Streams Of Yesterday

by W.H. Harrod

Driving west on I-70 in Kansas late in the day on a hot August afternoon is ill advised. The hot sun, well into its afternoon westerly descent, bore directly down upon Junior Junior’s truck windshield. A situation made even worse by an air-conditioner having seen its best days. A hint of cool air is all it offered and that came with the price of putting up with an incessant whining noise. I attributed the suffering device’s screaming to the lack of periodic maintenance. I now understood the distinction between gas stations and service stations. The owner of this maintenance-deprived vehicle operated a gas station, not a service station. A service station operator performed periodic maintenance on vehicles, including his own. Gas station operators merely filled up the tanks of the maintenance challenged contraptions that were driven until something quit or fell off.

  I partially solved my heat problem by stripping off my short sleeve, Oxford cloth, buttoned down collar shirt leaving only my damp undershirt to cover my torso. Using the shirt as a towel, I kept most of the sweat now leaking profusely from my upper body at bay. I opened the passenger side window for relief but what I got in return was a constant blast of hot air radiating from the near melting road surface.

  “Okay, make a note,” I said as I rode along sweating as if I were sitting in a sauna, “remember to bring along plenty of liquids, towels, and a change of clothing the next time you take a trip in this vehicle on a hot day.” I played with the idea of telling the truck’s owner that the A/C barely functioned in hopes he might rectify the problem, but I knew better. Junior Junior did not fix things. He merely added the newest broken object to the large pile of broken objects located behind the station and bought a new one. Fixing, to Junior Junior, meant hitting it once very hard with a big hammer, and if that didn’t correct the problem, he tossed it on the pile.

  Pushing aside thoughts of my personal discomfort, I went back over the plan set forth by Carlton to get the community of Jonesboro the much-needed help. Basically, all I needed to do entailed going back to Jonesboro, reporting to the Mayor, and waiting to be contacted by the person Carlton hoped to get to help us. Carlton had assured me the person he intended to contact came well qualified and lacked any allegiance to the local players. He chuckled when I pressed him on the need for this individual to be rigorously honest. He maintained absolute faith in the individual’s integrity. Their personal relationship stretched over forty years as adversaries and good friends. I couldn’t begin to imagine who this person might be. But again, I’d been in town all of two months, so what the heck did I know? Hell, maybe it was Flo!

  Having assured myself I knew what was expected of me to secure help for the Mayor, I turned my attention to the more mundane matter of Mary June and Flo working together at the diner for a whole day. Mary June seemed surprisingly understanding about my mysterious need to leave town in such a hurry. She immediately inquired as to whether she could be of any assistance giving me the impression she anticipated being asked to sub for me at the diner. She couldn’t have known this, but it did come to mind that the town knew everything else I did or intended to do. When I did broach the idea, she readily agreed telling me not to worry because she, Flo, and Junior Junior would get along famously. When I asked her about missing the Salina rally, she commented that one has to establish priorities. Helping out at the diner while I had to go out of town took priority. I almost asked her if she knew where I was going and for what reason. No matter that the Mayor and I secretly decided on the plan and swore not to tell another living soul, I wondered if she didn’t already know. Instead, I kept my suspicions to myself and asked her to drop by the diner the next afternoon before Flo left to go over the things that I regularly did to help Flo keep the customers well-fed, and more importantly to Flo, in line. Mary June said she would be happy to.

  That following day right at 1:30 p.m., Mary June arrived, and I’ll swear you would have thought she and Flo were long lost relatives. Afterwards I did not recall having to say more than a few words the whole time. The two of them basically ignored me and walked around the place talking about the myriad of activities involved in operating the diner. Later I admitted I felt somewhat disappointed they so easily figured out how to get along without me, without my help. They kept the questions and answers to a minimum. I had no idea operating a diner could be explained so easily. I instinctively knew neither of these ladies would ever be considered professionals because professionals always used lots more words in their explanations. Not only more words but big ones. Words like conceptualization or conglomeration, two of my all time favorites. Now those are professional type words. These ladies might be good, but if they kept thinking in such simplistic terms they could forget about being considered real professionals.

