by W.H. Harrod
Three fully loaded vehicles prominently displaying Old Glory, as well as other signage-bearing testaments to their belief in all things apocalyptic, roared past my roadside-resting place. I figured they were on their way to join other enlightened souls in Jonesboro proposing to limit a sinner’s right of free speech. What little clarity I’d temporarily gained only moment before while sitting alone on the table was lost. What if those pious nuts saw me sitting, all alone, in the middle of nowhere? Maybe I did harbor nascent thoughts regarding a basic lack of interest in my continued existence, but having a bunch of ignorant, Bible-thumping Neanderthals help me on my way did not interest me.
“Screeeeeeeeeech,” the unwelcomed sound of vehicles skidding to a halt assaulted my ears. I’d obviously spoke too soon. This could be bad. I looked out over the flat as a pancake terrain for an escape route. Exactly like the time before when I considered possible exit routes after Preacher Roy’s truck turned into the roadside stop back in early July, I saw nowhere to run or hide. The next question immediately came to mind. Why did I decide to come back to this place? Nothing good ever happened to me here. I’d managed to get myself cornered right in the middle of the most flat and open place in the entire central part of the country again.
The first vehicle arriving back at the roadside stop hurriedly pulled into the lot advancing a short distance before coming to a sliding halt. In short order, the following two vehicles pulled up beside the lead vehicle. All three vehicles faced directly towards the lone picnic table and its single occupant, me. No one made an attempt to exit the vehicles, which both surprised and pleased me.
The occupants in the parked vehicles displayed no signs of their intentions. I, of course, ran through all the usual implausible escape schemes. This time, though, I came to the conclusion that I was royally screwed, sooner than before. The Sheriff, by now miles away, might have been the only human willing to come to my defense. Similar to times in the past when my first inclination to flee proved futile, my fear began to morph into stubborn defiance. If those evangelical, hate-spewing hypocrites wanted part of my butt, well then, let them come and get it. They better bring more than their easily refuted and grossly distorted version of the so-call word of God. There were other books in the Bible besides the five books of the Old Testament making up the Apocrypha. Books even a nonbeliever like me could read and come away with only one conclusion: the God of the New Testament put humans on this earth to help, not to judge. If these people ever got past the Old Testament’s ‘thou shall smite thee down’ pages, they might discover that themselves.
The sound of a car door opening came from the lead vehicle, an older Chevy Suburban, so covered with dust and dirt that any attempt to ascertain its original color proved futile. Soon all four doors of the Suburban opened, and as that occurred, all the doors of the other two vehicles also opened. Instead of strange, evangelical space creatures exiting from the vehicles, there appeared three very typical looking young families consisting of adult parents along with children ranging in ages from near infancy to early teens.
My relief came so quickly it caused me to laugh. For some reason, I’d pictured a bunch of club-wielding Neanderthals looking for red, non-Christian meat. These people looked well fed, well dressed, and well…. rather unintimidating. They were family people and, surely, would not harm me. They might attempt to chastise me severely, but they weren’t going to kill me and bury my bones in a wheat field.
“Heathen sinner,” screamed a late thirties looking Caucasian male. The shrillness of his voice shocked me back to my senses. Maybe they wouldn’t try to physically harm me, but they sure as hell were going to put this sinner in his place. The entire snarling and now hate-spewing group, children and all, surged towards the picnic table I sat upon. I didn’t think about moving since I’d earlier realized trying to run away availed me nothing. Besides they have kids with them. Surely they won’t do violence with their kids present.
“Fornicator,” screamed one of the male children who couldn’t have been more than ten years old. “Devil’s Spawn,” yelled an angry adult female. After that I couldn’t make out what the individual group members screamed. The few phrases that I did partly recognize included: Lucifer’s Spawn, Jesus Hater, Soulless Sinner, Fuel for Hell’s Fire, Beelzebub, Abomination. And I swear, one of the ladies standing off to the side toting a younger child on her hip apparently ran out of biblical name-calling ammo resorted to calling me a Lying Prick.
The barrage of insults pouring forth from these so-called pilgrims who professed to seek out God’s word and then go forth and spread it amongst the world’s sinners continued. I sat in place somewhat secure in the notion my accusers intended to limit their righteous indignation to mere name-calling. But as the group fed upon the animus created by their own hate-filled screams, they actually began to come into physical contact with my person. That’s when I began to get a little nervous.
“Back away,” I shouted. “Do not put your hands on me, or I will have you arrested for assault.”
