The miles clicked off, the old lady tapped her generous memory moving seamlessly from topic to topic. And Whitey, he smiled, he felt the best that he had felt in his entire life. He may not be the symbol of purity, he too had made his share of chocolates on the living room rug, would probably make many more.
But for now, everything was just fine.
2
“Glory be, if it isn’t Casper the Friendly Ghost!” A toothpick of a man in chambray shirt, jeans and cowboy boots greeted him from the lobby-slash-office of the Transitions program. “Just foolin’ with ya partner. My names Earl, but everybody calls me Slim. Can’t imagine why.” He laughed as he gave a side view of his skeletal frame.
“Hi Slim, I’m…” He hesitated and then went with the impulse. “…Whitey. My name is Whitey.” The new arrival extended his hand in greeting. “Well I’ll be dipped in Hershey’s syrup and licked clean by Christine McVee. Whitey! No shit, then Whitey it is! I knew you was commin’ Mr. Lister, he asked me to show you ‘round.”
The bus had deposited Whitey at the Trailways stop no more than ten minutes ago. It was a one block walk to Transitions. Whether it be zoning laws or the wisdom of Mr. Lister types across the country, halfway houses always seem to pop up within a stones throw of the local bus stop.
There really wasn’t much to show. Community room, combination dining room/kitchen, laundry room, and a short hallway with 10 doors, five to a side. “Whitey, you’ll be in number 6. We have our focus group in about 20 minutes, it’ll be in the community room, that’s the first room I showed ya.” Slim was genuinely overly helpful. Whitely liked him immediately. “I’ll let you get your gear unpacked. I’m in room 4, If you need anything, you just holler or bang on the door and ole Slim will come on the lickety-split!”
“Thank you Slim, I’ll do that.” Whitey opened the door to number 6 and unloaded his duffle on the bed. He heard Slim fading down the hall: “Whitey! Imagine that! I’ll be go to hell in an Easter basket!”
It was a small disappointment and an ironic one. Whitey realized that there was only one bed in the room. He would not have a roommate. The room was small, efficient and quiet. His thoughts went to Bill and their arrangement on ‘igorettes. He even thought wistfully of centipede-faced Ed and his nonstop yammering.
This place would be different. He would be alone with his thoughts. That, or walking the hall. But even the hall was no good, it was 30 feet at best. If he walked it, he would look like one of those goofy guards at Buckingham palace. Step, step, step, turn. Step, step, step, turn. No, he would have to fill his time else-wise.
What meager clothes he had were hung lazily in the closet. His other possessions, toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, all issued by the Minnesota department of state institutions, were parked on the bathroom sink. That left him with a pocketful of loose change, a deck and a half of smokes, and a cheap two dollar wristwatch; a watch that he had reluctantly invested in after having arrived late at his job (former job his mind corrected) one time too often.
He looked around the room again and saw nothing. He stepped out in the hallway. Again, nothing. The thought of tapping on Slims door was in his mind when he heard the cracker-barrel cowboy yucking it up in the community room. Must be time for focus group.
3
For most folks, becoming re-acclimated to a town the size of Elmwood (after having been away for a few months) would be no trouble. Actually, it would be quite enjoyable. “Say, look who’s back! How ya been! Good to see you again!”
Not for Whitey. His arrest for pot in the school parking lot had appeared as a brief story on page three of the local paper. The outburst in the courtroom promoted him to the front page and included his photograph. People talked, people knew, people remembered.
He would have preferred to remain anonymous, hidden away in the walls of the Transition program, but after being back in the Elm for only a few days he had exhausted his supply of smokes. Unlike the mental hospital, you could smoke as much and as often as you wanted. He went from being a 3 cigarette a day smoker (one each at 10, 1 and 6) to double, triple, and had he had the resources, would have easily graduated to a pack a day.
The cigarettes gave him something to do with his hands; hands that begged to touch, to retreat, and then to touch again. The routine of lighting, drawing the filter to his lips, inhaling, even tapping the ash, was all part of a pattern that gave comfort to his mind.
But now he was smokeless. He took inventory of his small collection of change, found it to be enough, signed himself out at the attendance log and wrote: “Red Owl Grocery – Smokes.”
The three block walk to the Red Owl was inconsequential. As he crossed the parking lot, though, he had a strange sensation. Was it familiarity? Nicotine craving induced anticipation? Nostalgic bitterness over his first purchase of Pearl Drops? Something about the store felt weird.
The weird feeling was about to be validated. A bagboy was trundling a shopping cart behind a woman who was rummaging for her car keys. They were on a direct course with Whitey. The woman retrieved her keys and looked up.
She stopped cold.
The bagboy tried to put on the skids but was too late. The front of the cart bounded into the woman’s generous behind, moving her an unwelcome two steps closer to Whitey.
“No!” She brayed. “Over there!” She pointed to another part of the parking lot, away from the approaching figure. “I’m so sorry maam.” The bagboy who barely weighed as much as the bags he was wheeling, was nearly pleading. “I didn’t see you stop…” “Just go that way!” The woman moved off at a right angle and more than doubled her pace.
