by Glenn Trust
Barry Broomfield traveled a great deal. His business required it of him. Curious by nature, he found it interesting that so many Indians and Asians made lives for themselves in small, out of the way, places like this. It wasn’t a matter of prejudice. It just seemed culturally incongruous. Wherever Mr. Chopra came from living in Concordia, Missouri had to be vastly different than his birthplace. Or was it Mr. Aamir? He could never remember which name was the last one, but he thought that it might be different than in America. Hell, most Americans wouldn’t even consider living in a place like Concordia because of the cultural, small-town differences.
“Yes, sir. May I help you?” Mr. Chopra/Aamir spoke English with the polite lilting accent common to many from his birthplace. Barry found it melodically pleasing to the ear. Soft and mellow, it was not unlike the speech of his native Georgia except that the words were enunciated more clearly by Mr. Chopra.
“Yep. I’d like a room for the night,” he replied.
“Yes sir. And how will you be paying? Cash or credit?”
Barry put his Visa card on the counter and commented, “I didn’t know you could even get a hotel room with cash anymore.”
“Oh yes sir,” the manager said smiling, “we have many who stop here and pay with cash. It is the way here in the country.”
Mr. Chopra had a pleasant way about him. He said the words as if he were a true country boy, born and raised in Concordia, which was clearly not the case. Yet, his manner was so matter-of-fact that it was also clear that he considered Concordia his home.
He put Barry’s credit card back on the counter along with a key and receipt for him to sign. Barry picked up the pen on the counter signed the slip and picked up the key.
“Thank you sir. You are in room one-fourteen.”
“Thanks,” Barry said, picking up the credit card. “Any place around here to get some dinner?”
Mr. Chopra smiled and said, “Oh yes sir. May I suggest the Blue Star Café for dinner? You can see it across the parking lot about two hundred feet.” He had watched Barry pull uncertainly into the motel lot and added with a smile, “Leave your truck and walk. The food is excellent. My wife runs it.” Seeing the look on Barry’s face, which clearly showed that he wondered what kind of food would be served by Indians out in the Missouri countryside, he added good-naturedly, “No curry, I promise just good American food.” He patted his slightly round belly and gave a little laugh.
Barry smiled and nodded. “I’ll give it a try. Thanks”
It took just a few minutes to throw his travel things into the room and to walk across the parking lot to the Blue Star Café. He was pleased to see the neon beer signs in the window. A dry county or city, like some back in Georgia, would not do tonight.
There were a number of cars in the parking lot. Barry realized that while the motel wasn’t doing a jam up business this night, a lot of locals must frequent the place. Pulling open the glass door, he went straight to the bar. He hated eating alone at a table in the middle of a busy restaurant. Sitting on a padded stool, he looked up at the bank of televisions. A couple of different baseball games, ESPN and the Fox News Channel testified to the fact that, notwithstanding their location in the middle of ‘nowhere’ Missouri, they had a clear view of the southern sky and good satellite reception.
The bartender walked over. He was a young Indian man. Beyond that, his stature and features showed that he was clearly related to Mr. Chopra.
“What can I get you?” the young man asked politely.
“Take a beer,” Barry replied leaning his elbows on the bar.
The bartender nodded and walked away. Barry looked around. Three locals, probably farmers, were standing at the end of the bar talking and telling jokes. Two couples occupied tables in the bar area. The restaurant was nearly full. This was a busy spot for a little town like Concordia. Probably the only spot, Barry thought.
The bartender placed a cold, sweating bottle in front of Barry. He picked it up and took a long, deep sip.
“Something to eat tonight?”
Barry put the bottle down refreshed. “Sure, how about a cheeseburger and fries.”
“You got it,” The bartender said, reaching down and placing a rolled napkin with silverware in front of Barry.
Sipping his beer, Barry stared blankly at one of the baseball games. The long day over, he tried to empty his mind. He had started the day in an Atlanta suburb and now, fifteen hours later, he sat on a bar stool in Concordia, Missouri, a place he had never heard of until spotting the dot in the road atlas.
Laughter from the group of locals at the end of the bar got his attention. Looking around at them and the other customers he thought they could have been good old, boys from Georgia or anywhere else where people lived ordinary lives filled with good days, and some bad ones, but mostly good ones.
Barry took a long pull from the longneck bottle. One good day, he thought again and then shook his head in disgust at himself. He knew, looking at these people, that good days come all the time, you just have to recognize them. In a moment of clarity, there at the bar in the Blue Star Café, Concordia, Missouri, Barry Broomfield had an epiphany. It was the concept that had eluded him. Perception. Each day had its good. It was a matter of perception. Good days were there if you could perceive them.
The smiling faces surrounding him in the Blue Star testified that these people generally perceived their days as pretty good. Strangely, it made Barry feel a little ashamed. He was looking for a good day right in the middle of theirs. It seemed almost rude.
Fine. I’ll join the crowd tonight. He raised his bottle to no one in particular and took another sip.
The cheeseburger and fries showed up. Barry was hungry and as he lifted the burger with one hand, he lifted the empty beer bottle with the other and winked at the young bartender.
