Streams Of Yesterday

by W.H. Harrod

By the time I hung up the kitchen extension phone after talking with the Mayor, both Flo and Mary June had geared up for the lunch crowd that usually started coming in after 11:00 a.m. Their extra efforts did not go unnoticed on my part as I carried on a much longer than expected conversation with the Mayor. I’d tried to give him an update while explaining how plans were still in the works. I would call him again as soon as the individual, vouched safe by Carlton, contacted me. Still, the Mayor kept asking questions I could not answer. Obviously, he was nervous, possibly even scared. I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t. I could only reassure him that my old friend was an individual to be trusted, and if Carlton said to expect someone to contact me, then they would.

  After a time, I’d said to him, “Mr. Mayor, I have to get back to work. I’ll call you as soon as I have new information.” Possibly the tone of my voice got through to the man, and we said our goodbyes. Before I exited the kitchen to take inventory of my two associates’ lunch preparation efforts, I took a long peek through the kitchen/dining room window to see if Big Bob and his buddies still hung around. They did not, so I quickly figured out what still needed to be done to get ready for lunch and jumped in to help. It sort of surprised me that neither Flo nor Mary June made any comments about me spending so much time on the phone when so much work needed to be completed before lunch. It should not have surprised me as I now had little doubt both ladies somehow knew the better part of what went on between the Mayor and myself. How they knew I could not fathom, but they did know.

  With the diner ready and waiting for the next rush, I expected Mary June might want to call it a day, and I felt pleasantly surprised when she told me she could stay as long as I wanted. What’s more, Flo seemed pleased with the idea. Of course, this did nothing but stoke my childish resentments at the notion they might think I was no longer needed. Things were up and running now, so thanks for coming, and we’ll take it from here.

  My paranoia moment came to an abrupt halt moments later as Flo’s matter-of-fact voice echoed in my ears. “Are you going to check on Junior Junior, Will? It would be nice to know his status so we can let Mary June know about tomorrow before the day’s over.”

  Without hesitation, I answered in the affirmative. I agreed that we did need to know his status, and I immediately set forth to find out the answer. The first thing I did was to check and see if the Chief’s car still sat behind Junior Junior’s house. It did not. I next looked to see if Junior Junior’s old truck sat in its usual spot, and it did. That left me with two choices: simply knock on Junior Junior’s back door and wait to see if he answered or call the Chief’s office to get an update. I decided upon the latter.

  Retreating again to the kitchen phone extension, I called the Chief’s number and waited no more than one ring before I heard the Chief’s voice, “Chief Barley here, how can I help you?”

  “Chief, Will Clayton here. I’m curious about the status of Junior Junior. I can see his truck is still there. Will he make it to the diner tomorrow?” I awaited his response.

  “Will, I’ve got a call in to Doc Sayah whom I expect to hear from at any moment. I don’t believe Junior Junior is in any condition to do anything, drunk or sober. I think this thing about his wife has set him back more than any of us expected. I removed all the booze I could find as well as his shotguns, just to be safe. I also told him to stay in the house until the Doc gets there. My advice is not to expect to see Junior Junior around for a few days at least. I will keep you updated, and if per chance he does come around the diner, immediately, and I mean immediately, give me a call. Okay?”

  I hung up the phone and called my two associates together to give them the complete update, word for word. Neither acted surprised and said they were prepared to do whatever was necessary to cover the absence of our employer. For a moment I could not tell if they were serious or joking because we all knew Junior Junior didn’t do much of anything anyway. About all I could recall was him standing up front watching for the infrequent opportunity to sell gas, rereading one of his worn out fishing and hunting magazines, or checking to see if Jasper lurked outside with a gun. I was pretty sure we could somehow manage to handle those chores. All kidding aside though, we felt sympathy for the man’s grief. All of us, I felt sure, had been dumped at some point in our lives, and the memories of those painful events were all too vivid. The fear of outright rejection from people we care for is one of humankind’s greatest fears. It certainly was for me and possibly became the primary reason why I now avoided close relationships.

  The rest of the day went as usual. Mary June and Flo worked great together. After a while, I decided to pretty much to stay out of the way and wait for one of them to let me know when something needed to be done

  By the time they prepared to leave, the diner was ready for the next day’s renewed activities. About the only important thing I needed to do was get the rolls and muffins ready for Flo the next morning. After that, only inventory review, cash reconciliations, and making the deposits remained. This unexpected event with Junior Junior looked to be working out better than expected. Mary June’s presence allowed us to function in a much higher gear. And if, in fact, Mary June and Flo felt they could handle the place just as well without me, just so much the better, and the sooner I could say goodbye.

