As we were going under the overpass near Exit 14, Jessica shouted, “Oh, my God.” I slowed down. It is hard to dodge stalled vehicles and look. On the left, there was an elderly man and a woman who were being hassled by ten to twelve young punks. Now at a dead stop, I put my hand on my .22 rifle.
The leader seemed to be this skinny, tall kid. He had a Mohawk haircut. He was unshaven, and he was clothed in dirty blue jeans, work boots, a flannel shirt. I saw that he had a 9mm gun. Two others also had guns. One was a short man. He seemed meek in nature, and he stood about five-foot-six.
The other gave off vibes like an angry bitch, consumed by some injustice forced upon her person. She was almost as tall as the skinny man but a lot heavier. Easily weighing 190 pounds, she had a short haircut, and wore no makeup. Her outfit was made up of a black leather jacket with silver buttons, loose dungarees, sneakers, and a condescending attitude.
The elderly couple drove up in a yellow Mustang. The old lady showed no fear. She was scolding the leader. Decision time, I thought. I had a responsibility to my daughter and Vivian. I also had to come back alive to sustain my son and wife. Two neighbors were also counting on me. What a quandary. I needed to show my daughter and Vivian that I was in charge. I needed to show confidence, but the moment was filled with fear and indecision.
We were on the other side of the highway. The old lady and the leader were in a heated exchange. At the next moment a chill ran down my spine. The angry lady in black leather slowly turned her head and looked at our car. I held my .22 a little tighter. My adrenalin started to run.
God sure worked in mysterious ways. At that tense moment, Jessica called out and tugged at my coat. “Dad. Hey, Dad.”
“What Jessica?” I never let my eyes off the angry bitch. “Dad, let’s keep going.”
“We are on the wrong side of the road. We’re on a mission, remember?”
“You’re right.”
I started to go slowly forward, the whole time keeping an eye on the angry bitch.
The traffic was jammed, and for the sake of mental survival, my thoughts drifted toward my son’s Buick. It was a 1956 Buick Riviera splashed all over with a bright red color. He came across this classic in Nebraska when we lived in a rural farming town. We were friends with the Hestons. They were simple folks living on social security, and they also earned a few dollars with a small crop of potatoes. They drove an old 1963 Chevy pickup truck. Mr. Heaton also had a 1956 Buick just sitting in the backyard. Three tires were flat, and it seemed to have a lot of rust. When Mr. Heaton passed on, Mrs. Heaton offered the car to Randy for a low price. He jumped on the offer. She needed the funds for Mr. Heaton’s funeral. When we relocated to Massachusetts, Randy had his car shipped there.
To me, it was a money pit. To Randy, it was a piece of priceless artwork. He could have been a lawyer, an accountant, or an engineer, but he elected to be an auto mechanic. I’m glad because now the Buick was our lifeline.
My mind woke up from its peaceful thoughts of the bright red Buick and old Chevy pickup trucks. We were already at Exit 13 on Route 95. Usually it took less than forty minutes to the Connecticut border. Though he had to dodge stalled cars, I had hoped it would take just an hour. There were fewer cars that littered the road. The farther from Providence, the less cars we encountered. Most of the time driving in the breakdown lane was smooth. After a few minutes, we came to Route 295. It is the outer beltway around Providence. During rush-hour traffic or major traffic jams, 295 is an alternate way to bypass Providence. Soon I saw Route 4 on the left. It is the split that goes to the beaches and Route 1. To me, it was a sigh of relief. We were getting close to the Connecticut border.
We passed by an abandoned eighteen-wheeler that was almost brand new. Lord, I thought, that is a big truck. The value of the truck and its contents must be worth hundreds of thousands. Money, I thought. What value does that have now? Food, water, and medical supplies are all that had any meaning now. Survival was all that mattered for my family. Then my train of thought was interrupted.
“Dad,” Jessica spurted out. “Dad,” she said in a louder voice. “What, honey?” I looked in the rearview mirror.
“I have to tinkle. The water we have been drinking doesn’t agree with me.”
“All right, honey. Hold on.” I pulled up next to a 2012 Chevy Blazer.
When I looked at the gas gauge, it was down to a quarter of a tank. I stopped the Buick.