“Yes sir,” the bartender smiled and took the empty. He returned a minute later with another cold one.
The food was good. The beer was cold. Barry was content. He soaked up the contented feeling. This might turn out to be a good day.
Taking out his cell phone, he pressed the speed dial number for his oldest daughter. The phone rang. He took a deep breath. After three more rings, he thought it would go to voice mail and then she answered.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Charlotte. It’s Dad.”
“Hello, Barry.”
She had started calling him by his name when he left Barb. He guessed it was her way of saying, ‘you are not my father because my father would not leave my mother’. He felt annoyance rising, but pushed it back down, not wanting to lose the good day feeling. He wanted to talk to his daughter.
“Just wanted to see how you all were,” he continued.
“We’re fine.”
“Okay, then. Well…” he didn’t know what to say. “Well, if you need anything, just give me a call.”
“We don’t need anything. Is that it?”
“Well, yeah. I guess so.”
“Goodbye then, Barry.”
The call ended abruptly. That went well, he thought. He sat for a moment then lifted the bottle. Around him, people enjoyed their drinks and dinner and each other.
He ordered another beer and the sting of the call began to fade. Barry noticed that Mr. Chopra had come in through a side door and was behind the bar. The bartender came over to Barry with him.
“I’ll be leaving now sir. Aamir here will be your new bartender.”
“Oh, well, let me settle up with you then. No, no, not necessary. Aamir, Mr. Chopra is my father. We keep it all in the family.” He smiled. “Thanks again. See you next time.”
As the young man walked away, Barry turned to his father and put his hand out.
“Aamir, I’m Barry. Good to meet you.”
Aamir Chopra shook his and said, “And you Barry.”
“So,” Barry went on, “you have a pretty long day. First the motel and then the restaurant.”
Aamir smiled, “It’s not so bad. It’
s a family business so we are together a lot. I like that.”
Barry nodded, said, “Yeah,” and took a long pull from the beer bottle.
After the long day in the truck, Barry was ready to talk. Besides, he was intrigued by Aamir Chopra and the family business in Concordia.
“How long have you been here?” Barry asked with a smile to let the man know that he was just interested, not confrontational.
“I have been here for twelve years, my family and I.”
“So, how did you end up in Concordia, Missouri? This must seem like a long way from your home.” Barry saw the questioning look on Aamir’s face. Living in Concordia had probably taken some getting used to, by Aamir and by the locals. Barry added quickly, “I’m not trying to pry, just curious.”
Aamir looked at Barry for a moment, maybe trying to understand where this was going and what Barry’s intentions were. He noted the good-natured curiosity in a face full of questions. Aamir Chopra folded his hands calmly on the bar top and spoke.
“But this is my home, Barry,” he said.
“Well, yes I know, but not your original home. Right?”
“That is true. But now this is my country. And yes, it is very different from my native India. And I miss India at times, but this is now my home and where I make my life. I came here with my wife when my uncle, who is in St. Louis, was able to provide a place for us. He owns a dry cleaning business and has brought several of our family over. I have repaid him that debt and now my wife and I bring others of our families over when we have the chance and they desire it. May I ask you a question?” He continued to look directly into Barry’s eyes.
“Well sure. I’m bothering you with questions, sure ask away.” Barry was a little uncomfortable, waiting for the question.
“Why are you here, going to wherever you are going? Do you not miss your native country, your place of birth? I can tell by your accent that you are not from Missouri.”
Barry smiled and shrugged. “That’s a good question. Sometimes I wonder. I wish I knew.”
Mr. Chopra calmly said one word, “Ripples.”
“What?”
“Ripples.” Chopra maintained his direct gaze, hands still folded.
“I don’t understand.” Uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken, Barry was no longer the curious American, but the one answering questions.
“I will explain,” Mr. Chopra continued. “Imagine we are standing beside a pond and I throw a stone into the pond. Ripples will run away from the splash. Next, you throw a stone into the water and ripples also run out. Your ripples will touch my ripples and alter them in some way. And the ripples from my stone will alter yours.”
Barry said nothing, his face serious, concentrating.
Mr. Chopra went on, “Now others come along and throw their stones into the pond. The ripples from each stone touch and alter all of the others, including yours and mine. Do you see?”
Barry nodded. He still wasn’t sure he understood, but Mr. Chopra’s certainty and calm pulled at him.
Seeing that Barry really did not understand, Chopra continued, “We are all connected, because each of us has thrown our stone into the water by being alive in this world. Our lives as we live them today are partially the result of the ripples from all of the lives around us.
“I am here with my family because of the ripples in my India and from those of my uncle here in America and from countless other ripples that have touched me in my life. You are here because of ripples that have touched your life.”
“Seems like we have no choice, the way you say it. The ripples control us,” The idea seemed vaguely troubling, too deep and too complicated at the end of a long day.
Mr. Chopra smiled and responded, “No, not at all. The ripples touch and change each other but they do not change the person who threw the stone. The ripples are not good or bad, they are only the result of the stones hitting the water in a certain way.
“The stones are not good or bad. They are just the things that people throw into the water.