  The sight of a lone individual clad in a badly rumpled light tan colored suit approaching the diner entrance caught my attention. Immediately, my mind speculated as to whether this might be my Carlton contact. The individual did not look like a local. I wasn’t sure, but my best guess told me he, or his ancestors, hailed from the subcontinent, very possibly India or Pakistan. Fearing one of the ladies might spot him first I headed for the entrance. Glancing over my shoulder to ensure I arrived at the door alone, I felt relief at seeing the ladies still busy and unaware of my suspected contact’s impending presence.

  “Afternoon,” I hurriedly said to the man as soon as he stood inside the diner entrance. “My name is Will, and I’m the manager. Are you here to see me?” I stood in place intentionally blocking the individual from gaining further entrance to the diner.

  Without bothering to look at me, my suspected contact set his well-used valise, satchel, or whatever, on a small table to the right of the entrance. Then, still not having responded, he withdrew a large, wadded up handkerchief from his side coat pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “I have been told to contact the manager of this establishment, would that be you?” asked the rather tired looking man after stuffing his handkerchief back into his coat pocket.

  “If you’re here because Carlton sent you to see me, then I’m your man.”

  A look of complete puzzlement covered the man’s face. “I’m sorry, I thought his name was Barley?”

  “No, no, his name is Carlton. Barley is the name of the Police Chief.” Now I was puzzled.

  “I know Barley is the name of the Police Chief, who is this Carlton? I know no one named Carlton.” His puzzlement plainly showed.

  “Carlton is the name of an attorney in Topeka who is sending someone to see me. Isn’t that why you are here?”

  The weary individual looked completely flustered by this time. “But I am not from Topeka, and I do not know any attorney named Carlton. I am a doctor directed to stop by this diner and give the Will person an update on the Juniors.”

  I felt like a complete idiot after I realized this whole mess with the Mayor and the Bufords, as well as the whole damn town had made me paranoid. I needed to get a grip. Carlton’s contact would make his presence known to me in due course. Until then, I needed to stop evaluating the likelihood of every unknown individual coming in the door of being the anointed one.

  “I’m very sorry. I mistook you for someone else. Please come in and sit down. Can I offer you a cold drink?” My hurried segue from conspirator to diner manager eager to receive medical information related to the owner’s health went well, I hoped.

  Still cautious, the slight, disheveled looking individual
allowed me to escort him to a table. By this time, both the ladies knew he was not a regular customer. Again, I asked our surprised visitor if he desired something to drink. With visible trepidation, he agreed to accept a glass of ice water. Waving to the ladies to join me, I hurriedly secured a cold glass of water filled with crushed ice for our visitor.

  “I’m sorry Doctor, I didn’t get your name,” were the first words out of my mouth as soon as I returned to the table where Flo and Mary June stood waiting. Placing the glass on the table in front of the doctor, I motioned for the ladies to have a seat. Not until at least half of the glass of water disappeared down the throat of our thirsty visitor did he respond.

  “I am Doctor Sayah. I visit this community once a week to offer services for those individuals who cannot arrange travel to the Justice City, and I believe I recognize this young lady,” he said pointing to Mary June. “You, I believe, have on a number of occasions brought elderly patients to see me. Am I correct?”

  Mary June nodded in agreement but offered no further comments.

  “As I mentioned before, I am instructed to bring you up-to-date relating to the present medical condition of the Juniors. I will assume you are aware of the circumstances surrounding the Juniors’ present condition, yes? The man is severely depressed and abusing his body with the alcohol. I do not know if he will respond to medication or my warnings against consuming the evil alcohol. I can tell you that he will destroy his mind and his body if he continues. I’m sorry, but this is the way it is. I have seen this many times before. Sometimes they recover, and sometimes they drink until they die. I can prescribe medication that will calm him down, but whether he lives or dies will depend upon his not using the drugs and alcohol.”

  I caught only the gist of what the doctor said before I suddenly recalled Chief Barley earlier telling me the name of the doctor. I distinctly recalled thinking a doctor with a name pronounced Say-Ah sounded sort of funny. It irritated me to no end to simply forget things like that. To me, it indicated a lack of organization or attention. When it came to being organized or paying attention, I drifted into the downright anal category. I considered this recent lapse another clear sign of not being in control. I felt somewhat like the guy who needed to transport two thousand pounds of parakeets to market in a truck with a cage on the rear capable of hauling one only thousand pounds. His solution was to have someone drive the truck to town while he sat in the back with a stick attempting to keep no less than one thousand pounds of parakeets in the air at all times. Essentially, that’s how I described my life in Jonesboro. I was the crazy guy in the back of the truck with the stick.