  By the time I rolled into Jonesboro the sun shining on the driver’s side since I made the right turn from I-70 to head north for the final leg to Jonesboro had burned the side of my face. I’m sure the glass pane shielding me from the ultra-violet rays saved me. I added another note to my list relating to operating Junior Junior’s truck on hot days: Bring along something to cover the side window. I felt relieved the day neared an end. Don’t get me wrong, I considered it a good day. I thoroughly enjoyed my time with Carlton. I also felt much better knowing he would make contact with someone capable of sorting out the Buford brothers’ mess.

  As I drove along the street allowing access to the city from the south, I found myself keeping a close eye out for the Bufords. That made sense since they seemed to be lurking around every corner I turned lately. I felt relief once I’d made the turn to the west at the main intersection in the middle of town heading for the diner. Although I felt a bit weary, I wanted to check out the place to make sure everything looked okay. The thought occurred to me that Flo and Mary June, after all the pretense of liking each other wore off after a few hectic hours of working together, may have gone at each other with frying pans. A vision of both ladies lying unconscious and bleeding profusely in the diner kitchen while outside a swat team made up of specially trained officers from the neighboring counties formed a perimeter to contain the mayhem, came to mind.

  What I found instead was a deserted parking lot and a closed diner showing no signs of life or structural damage. My worst fears were realized. Everything apparently went along fine without me. Not exactly the best news for a closeted control-freak. A quick inspection of the building verified my fears so I hastily departed the diner and headed for my small apartment. There awaited a shower and a good night’s sleep. Then tomorrow, first thing, I would call the Mayor and set up a time and place for a private meeting. The thought occurred to me that with the Bufords cruising the streets such a task might not be easily pulled off.

  I stepped out of the shower feeling like a different person. Standing under the cool shower took much of the day’s tension out of me. Soon afterwards the soft bed felt good as I lay upon it thinking about the important things to be done before retiring for the night. I soon gave up and slipped into a peaceful slumber. Sometime later I awoke with a start to the constant yelping of J3, Junior Junior’s incorrigible hound. More than a minute passed before I came to my senses and figured out where I was, and most importantly, what noisy beast dared disturb my slumber. Groping my way to the door wearing only the bottom part of my pajamas, I opened it and stepped outside onto the porch. There below me at the bottom of the steps stood J3 blocking the path of an equally agitated Mary June Jangles. I stood there not having the presence of mind to intervene. That’s when Mary June, having glanced up to catch site of me standing gawking down from the landing, made an observation. “Are you going to call off this guard moose or not?”

  The tone of her voice brought me to my senses. “J3 stop.” That’s all it took. J3 immediately ceased his braying and trotted off looking for some other creature to pester.

  “I’m sorry. I hope he didn’t frighten you. He’s fairly harmless, so—”

  “Yeah right. Maybe we should dig up some earlier trespassers he’s undoubtedly buried in Junior Junior’s bac
k yard and ask their opinion on that subject.” Mary June mumbled this last statement as she started up the stairs carrying a package.

  I held the door open figuring out that my unexpected guest had no intention of standing on ceremony. Sure enough, she went past me into the apartment without saying a word. I followed and after hurriedly pulling on an old sweatshirt watched her place the package on the kitchen counter before turning to face me.

  “Listen,” she began as her eyes locked on to mine, “I’m not one to beat around the bush. I know something is going on between you and the Mayor and the Bufords and maybe the whole damn town. I believe whatever it is, it’s important. I’m not going to pry, but don’t think I’m completely unaware. Okay?”

  Although somewhat surprised at both her insights and her admission to them, I decided not to insult her intelligence.

  “Okay, I won’t. Now what?”

  She thought about it before commenting. “Now nothing. Just don’t think I’m unaware. When you need my help, simply ask and you will get it without having to contrive some bogus excuse. Okay?”

  “Okay, anything else?”

  “Yes, I brought you a pie, and I’d like for you to try it. Most people like my pies even if they don’t like most of the other stuff I make.”