That halted their forward motion but not the on-going streams of invectives. The whole group seemed content to merely block my routes of escape as I watched them scream their pious hatred. It became plain to me they were of no real threat to my personal safety but intended only to vent their religious inspired venom towards me as a despised representative of all those who opted for rationalized, intelligent discourse over blind dogma inspired by contrived ancient superstitions.
As I watched their antics with growing amazement, I wondered if my refusal to take the bait and join them in a shouting match that they were most likely accustomed to angered them even more? I was especially struck by the actions of the children who tried to scream as loudly as their parents. These young people had no idea the so-called religious truths championed by their parents would not withstand even the most rudimentary scientific or historic scrutiny. They probably never would. I realized I had a front row seat in witnessing the evolution of the purest form of blind religious hatred.
I had to admit that these pilgrims were committed. Not one individual, including the children, slacked off the least bit. Admittedly, they were, for the most part simply repeating the same nonsensical hate slogans, but they did so with the same amount of vigor. I felt sorry for the children, as they appeared to suffer the most from the ongoing assault. It got to a point where I thought I should stand up and strongly suggest that they take a break for the children’s sake. They could all start back in when their obviously weakening offspring got rested.
I wouldn’t get that chance. Right as I determined it was time for a responsible adult to act, I caught sight of something off in the distance that changed my mind— a large pickup truck resembling the same one belonging to a particularly unlikable individual who had gone to great lengths to make my stay in Jonesboro unpleasant. The driver slowed almost to a stop and pointed something out the window.
“Get down!” I screamed as I realized a madman aimed a gun in our direction. Not waiting for the unsuspecting protestors to respond, I flung myself towards the several members standing in front of me, forcing them to the ground right as the loud bang of a gun shot rang out.
“Get down!” I screamed again to the few individuals I was not able to knock to the ground earlier. Another loud bang rang out followed by the explosion of both the windshield and the rear glass of the vehicle that was closest to the now prone and screaming group.
I’m not sure how long I laid sprawled on top of the several people I’d knocked to the ground. I looked up as I heard the revving of an engine followed by squealing tires indicating the shooter was high tailing it. As I looked around, I saw a vehicle with its front and back windows blown out plus the very tabletop where I was seated showed evidence of having been hit with a large caliber bullet. A horrible realization came to me. The only way that a bullet hits that table is because several humans were moved out of the way.
“That crazy son-of-a-bitch,” I mumbled to myself as I got to my feet with the assistance
of the stout picnic table aiding my wobbling knees.
“Oh my God!” screamed one of the women. “Someone tried to kill us!”
“Does anyone have a cell phone?” I asked. “We need to call the County Sheriff.”
The individual who first stepped from the lead vehicle, and who seemed to be the spokesman of the group, jumped to his feet. “Why would someone do that? Why would someone want to hurt us?”
His voice verged on becoming hysterical, so I hurried to fend off any such fears. “They weren’t shooting at you. They were most likely shooting at me,” I told him as calmly as I could. “You folks just happened to be in the way. So, if you have a cell phone, call the Sheriff. I urge none of you to leave. This is now a crime scene, and I’m sure we all will be questioned as to what happened.”
“That crazy bastard!” I said quietly one more time as I headed back to my original perch atop the picnic table now bearing the scar of a bullet having torn a chunk out of the tabletop where I sat only moments before. Not one individual said anything about me saving their lives.
Two sheriff deputies soon arrived with sirens blaring. The entire group of way-laid picketers became unnerved by the deputies sliding to a stop, amid clouds of dust, merely yards away from the picnic table. Not once during the time we awaited law enforcement’s arrival did any of my fellow crime witnesses approach me. Instead, they huddled together, praying and thanking God for their survival. I, on the other hand, questioned the value of a deity who permitted such an assault on children in the first place.
Not long afterwards, my fears were confirmed when one of the officers informed us we all must go along with the deputies to the station to make official statements. I started to mention I lacked transportation when I spotted a familiar vehicle pulling into the rest stop heading straight for where we stood. It was Preacher Roy’s truck, and I felt a sense of relief in knowing at least one individual might put in a good word for me. But then again, I hadn’t seen the Preacher since the debate so maybe I was a bit premature with my hope.
Our caravan, consisting of the three vehicles belonging to the would-be picketers, Preacher Roy’s truck containing the two of us, county patrol cars fore and aft, headed to the county seat fifteen miles to the west. Once there, we all would under go more questioning relating to exactly what happened.
“Did anyone else see the shooter?” asked Preacher Roy as we rode along.
“I doubt it. They were all much too intent upon telling me what they thought of my basic lack of all things godly,” I informed him as I realized for the first time I looked to be the only person to have seen the shooter.
“You say the whole group was standing right in front of you when the shots were fired?” asked my driver as he continued his line of questioning.
