So Democrats is Socialists!”
“So you are saying the Democrats are redistributing the wealth of the country to people who don’t deserve it, is that right?” I again awaited his reply.
“That’s exactly right, Will, exactly right.” The Preacher smiled.
“But the Democrats aren’t in power at this time so who is to blame for all the money that’s presently going out to all those undeserving people?”
The Preacher thought before he answered. “That’s just it, Will. We ain’t got that problem now so much cause we got a Republican President.”
“That so? Then why is it so many economists and financial professionals report that our country has, in fact, undergone the greatest transfer of wealth from the middle class and poor to the wealthy in the history of our country during the last ten years? Our leaders did nothing while trillions of dollars were transferred from nine out of ten Americans to the rich. It wasn’t because the rich worked harder but because of public policy changes, changes in the tax codes, changes in the laws that regulate capital and labor, and changes in our foreign trade relationships. So if the government has, over the last decade, enacted legislation causing these blatant undeserved transfers of wealth to the rich, isn’t that welfare, also? And wouldn’t that mean that the current Republican administration is a defacto Socialist party, also?”
“What? What are you talking about? Where did you get that information?” The Preacher possessed not the slightest idea of what I was talking about.
“
The information is easily available from any financial publication. It’s no secret. If we are going to be fair, we are all a bunch of Socialists. Wouldn’t you agree? Both parties are guilty of taking the hard-earned money of the middle class and giving it away to those who are very rich, or according to your beliefs, the undeserving poor.” I could not hide the hint of a smile as I sat and waited for the Preacher to answer.
The Preacher took the soiled and worn ball cap displaying the emblem of his seed grain provider off his head and laid it on the seat between us. Then he rubbed his forehead as if trying to massage away the pain.
“Will,” he began slowly, “do you remember what you said back there about not being so quick to tell folks when they might be wrong? I would like for you to keep this information to yourself when we get to town. And Will, I would also ask that you keep your being a Democrat to yourself. Would you do that for me? Please?”
I saw pain in the man’s eyes. The man suffered if ever I saw anyone suffer. This could be a good starting point for me to begin my new life of restraining myself when tempted to enlighten the ignorant.
“Well Preacher, I get what you mean even though it’s not as if being a Democrat was the same as being a bank robber or something worse.”
“Will, we got a former bank robber, an embezzler, two ex-cons that sold shares of nonexistent oil company stock to local citizens, and a woman who swears up and down she has no idea how her unfaithful husband ended up in a hundred gallon oil drum at the county landfill. All of the aforementioned are once again citizens of good standing in the community for two reasons. One, they came back to church, and two, they vote a straight Republican ticket. If I had to be truthful, I would have to admit that only one of those is an absolute requirement. I’ll let you guess which it is.”
“Welcome to Jonesboro,” read the suddenly not so convincing sign along the side of the highway. Well Junior Junior, it looks like it’s going to be up to you whether I begin my new life here or somewhere else down the road, I told myself as the Preacher’s old pickup entered the city limits. The sun setting behind us in the west reminded me that the end of a very long and exhausting day drew neigh. I looked forward to a hot shower and a soft bed— either here or a motel in Salina, it didn’t matter. I experienced an eerie sense that I drifted on an ocean current bound for where I did not know. Well, so be it.
Chapter Four