“It’s not your fault young man.” She brusquely quieted the bagboys further apologies. “It’s him!” She turned to the figure now entering the store. “It’s that mental case! He’s dangerous! You come with me now and don’t you leave me until I’m in my car!”
They headed back in their original direction, the bagboy unsure about what had just transpired, but now anxious to get back inside the store so he wouldn’t miss out if there were any shootings or stabbings.
Whitey had seen the woman’s odd reaction, but he didn’t attribute it to his presence. She was just some sorry old witch who had a thing for tormenting bagboys. Besides, he had smokes on the brain and they were now almost within reach.
He entered the Red Owl.
The Tobacco section was a self-service island between the grocery aisles and the checkout lanes; a combination of convenience for the customer and security for the store. If you were in a hurry you could grab your smokes, make your purchase and be on your way. If shoplifting was your intent, you couldn’t very well pocket a pack while in sight of a dozen checkers and sackers.
Whitey had no intention of shoplifting, still his browsing at the island did not go undetected.
Barb Svenson, mother of Timmy Svenson, and former hash-slinger at the 5 and dime (before she got let go for ‘miscounting’ customers change), was standing at the head of checkout lane three in her Red Owl smock. It was a visual message to customers: ‘my lane is open, no lines, no waiting.’ And she knew who she was looking at the minute he walked in the door.
Five months ago, Barb had spent her 8 hour shift staring at that same face. Although then it had been on page 1 of the Elmwood Tribune. The local newspaper was racked above the candy, gum, breath mints, batteries and other compulsive things that you just had to have, on the far side of her lane. And each time a customer would add that day’s edition to their purchases, voila! The creepy face did not disappear, but was replaced by the next copy in the rack.
“Edna.” She whispered at the checker in lane 4. Edna had just finished checking a $40 order and was placing the curled receipt on the belt. “Thank you for shopping Red Owl.” she chirped to an unseen customer to her left, then snapped a sour look at that irritating Svenson woman.
“Edna, look! Look who’s here!” Barb Svenson motioned with her nose toward the tobacco kiosk.
Edna saw the fish-belly white cu
stomer but recognition eluded her. She continued looking, frustrated with herself for having allowed the Svenson woman to drag her into yet another pointless drama. Then strange statements entered her mind. ‘I’ll come in her mouth! And she’ll swallow it! He fucked me up the ass!’ She hissed in a quick breath and steadied herself on the cash register.
As a bailiff, her husband had confided with her many a time about the bizarre happenings in the courthouse, but none quite so bizarre (or frightening!) as the pot smoking sicko. He told her these things with the understanding of course that they were highly confidential and that she should share them with no one. She always honored his request, not telling anyone, except for the people she could trust.
From there the story embellished and spread. “I heard that he dropped his pants and exposed himself.” “He was masturbating like a chimp in the zoo.” “He climbed over the bench and was dry humping the judge.” “He shit on the floor and then ate it.”
He was buying a pack of Kools.
Barb Svenson looked frantically down the row. Hers was the lone open check stand. If the freak was only buying cigarettes he would go directly to her.
So contemplated ducking out of sight; hoping that he would find another lane with the shortest line and wait his turn. But then she landed on opportunity. She could be a local hero. She could tell this kid just what she thought of him and then share the story with her full circle of friends. All three of them.
Whitey plucked the Kools and headed to the open lane. He dropped them on the belt and began digging for change.
“Can I see some identification?” Normally the clerks didn’t bother to ask. If a 13 year old came through buying cigarettes they would even helpfully prompt with a wink and a smile ‘those are for your mom, right?’
Whitey had never been carded for cigarettes. There had never been the need. He had previously bought most of his smokes from a vending machine at the Elmwood Launderette.
“I, uh, I don’t have any.” Which was in fact, the truth. The only identification he had ever carried had been his driver’s license. And that had been impounded.
“No ID? Well I know who you are.” The clerk glared at him malevolently. “You are that sex freak.” She lowered her voice darkly. “They locked you in the nuthouse. They should have never let you out.”
Whitey felt the blood, what little of it there was, drain from his face.
“I’m not selling you cigarettes. I’m not selling you nothing.” Barb Svenson crossed her arms to demonstrate that her fingers would not be keying in the price, that she would not be moving the product and definitely that she would not risk touching the hands of a sex fiend during the exchange of money.
Whitey had no response. He looked longingly at the box of Kools. The thought of grabbing them and dashing out the store briefly flirted his mind. A better idea; he would simply go to a different checker. He lifted his head to scan his options and was met eye-to-eye with the clerk in the next aisle. Her gaze did not drop. It pierced him with spikes of loathing.
In resigned confusion, and smokeless, he got the hell out of there. Barb Svenson turned to Edna and nodded victoriously. ‘I took care of him’ her expression radiated.