“That’s correct,” I answered anticipating his next question.
“Well then, the bullet that knocked that chunk of wood from the picnic table must have passed right through where those people stood. How come they weren’t hit?” asked the Preacher.
I didn’t say anything as I, too, considered the full implications of what might have happened if I’d not been looking off in the distance trying to ignore the yelling and screaming.
“You knocked them down, didn’t you? You saw what was about to happen and saved their lives, didn’t you? That’s what you did. Not one of them said anything to the officers about it, not one of them,” said the Preacher shaking his head.
“That was a big slug that hit that piece of oak. That slug could have gone through more than one person killing them instantly, and they had to know that. Still, I heard not one word of thanks. I’m sure going to say something to them about their lack of gratitude for your saving their ungrateful, mean-spirited lives, I am!” continued Preacher Roy, obviously having worked up a lather.
“Why bother? If they were grateful they would have said something. Shaming them into saying thanks serves no purpose. I’m just happy none of the children were hit. That’s enough for me,” I said.
“Well, it ain’t right, Will,” answered Preacher Roy. “It just ain’t right.”
“What were you doing out this way, anyway?” I asked him, hoping to change the direction of the conversation.
The Preacher hesitated before answering, “I was coming to look for you, Will. I stopped at the diner hoping to see you before you left town, but I just missed you. I was talking to Flo when a call came in from the Sheriff who was on his way to the Mayor’s farm to check on a report of shots being fired at the Mayor’s barn. The Sheriff said he had a suspicion as to who was doing the shooting, and he wanted me to get out here to the rest stop to get you to town where it would be safer for you.”
“He said he had a suspicion of who did the shooting?” I asked.
“That’s right. He didn’t say who it was, but I’m thinking I know who it was, and I expect that you do, too. Am I right?” asked the Preacher.
I needed to ponder his part statement, part question, before I answered. I had a good idea who the shooter was, too, even if I did not get a good look at a face. The truck looked very familiar. Even though there was any number of locals who did not care much for my person, I couldn’t imagine but a single local citizen who might wish me real harm. Someone had also taken aim at the Mayor’s barn or, maybe, even the Mayor himself. That narrowed the field down considerably. Actually, down to a single individual, Big Bob Buford. But, could the man be that stupid?
“I expect we are thinking along the same lines, Preacher, but I’m not going to say any names that might bring you into this mess in case you are ever questioned. Frankly, all I want to do is tell the officers what happened and get on my way. My official version as to what happened is that some nut in a pickup stopped and took a couple of shots at us, and for what reason, I don’t know.”
Before we had time to carry the conversation further, our little caravan passed the city limits sign of the adjacent county seat. We parked at the courthouse. What happened after that became something of a slow motion blur. The local sheriff repeatedly questioned the entire group as to what exactly transpired. My story was somewhat different, I imagine, in that I was the only person to see a vehicle and a driver pointing a gun. My interrogator did verify that Sheriff Slaybaugh took me to the roadside stop. Sheriff Slaybaugh must have put in a good word for me because the overall tone used by the local sheriff changed appreciably afterwards.
My response to his inquiry as to whether or not I could identify the shooter was, I did not see a face, but only that the assailant drove a large, light-colored pickup truck and stuck what looked like a hand gun out the window before firing two shots directly towards the group. The sheriff must also have had a few words with Preacher Roy concerning just how the church group, blocking me from the assailant’s bullets, miraculously missed being hit, because right as he ended the questioning, he remarked that he wondered if the individuals harassing me knew how close they were to being killed if not for my quick actions. I didn’t respond to his comment, and I don’t believe he expected me to.
Ultimately, the authorities satisfied themselves we possessed no additional information and permitted us to leave after making sure we gave them a phone number and address where we could be reached. That caused the officer taking down my contact information to hesitate when I informed him I was heading back to my official residence in Texas, and I could only give him the RV park number. Since my driver’s license verified my address, and both Sheriff Slaybaugh and Preacher Roy said I could be trusted, he said okay, but warned me I might have to return to Kansas if and when the culprit was apprehended. I said that was fine with me, fully believing that unless Big Bob proved the complete idiot, which I had to admit might be a distinct possibility, I would never hear about this incident again.
The Preacher and I stood outside the main entrance to the sheriff’s office as the entire group of erstwhile picketers exited the building and headed for their personal vehicles. Both of us stood quietly, observing the group passing
by jabbering as they went. I don’t know that I had any expectations of outright gratitude from the group, but a slight nod of recognition wouldn’t have been out of the question. We got nothing. Not even a look. Personally, I found humor in my having elevated my expectations of some sort of civility on their part. I quickly reminded myself the group merely acted as usual, meaning they dealt only with the judging and condemnation part of God’s so-called plan, not with the accepting and forgiving parts.