“The people who throw the stones into the water may be good or bad. That is something we must decide. And if we are good or bad will depend a little on how we let the ripples affect our lives. What is certain is that the ripples will strike us and have an effect on our own ripples and we must decide how to live, and how we will let them change us.
“Our talk here tonight will make ripples for both of us. They will have an effect on our lives and to some extent on every other person in our life. By choosing to stop here you have added a certain pattern of ripples to your life, and,” he smiled “To mine also.”
Having spoken these truths of his life, Mr. Chopra said nothing more. Whether they were the truths of this lonely American from the south, the man would decide for himself.
Barry sat quietly as Mr. Chopra moved away to serve another customer. Ripples, he thought. He couldn’t argue. There seemed to be a lot of ripples in his life right about now.
After another beer, Barry paid Mr. Chopra.
“Thanks much for the beer and the conversation.”
“No, no. It was my pleasure. I think maybe I said too much. Too much conversation perhaps.”
“Not at all,” Barry said.
“In any event, I wish you well Barry. Have a good evening.”
“Thanks.”
Barry turned and walked out of the Blue Star Café. The night was brisker than it would have been in Georgia this time of year. He hurried the two hundred feet back to the motel and his room.
Undressing quickly, he threw his clothes on the chair by the small desk in the room. Lying down on the bed, he stared at the ceiling in the dark. He could hear the traffic on the Interstate, cars and trucks passing or being passed. Each action created a ripple in the traffic, he thought. He smiled. Aamir Chopra was a wise man.
Ripples. It was a lot to think about, but no more tonight. Now, just sleep.
Day Two - Converging Particles
We know that every particle has an antiparticle, with which it can annihilate.
There could be whole antiworlds and antipeople made out of antiparticles.
However, if you meet your antiself, don't shake hands!
You would both vanish in a great flash of light.
Stephen Hawking, A Brief History of Time
19. A Good Enough Day
The early morning sun filtered dimly into the room. Somewhere, Barry heard a bird, muffled by the closed window, but still audibly melodic. He smiled.
Lying on his back, eyes shut, he listened to the bird. The insides of his eyelids turned red before him as the room lightened and sun shone on his face, the sunlight warming the air around him. It was a good feeling, a peaceful feeling. After a few minutes, he became conscious of the smile on his face, which caused him to smile a bit more broadly in shy embarrassment. Silly, to be embarrassed with no one there. He wondered at that, shy at his own self-awareness, his recognition of his own smile. Man, some psychologist would get a kick out of analyzing that.
What the hell. He sat up quickly, stretched and stepped out of bed. He felt good. That was enough.
He opened the curtain slightly and looked out. The parking lot was wet from an overnight rain. Barry had never heard it. The bright sun shining at an early morning angle created shadows that made everything stand out in crisp, sharp contrast. Wet drops of water on trees and shrubs and the gravel sparkled in the light. It was beautiful.
He walked into the bathroom to prepare himself for the day. A feeling of excitement filled him. Today, Sioux Falls. A few more hours on the road and he would begin the next part of his life, the new adventure. He said the name of the city to himself several times. Sioux Falls. It felt good. Right.
Closing the door behind him, Barry walked out into the crisp morning air holding his bag in one hand and the room key in the other. He walked to the small office and laid the key on the counter. There was a young, slight Indian girl behind the desk, obviously Mr. Chopra’s daughter o
r niece or cousin or whatever. She smiled. Maybe it was because of his smile. Probably not though, he thought. She looked like a person who smiled a lot.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Morning,” Barry said back. “Checking out”
“Yes sir. Would you like a receipt?”
“Nope, that’s okay. Thanks. Is Mr. Chopra around?”
“No sir. Not right now. He comes in at noon.”
“Well, when you see him, please tell him…uh…” Barry wasn’t sure what to tell him. “I guess just tell him Barry from last night said, thanks. For the hospitality and conversation and…well, just thanks.”
“I will sir, and thank you. Have a nice day.”
Still smiling, Barry turned and walked out into the day. The autumn crispness in the air was refreshing. It enhanced the sense of well-being that washed over him. He became aware that, for the first time in a long time, he had not looked to the heavens asking and wondering if this would be his good day. So far, so good. That was good enough for now, he thought. No reason to jinx it by asking. It already was.
Walking to the truck, he passed a puddle. He tapped a small rock into it with his shoe and watched the ripples it made. He moved his head back and forth remembering the conversation with Mr. Chopra. He could see his reflection undulating in the ripples and again became conscious of his smile. Ripples. Well it was as good a theory as any. Let the ripples take him where they may today. That would be a good enough day.
20. A Helluva Partner
A jagged, untrimmed fingernail circled the nipple of her right breast, scraping it lightly. When there was no response, Luther slid his hands over her breasts, squeezing hard and making the nipples stand up. Still no response. He squeezed harder, his rough hands and thumbs twisting her nipples as he squeezed.
Lauren’s eyes opened, arms and fists swinging upward in an attempt to knock him off of her. Moving his hands from her breasts, he raised his arms and caught her wrists. He leaned forward, pinning her to the bed, all of his weight on her.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Her nipples ached where he had squeezed them.