Streams Of Yesterday

by W.H. Harrod

Junior Junior’s station stood on the west side of town near the local grain co-op. Jonesboro felt lucky to still have a functioning grain storage facility. The townsfolk owed this to being located along the main rail line and not a spur. There were enough small farmers in the area to support keeping the operation of two gleaming metal towers standing along side the old square tin-sided silo that served the community in the horse and buggy era. I suspected it would only be a short time before the corporate farming industry and their huge semi trucks used for hauling grain to mammoth elevator complexes in the larger metropolitan areas rendered this facility unprofitable and, therefore, unneeded. Soon the remaining farmers in the area would no longer be able to buy their seed or sell and store their crops locally or drive into town and chat with the local co-op manager about the weather and local grain prices. Unless things changed, this symbol of an era, now passing quietly into history, will live on as an empty and rusting reminder of a simpler life abandoned in the name of progress. Ultimately, small grain elevators will end up as casualties of corporate America’s quest to eliminate any cost negatively impacting the bottom line.

  I recalled a remark in an article I had read years earlier that went something like, “Growth for the sake of growth is the philosophy of the cancer cell.” Much of the fear and loathing I felt towards corporations arose from my belief that statements such as this exemplified corporate America’s selfish demeanor.

  The sound of tires rolling over loose gravel brought me back to the present matter relating to our arrival at Junior Junior’s service station and café which, as I recalled, no longer bothered to open on Sundays since his wife ran off. I hadn’t figured out why he didn’t because being edible wasn’t an essential requirement for the food he prepared. Maybe the male customers didn’t want to risk their loved ones’ health by exposing them to the inedible fare they encountered on a daily basis.

  The parking lot was empty except for two vehicles. One I recognized as belonging to the Sheriff who unceremoniously delivered my person to the remote roadside picnic table earlier that day. The other looked like Junior Junior’s truck, but I couldn’t swear to it because most of the trucks in the area looked so similar. They were all either GM or Ford products sporting the requisite storage lock boxes up against the front cab in the rear bed, as well as sturdy trailer hitches. These working pickups were washed only on special occasions like funerals, weddings, or when the proud owner took the wife to the mall in Manhattan or Salina.

  The Preacher headed straight towards the restaurant part of the structure directly facing the highway. The front of the restaurant, consisting almost entirely of glass, allowed interested parties to determine who and how many patrons came, went, or, even more amazing, stayed. We drove to within eight feet of the structure and stopped. Only two individuals populated the building. Those same two individuals stared intently at the Preacher’s truck and its two occupants. A two-headed mule pulling a battleship may have drawn less attention from the building’s lone occupants. An uncomfortable moment followed as I stared at the Sheriff who, in turn, looked directly back at me. That lasted until the Sheriff exhibited a wry smile that turned into a chuckle as he turned back around to drink his coffee. Only Junior Junior continued to gape as if seeing a ghost.

  “You just let me do the talking, you hear?” said the Preacher as he hurriedly exited the truck.

  I sat still, not able to determine if the Preacher wanted me to stay in the vehicle or go inside. He covered almost half the distance to the door before realizing that he traveled alone. Turning to me with a grimace, he waved for me to follow. I have to admit, I experienced a hard time getting my legs to move as fast as the Preacher’s hand gyrations suggested. I was content right where I sat. This wasn’t my idea so why should I go inside. I leaned over towards the open driver’s side window and made my own suggestion.

  “I think I’d rather just sit here. You guys work this out and let me know what you want to do.” I think the Preacher saw that my idea had merit. It might be easier to talk about someone in a critical fashion if that someone was not listening in.

  “I got ya,” said the Preacher, more with his facial expression than his words. He acknowledged the advantage of my sitting tight, “Just give me a few minutes to get this straightened out.”

  I watched from my front row seat as the Preacher entered the building and walked over to the booth occupied by the two former gapers and sat down by Junior Junior, right across from the Sheriff. As soon as he sat down, the Preacher started in. He talked to the Sheriff as if Junior Junior did not exist. The facial features and the hand gestures of the Preacher became more exaggerated. The Sheriff sat impassively without attempting to make a response. Junior Junior might have been in France as far as the two main participants in the discussion cared. He sat there beside the Preacher with his turned-up baseball cap rotating side to side as he followed the back and forth conversation.

  This animated discussion between my two former antagonists began to amuse me. The Preacher went on as if he battled Satan for one of his flock’s soul. The Sheriff smiled and shook his head from time to time as if listening to one of the town’s citizens pleading not to be given a ticket for doing twenty-six in a twenty-five zone. Junior Junior during this time might have caught a bucket of flies in that gaping hole dominating the front of his head if he were so inclined. I found myself sitting there rather enjoying the thought of my receiving so much attention. That is until all three stopped talking and listening and turned to look straight at me. Having been caught off guard I did what people often do in similar circumstances, I displayed my weakest and stupidest grin. It was the kind of grin you expected to see on the face of a guy who refused to hide the fact that he let the silent fart in the elevator.

  The three abruptly turned away and resumed their earlier positions— the Preacher preaching, the Sheriff smiling and listening, and Junior Junior catching flies. I, likewise, resumed my attempt to determine who won the argument, discussion, or whatever one wanted to call what they were doing. I observed the trio sitting not more than twelve feet before me while hoping to detect any signs that foretold my destiny. Once more I got caught off guard as they all in unison stopped talking and listening and looked straight at me as if I represented a sideshow oddity. And once more, not being prepared, I again flashed my “Hello, I’m a complete idiot” grin.