Outside, Whitey rounded the corner of the Red Owl and slumped to his haunches. Nuthouse? Yes, he had heard it before. Sex freak? What was that? And there had also been the lady with the shopping cart; she had seen him and acted so queer. Had she also said something? ‘Mental case? Dangerous?’
Whitey shook his head, he couldn’t remember. He brought his hands up and rubbed the tops of his legs. His elbows came together on his sides. He could feel his torso and shoulders quivering.
“God I need a smoke.” The plea went to the open air and received an immediate response. A man was striding purposefully toward the entrance of the store. He sucked hard on a grit, getting in the last few puffs, before parking it nose first into a large cylindrical ashtray.
Buttsies. He could smoke a buttsie. For now.
Whitey got back to his feet, scoped out the parking lot, and headed over to the entrance. The ashtray was filled with fine-grain sand, and, some three dozen exposed filters ripe for the picking. He leaned in for a better look.
A shopper exiting the store startled him. He turned away. Here he was, just a guy waiting for a ride or someone who had come out for a breath of fresh air while a friend finished their shopping.
Finally alone again, he risked a glance back at the ashtray and surveyed the pickings. Several of the exposed filters had lipstick. These he dismissed. Woman smoked lighter unsatisfying brands. Some of the filters had dark tar stains, an indication that they had been all but used up and that there was very little buried treasure beneath the sand.
Eventually he settled on two potentials, and when the time was right, plucked them deftly from the tray, palmed them discretely, and then vacated the premises.
4
“Let me be crystal clear. This cannot happen again.” Frank Lister was giving Whitey the once over. Not only had he been gone longer than was allowed, he had not listed all of his destinations on the log book, and, most important, he had missed most of focus group.
“No sir, it will not happen again.” To this Whitey was sincere. He felt like he would never leave the Transition building again.
Smoking the two buttsies had not satisfied his craving for nicotine, it had increased it. He had left the Red Owl and embarked across town to the Launderette. He used side streets, effectively avoiding any additional sightings, and was nearly out of breath by the time he tugged open the filmy glass door of the Elm’s only coin-op cleaner.
He dropped into one of the Formica chairs that ran the interior of the building. The experience at the Red Owl ran again through his mind. ‘Dangerous?’ ‘Sex freak?’ He still couldn’t justify it. But what he could do was plunk the right combination of coins into the machine, yank a lever, and have a fresh pack of Kools delivered into the catch tray below.
As he rose to un-pocket his change a little rug rat raced by pushing an empty laundry cart. From across the bank of washers a young woman screamed: ‘Brandon, I told you to stop that! Now get over here with your sister and sit still!’
The rug rat led the way and Whitey followed. The vending machines were in the back corner and that appeared to be the destination for both.
“Brandon, stop it! Now do what I told you!” Brandon stopped it by crashing the cart full speed into the Pepsi machine. “I want pop!” He cried.
‘And I want cigarettes’ Whitey thought. He thumbed through his coins, found three quarters and one dime and dropped them into the slot. They clicked their way into the mechanism and took hold. He tugged the handle and experienced the satisfying plop as the machine spit out the product.
“He’s getting some so I should get some too!” Brandon was now racing towards his mother; his hand pointing blindly backwards at the vending machine patron.
Brandon’s mother was in front of an open dryer door, busily folding a pillowcase that was only marginally dry. She made a ‘tsk’ sound as her boy came charging at her. She lifted her eyes tiredly to see the object of her sons pouting.
A young man at the end of the building was pulling the little cellophane zip strip off a pack of smokes. He offered her a small smile and then focused his attention on the exposed top, carefully tearing off a corner exposing only two or three smokes.
The woman dropped: the pillowcase, her jaw, her voice.
“Kids” She corralled Brandon in a neck lock and gathered in a small girl who was fiddling with a one-armed Barbie doll. “Don’t you dare leave my side.”
“Ouch! Mommy, you’re hurting me!” The little girl twisted to free herself from her mother’s vise-grip.
This time, Whitey’s moment of confusion was briefer; his recognition, far more harsh.
The woman was looking at him in fear. ‘Please don’t hurt me, don’t hurt my kids.’ He didn’t need to hear the words, he could see them. They were spoken by her eyes, her body l
anguage, her death-grip of maternal protection.
“I…” The words he so wanted to share would not come out. He wanted to tell the woman that he was not dangerous, was not a sex freak, that if he had the money he would buy Brandon and his sister a pop, a candy bar, unfiltered Camels, a box of Tide, whatever they wanted.
But there were no words. He silently slithered away and out of the Launderette.
“Yes, Mister Lister, I’m sorry it took so long but I didn’t want to be seen anymore.”
Now that he had the full story, Mr. Lister offered some empathy. “Each one of us who is here, myself included, have had to deal with stigma. I realize it hurts now, but there will come a day, and a place where the stigma is all behind you. With…” he emphasized. “…one exception. Up here.” He pointed to his temple. “We can’t forget everything, but we can work to live beyond it.”
Whitey nodded but it was a false gesture. ‘Forget’ Mr. Lister had said. ‘We can’t forget everything.’ Bullshit. There was a way to forget.
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