“I’m beginning to see why you hold religion in such low esteem,” commented the Preacher once the group passed by. “I can’t even begin to imagine how so-called believers can act in such a callous way.”
I looked at the Preacher as I considered his statement. “Have you read any Leviticus lately, Preacher?” I asked with a smile on my face.
Preacher Roy thought about my question for a moment before revealing the slightest of grins. “No I haven’t, Will. Once was enough for me. I find my guidance in the more recent stories of the Bible. Obviously, those folks, and much of the world, would be better off if they did likewise.”
“Amen!” I answered causing the Preacher to laugh.
“Where you heading now, Will?” asked Preacher Roy once the humorous moment passed.
His question reminded me of the conversation I’d concluded with myself right before the traveling protesters joined me back at the roadside stop. This insane shooting incident changed nothing. I was tired of merely existing, adrift on the ocean, with no reason to expect anything to ever change. I carried the disease of self with me wherever I traveled. It was always something. Someone, someplace, something always failed to pass inspection with me. The same profound tiredness that fell upon me earlier, again, found refuge upon my tired shoulders. I didn’t want to go back to Texas. I didn’t want to go any place. I simply wanted all the pain to go away, forever. But not right here, and not right now. Somewhere, where I could be alone and where no one would bother me.
I, especially, did not want to involve the Preacher any longer with my personal problems or make him privy to my recent determination to become pain free as soon as possible. I needed to find the local bus station and secure a means of transportation out of Kansas. “I’m heading back to Texas,” I answered not knowing if that was true or not. “If you don’t mind, could you give me a lift to the local bus station so I won’t have to wander all over town looking for it?”
“Sure, glad to. The station is just a half-mile down the road, but there’s no need to hurry, as the bus to Wichita won’t be leaving for another two hours. I checked on it earlier after the Sheriff asked me to come looking for you,” answered Preacher Roy.
“Well, you can just drop me off there, and I’ll wait.”
“Glad to,” replied my old friend.
Minutes later we sat in the local truck stop/bus station parking lot. I was pleased my old friend had come by to see me off, and I found it unusually difficult to get what I expected be our last conversation started. It seemed that about everything that needed to be said, had been. All the rest amounted to mere idle chatter, and for some reason, idle chatter seemed inappropriate.
“How come you’re leaving us again, Will?” asked the Preacher before I had time to say anything.
I hadn’t expected this line of questioning or any questioning for that matter. I’d felt we were well beyond the asking why stage. The reason for my leaving was because— because of everything, because of some things, because of nothing or because that’s what I did. Maybe because I was a loner and I didn’t need anybody’s help. I was fine taking care of myself, thank you. And finally, because this time I planned to put a stop to it all.
“Because I don’t cotton to the idea of getting lynched by one of the roving mobs presently searching high and low for me in Jonesboro or the surrounding area,” I answered with a feigned chuckle trying to put him off.
“The number of people who truly want you gone are few and limited to those same idiots who just walked past us back at the sheriff’s office without showing the slightest appreciation for not having been murdered by a madman,” answered the Preacher. “But since all they do is sit around waiting for the rapture while judging others as unworthy, who cares about what they think? I don’t know anyone else who wants you to leave. Some are confused about some things right now, but as soon as they find out you were the one who had the nerve to take on the Buford clan, they’ll come around. Although Junior Junior is doing well, he will run the diner into the ground again in a couple of months, most likely. Mary June will come around in due course, also. She will come to understand, just like I did, that you were telling the truth about the politics in this country, and that we are all a bunch of suckers for letting the politicians and their banker bosses keep lying to us. There’s also the Sheriff who you know thinks highly of you. There’s Chief Barley, the Mayor, and Judge Brazzi and his brother, Dom. Flo must like you since she never threatened you with bodily harm.
We need men like you, Will. You’re a leader. A leader who cares even though you try to come on like you don’t. Without strong leadership, the small rural communities, along with the small farmers, are going to be pushed aside by the big agricultural-corporations. This is a fight to the death, Will, and you know it.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d thought we were past all this. I only wanted to go away. The corporate forces arrayed against the average man, woman, and child be they farmers, factory workers, schoolteachers, or whatever, were formidable. Maybe I’d gotten carried away with my speech about the little guy taking a stand, for reality painted a picture so bleak that no amount of belated effort by the average working man and woman made any difference as to the ultimate outcome. It was too late. Besides, I’d read the book, and I didn’t want to end up like Steinbeck’s unforgettable character, Tom Joad who goes into hiding after avenging the killing of his good friend by one of the enforcers hired by the rich land owners for demanding nothing more than fair pay for their hard work. Even worse, corporate America had read the book, too, and they now knew how to keep the modern day ‘Okies’ arguing and fighting with each other over all the ultimately nonsensical so-called social issues, while the real wealth continues flowing upwards to the rich, and the debt is laid upon the shoulders of the squabbling working families.