  Now I was mad! I didn’t care what they decided to do. Well, I guess I did if the Sheriff intended to follow through with his earlier implied threat of dealing with me in a harsh way if I ever crossed a Jones County boundary line again. But assuming that the obvious chuckles he exhibited while listening to the Preacher’s pleas to have my basic rights of speech and movement reinstated meant my physical person no longer was in danger, I felt somewhat safe. Still, I wasn’t so fond of the idea of prolonging my association with this bunch of agrarian isolationists anyway. Just get me to Salina, and I’ll be on my way back to Texas.

  Sure enough, after several more minutes of fly catching, gesticulating, and grinning, the trio turned their collective attention back to where I sat radiating defiance. I’m not sure what they thought they saw, but I hoped they detected in my weak snarl the zenith of passive aggressive behavior. This time the conversation between the Preacher and the Sheriff continued as they looked in my direction. Not once did they give any indication of taking notice of my attempt to look anything but docile and compliant. Turning back towards one another, they shook hands as if to consummate an agreement and arose from the table leaving Junior Junior not having ever said a word.

  As I watched the Preacher return to the truck to inform me of my fate, I had not the slightest idea of what they had decided upon. Junior Junior had said not a single word, so I assumed the fry cook offer failed to get any backers. Since I hadn’t considered that opportunity a real résumé stuffer anyway, I expected my ego would survive the rejection. So it’s on to Salina and a good night’s rest before heading south.

  The Preacher opened the truc
k door and slid in beside me. “Well, you’re the brand new manager of this fine restaurant establishment. You start tomorrow morning. We best get you over to your new living quarters so you can get rested up for a big day.” The Preacher radiated optimism.

  “But you never said one word to Junior Junior the whole time! And Junior Junior never said a word! To anybody! About anything! So how can this be?” My voice elevated an octave or two leaving no doubt as to my surprise at this unexpected announcement.

  “Junior Junior don’t talk much,” responded the Preacher. “You should know that by now. Have you ever heard him say anything? I seriously doubt if you have or ever will. What he does is grunt. The man can express about everything he thinks or feels through his grunts.”

  Without saying another word, the Preacher started the truck and backed away from the restaurant. I must have experienced a mild state of shock because I sat there with utter confusion written all over my frowning, totally disbelieving face. “Now where are we going?” I asked, having regained some semblance of a person at least partially alert and functioning.

  The Preacher didn’t bother answering until he brought the truck to a dead stop not fifty yards from where we started. “Right here’s where we’re going,” he told the town’s designated cook while pointing to a two story carriage house located behind Junior Junior’s turn of the century, white, two-story, pristine condition, Folk Victorian style home. Many, including myself, considered Junior Junior’s immaculately maintained residence to be the most attractive residence in the community. I never inquired, but it went without saying that the possibility of Junior Junior having anything to do with this beautiful building, built over one hundred years earlier, remained in doubt. Story was that his long gone wife deserved all the credit for purchasing, rehabbing, and maintaining this once popular workingman’s version of the more expensive and elaborately designed Queen Anne Victorian styled home. Folk Victorians didn’t require professional architectural designs and craftsmen to apply the spindles, gingerbread, and decorative brackets associated with the more costly Queen Anne version. The freshly painted white wood clapboard siding, set off by green shutters framing every window, along with the enticing covered porch encircling the entire front and east side of the house, had on more than one occasion caused me to stop and admire this stately structure sitting behind the white picket fence and manicured shrubbery. I’ll bet the insides don’t look nearly so immaculate, I thought, having forgotten for the moment my surprise at being named the town’s official fry cook.

  What in the hell am I going to do now? My energized brain screamed so loud I couldn’t imagine anyone standing next to me not hearing my internal lamentations. What have you done? Are you crazy? What were you thinking? You can’t exist here among these sycophantic neo-conservative philistines! It’s one thing to stop by for a chat during the yearly journey north, but living here? That’s insane!

  “Well, here’s your new home— the entire second floor,” Preacher Roy’s voice reeked of self-satisfaction. He obviously felt very proud of himself.

  The carriage house, located at the rear of Junior Junior’s stately residence, long ago converted to accommodate vehicles as opposed to horses, did present itself well. The whole second floor, consisting of almost one thousand square feet of space, now served as guest quarters. I had earlier heard that it provided every convenience necessary to allow an occupant to live comfortably. Somehow the thought that it now served as my personal residence gave me no comfort.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the Preacher. “How come you got such a constipated look? I thought you’d be real happy with the deal I worked out for you. You ain’t thinking of letting me down are you, Will? I would be surely disappointed if you are, Will. Cause’ I have to tell you, Will, I’ve had a real tryin’ day. Tell me it ain’t true, Will.”

  Preacher Roy’s pleading brought me back to reality, and I recalled my conversation with myself earlier that day when I realized I must make an attempt to find a way to live within society. If I ran away this time, I might not ever get another chance to come to terms with humanity, or my gradual loss of it. My life pretty much sucked, and it stood scant chance of getting better if I persisted in avoiding public intercourse. These weren’t bad people, nor were they especially good people, they were simply people. They had hopes, fears, prejudices, and a lifetime’s ration of partisan politics and religious dogma shoved down their throats everyday. Why would they be anything different than what they were?

  My response came so fast it surprised me. Whatever part of my brain that makes decisions at the subconscious level did not consult with the conscious part before deciding right here is where I needed to be. “It isn’t true, Preacher,” I assured him.

  “That’s real good to hear, Will,” said a smiling Preacher Roy.

  Chapter Five