  The doctor’s concise analysis of the situation left little need of clarification among his listeners. Most people these days were more aware of the dangers and the damage addiction to drugs and alcohol caused. Professionals reminded the friends and families of abusers that unless the addict wanted help it served little purpose in offering it. Help cannot be forced upon an abuser. The best action usually amounted to letting them know you cared and that help was always available, and then try to stay the hell out of their path of destruction. Often this guidance fell upon deaf ears as families and friends were loath to sit around waiting for a miracle or for the addict to get to the point where incarceration or hospitalization was required.

  I offered my summation of his comments. “Basically, we need to keep him out of vehicles, keep him away from weapons of all sorts, and don’t provide him with liquor or other mind altering stimulants. Tell him that we care and are here to help if he wants it, and then, basically, stay out of his way and hope for the best?”

  The doctor, displaying a weary look that shouted he’d witnessed sad scenes like this one many times before, simply nodded his head in agreement. “Unfortunately, you are correct. I am sorry. I hope your employer is one of the lucky ones who recovers. I must be going now. I’ll leave you my card. I have more patients to see before the day is finished.”

  The doctor promptly walked out the door while the three of us sat at the table silently considering this abrupt turn of events. I personally harbored no doubts about us all being on the same page. I saw no need for me to go into a long-winded speech about how we were going to have to “blah, blah, blah.” We all knew what needed to be done.

  “Well…okay then. Enough said. Let’s—”

  “Will,” interrupted Flo before I finished my brief observation on ‘knowing what needs to be done so let’s simply do it’ speech.

  “Yes?” I replied cautiously.

  “Will, both Mary June and I have something we want to say to you, and right now might be as good a time as any, I expect.”

  I halted my thinking and awaited Flo’s response with no small amount of trepidation on my part.

  Flo looked over to Mary June who looked back to her while nodding her head in what I interpreted as an affirmation. Now I did have reason to be worried.

  “Will, the two of us have something to say to you that we believe needs to be said,” she said repeating her initial statement.

  Oh no! They are going to mutiny. I knew they would turn on me sooner or later.

  “Will, I… we feel, you need to know how grateful a lot of folks around here are for what you have done or are trying to do. Not that we know about what you are trying to do, of course. Oh, Mary June, you tell him.”

  Stunned by her remark, I turned my attention to her fellow conspirator.

  “Will, a lot of people whom you will never hear from are grateful for you helping out our little community. Flo and I are at the top of that list. We want you to know that.” With that Mary June smiled and looked to Flo for approval. Flo gave her a wink and smiled back.

  To say I was shocked would be the supreme understatement. This was much, much worse than a mutiny. I could put up with doubt, rejection, and outright hostility. But as for acceptance and approval, how dare they! I was a nomad, a drifter, and I sought no man or woman’s approval. Moments like this lulled a person into thinking it would be safe to open up and become a part of something. Then later on, you let down your guard and then wham! Before you know it you are smacked upside the head with a dose of reality. People don’t really give a crap about you. It’s nothing but an aberrant moment where normally selfish people get caught up in the glow of a rewarding event and say things they do not mean or even remember in the days, months, or years ahead. Maybe at an earlier time in my life I may have fallen into such traps, but not anymore. I was a nomad. I did my job, and I moved on. No need to thank me. I did not expect it or need it.

  Not knowing what to say or do, I nodded my head to acknowledge having heard their comments then got up from the table, walked to the counter, and began fumbling through papers trying to look busy. Seconds later, I heard the noise of chairs being shoved under the table as the ladies headed back to the kitchen to get their personal items before leaving for the day.

  In response to their statement, I inventoried the expanding list of other people’s problems I willingly had allowed myself to get involved with. I started with operating a diner burdened with a drunk and, possibly, suicidal owner. Then, of course, there was the Mayor and the developing criminal investigation I now spearheaded. Being stalked by Big Bob made the list. Then, in no particular order of importance, came: Preacher Roy’s dependence and constant referrals; the completely insane political debate I’d gotten snookered into; living among a bunch of evangelical Christians some of whom were eagerly awaiting the rapture; consorting with political haters of everything and everybody who didn’t slavishly drool over every mangled word and phrase uttered by possibly the most incompetent human to ever occupy the White House deserved to be on the list; and last, but certainly not least, the frightening realization I’d started to care about some of these strange people and what was happening in their lives.

  Chapter Eighteen