“I’m sorry, Preacher Roy,” I said. “I don’t want to go back and watch all those hardworking people get plowed under by the corporate juggernaut that’s heading this way. Millions of good people are going to get run over, and I don’t want to see it or give them false hope that it can be avoided.”
The Preacher thought about what I’d said for sometime before he responded, “Okay, Will, but you know I’m not the kind of man who gives up easily. I’m going to give you some time to think about things, and I’ll come and talk with you again in a couple of months.”
“You’re going to drive all the way to south Texas to hear me say no?” I asked.
“No, I don’t expect I’ll have to go that far to find you,” he replied with a straight face.
“What? What do you mean you won’t be going that far?”
“I mean,” continued my antagonist, “there is a good chance I’ll only have to go as far as Lawrence.”
“What are you up to now, you crazy sod buster?” I responded, sensing some kind of trickery.
The Preacher laughed at my description. “I’ve gotten info from reliable sources reporting that there might be a job waiting for you in that afore mentioned community, that’s all.”
“Why would I go to Lawrence? Who do I kno—” A crazy thought hit me, and I turned to the Preacher.
Preacher Roy had watched me all the while. “Your friend, Carlton, has been trying to get in touch with you. He has a message for you from your daughter, Annie. Seems Carlton called her and told her about all the good things you’ve been doing here on the frontier. She wants you to call her. Carlton reported that she purchased an older home close to the university and needs help on how to best renovate it.
Here’s her number.”
My friend passed a torn piece of three-ring notebook paper towards me. The name Annie, along with a number printed in dark pencil stared back at me. I took the piece of paper from him with a shaking hand and stared at it for a long time, asking myself over and again, is this for real? I had hoped for a sign of forgiveness for so long that I’d finally given up. Yet, there was the number written on a torn piece of paper I held in my visibly shaking hand. No longer did my thoughts dwell upon making my way back to my hideout down on the Texas coast where I could play the coward and quietly make arrangements to end a useless life. Now my thoughts, as well as my resurrected energies, were redirected towards the east, to Lawrence, Kansas, where my daughter waited to hear from me.
“Excuse me Preacher, but I’ve got to see if they have a bus going east this afternoon.” I told the Preacher as my shaking hand moved towards the truck’s door handle.
“I have a better idea for you,” injected the Preacher. “Why don’t you and I take a ride in that direction? That will give me time to pick your brain regarding several issues that came to mind after listening to your enlightening argument the other night. I’m especially interested in learning more about this economic Armageddon you’re so convinced is coming our way. I’ve done a little reading relating to the subject of Armageddon myself, don’t you know. Maybe we can compare notes?”
I sat back in my chair to consider his proposition. I also took a moment to remind myself of how fortunate I was to have the good man sitting beside me as a friend. If not for decent individuals like him intervening, many more would suffer, and religion in this country might soon become intolerable. “You’re not packin’ a frozen sausage again, are you?” I inquired, revealing a grin that undermined my phony tone of suspicion.
Preacher Roy smiled and said, “No, but I know where I can get one.”
I sat there for a time puzzling over the thought that an avowed man of God, the very God I openly denied to the world, refused to abandon me or judge me in spite of my rejection of almost everything he believed in and devoted his life to. Even more puzzling was my almost instantaneous change of mind regarding the likelihood of my rejoining the fight in Jonesboro along side a lot of good people about to be crushed by the steamroller driven by the criminal corporate culture now directing the government institutions of our once great country. I said to this good man, “You’re making it hard for me, Preacher Roy, real hard.”
Preacher Roy looked me straight in the eye from behind a smile wider than Kansas. “Just doing my job, Will. Just doing my job.”
The end.
THE TWO RIVERS
SLOWLY the hour-hand of the clock moves round;
So slowly that no human eye hath power
To see it move! Slowly in shine or shower
The ship above it, homeward bound,
Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground;
Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower
The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes the hour,
A mellow, measured melancholy sound.
Midnight! The outpost of advancing daylight!
The frontier town and citadel of night!
The watershed of Time, from which The Streams
Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way,
One to the land of promise and of light,
One to the land of darkness and of dreams!
—Henry W. Longfellow