  Having located a dish and a fork, Mary June brought me a large slice from what looked like a pecan pie. As I took the plate from her, a most pleasant aroma greeted my nostrils. The warmth of the dish told me instantly the pie had just come out of the oven. I took a seat at the room’s only small sitting table and promptly lifted a hefty forkful to my lips. Instantaneously, the warm light crust melted in my mouth leaving a filling not too sweet or cloying, as most pecan pie fillings are wont to be. A long time pecan pie connoisseur, I realized only quality nuts with the correct balance of sugar and light and dark syrups were present in this delicious offering.

  “Maybe the best piece of pecan pie I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Good,” said an obviously pleased Mary June. “Maybe you might consider serving my pies at the diner? All you have now are the rolls and muffins, and a few pies of the manufactured variety. My pies are about the only thing folks liked at my restaurant. I still can’t understand why they didn’t give my whole menu a chance. But…anyway, how about it? I can have them for you fresh daily.

  “I’ll have to taste test them all first, you understand?” I said to her attempting to feign sincerity.

  “Great! I’ll get several of my best recipes ready for you to do a taste test in the next few days. Okay?”

  I could see her relief with my decision. “You might want to leave me another piece of this one just so I can test it one more time to make sure.”

  “It’s all yours. You might want to share a piece with Flo and Junior Junior, though. It was Flo’s idea I run this taste test by you. We worked well together, by the way, in case you ever need help again. We knew one another from our school days. She graduated a year ahead of me. I still can’t believe she has never left town, for even a week.”

  This was very good news indeed. I had a hunch things might get somewhat crazy around town as things progressed. Knowing reliable help stood by reassured me.

  “Thanks again, you never know when something might come up—” I began to say before being interrupted.

  “Flo told me to tell you that you may need help tomorrow if Junior Junior isn’t sober before morning. It started to become noticeable by this afternoon. There wasn’t much gas business, thankfully, so Flo talked him into leaving early. We didn’t want him giving the wrong change to our customers. He must be pretty down because he went straight to his house, and we haven’t seen him since.”

  Then it came to me why J3 was still roaming around. Junior Junior always brought the dog in before getting boozed up. I immediately got up and went to the door to call for J3, and within seconds, he came bounding up the steps to the apartment wagging his tail.

  “Guess you are going to spend the night with me, big guy. That okay with you?” I said to the joyful hound as he displayed his happiness at being let inside. “You remember Mary June, don’t you?”

  As if the dog understood every word I said, he crossed over to Mary June expecting to get his ears scratched from her as well. “Yeah, okay, that’s good. You can stop slobbering all over me. I forgive you for threatening my life earlier. I’m sure it won’t happen again. That’s it. Go back to your Uncle Will while I wash the slobber off my arms.”

  Again, as if the dog fully understood, he came right back to me. This time J3 plopped down on the carpet ready for a snooze. I took the cue and restarted my conversation with Mary June.

  “Maybe you could help us out again tomorrow if Junior Junior doesn’t show up?” I asked the question fully believing I knew the answer.

  “You got it. I’ll plan to show up at 6 a.m. unless I hear from you before.”

  I’m sure my expression gave away my relief when she made herself available. “Thanks, you’re a great help to us.”

  Mary June headed for the door. “Oh, by the way,” she said in an offhanded manner right as she reached the door, “since we didn’t get to go to Salina, I’ve taken the liberty of suggesting to the local Republican Party chairperson that we set up a date and time for a local political debate right after the Republican convention. Both parties’ candidates will be known by then. The guy laughed and blew the idea off until I told him I had a heavy weight ready to do battle.”

  “Oh, really? Are you bringing someone in?” The idea intrigued me. I could not imagine a Democrat stupid enough to come here to this 99.9% Republican town to argue politics with a bunch of die hard partisans.

  “I don’t have to. Like I told him, we’ve already got a person here.”

  “Who is it? The third unknown Democrat?”

  “No.”

  “Then who is it?”

  “Actually, it’s you. See you tomorrow,” she said disappearing into the night leaving me standing alone and speechless.

  Chapter Sixteen