Vivian replied softly. “Yes” if she wanted to go with Jessica.
I always thought it was odd that women went to the bathroom together. God, if I said that to a friend, it would be “whoa get away from this dude.”
“I need a little water for my hands,” Jessica said with authority.”
“Be careful with how much you use.”
“Yes, Dad,” Jessica said sweetly.
“You too, Vivian.”
“Yes, Mr. Randal,” Vivian said with respect. The girls went off to the side of the road just beyond my sight.
Now the fun starts, I thought. I went into the trunk, and then I got the crowbar and the hose. With some of the newer cars, you needed to open the gas cap from the inside. I still had the Midwest upbringing in me. My dad always said, “The good Lord watches your every movement.” I needed the gas, but I did not want to damage the car. I got the gas cap opened, and then I sucked on the hose. “Yuck,” I said. Nothing was worse than the taste of gas. I got the air out of the hose.
Gas was flowing down. “Crap,” I said. “Now what do I do?” I couldn’t put it directly in my tank—I would lose the siphon connection.
So I capped my end with a piece of plastic and a screwdriver. Now it was airtight.
At this point I collected myself. I had a funnel, but I needed a container. I would hate to use one of the empty water bottles. Water bottles were precious. The girls came back and saw me in my bewildered state.
“What’s up, Mr. Randal?” Vivian asked with a little stress in her voice.
After several minutes we heard a small engine. It was a man on an old Harley motorcycle. He looked to be in his forties. He was somewhat tall, and he weighed a good two hundred pounds. Even his helmet and clothes seem to come from a far-off vintage year. As he approached closer, the girls and I became apprehensive. I felt a little unsure how to handle this. My mind was racing. I had to quickly determine if he was a threat to us. I knew the girls would not do well without me. I was sure my wife and son also depended on our mission.
I took my rifle out of the car. Instead of holding it in my hands, I just put the butt end of the rifle on the pavement. To me, this was a “trust but verify” gesture. As long as he didn’t go for his rifle, neither would I. We were all a little anxious. As he got closer he slowed down and stopped about twenty feet from us. The kickstand came out. He kept a close eye on my rifle. “How are we doing?” he asked.
“We are doing just fine,” I said confidently.
“My name is Vincent,” the motorcyclist said with a friendly voice, slowly gazing at the two girls. He bowed his head and then proceeded to take his rifle out with his left hand. He laid the rifle down and slowly walked a good ten feet away. Then he said, “Look, man, I have my own mode of transportation, and you have yours. I also need gas. I’m below a quarter of a tank. Your hose is not going to work without a container.
“Jessica,” I said.
“Yes, Dad,” she said with compliance.
“Please hold my rifle.”
“Yes, Dad.”
I took the crowbar and nodded to Vincent. “Okay, Vince. Is it all right to call you Vince?”
“Sure,” the motorcyclist replied.
“Great. You can call me Ben. It is short for Benjamin. Benjamin Randal.”
“Got it,” said the motorcyclist. “I will take these three cars, and you can take those two.” Vincent went to his Harley and grabbed a flat-head screwdriver.
Several minutes later Vince yelled, “I think we got one.” At this point I started to walk over to Vince. I turned slowly toward Jessica and gave a small nod. Jessica grabbed the rifle and put her finger on the trigger. The rifle was on her lap and out of sight.
As I got closer, Vince said, “Look in the backseat. Two gallons of fruit juice, baby wipes, and a three roll of paper towels.”
“Okay, Vince. Let’s open this car with minimal damage,” I said with authority. Vince pried the window with the screwdriver. I took the crowbar and tried to lift the latch, but after a few minutes, I wanted to break the window.
“Yo, man, be cool. We got this.” Vince went back to his cycle and unwrapped the wire that held his bed pack. Without hesitation, he made a loop at the end of the wire. He again pried the window. “Hand me your crowbar, Ben,” he said with a little impatience. He took the crowbar and bent the window more. “Ben, just hold the crowbar like this.” I guess there was a new sheriff. As I held the crowbar, Vince opened the latch on the first try.
As he gazed at the two girls, Vince commented. “Heh, man, we make a good team.” I half-smiled. I knew he did not want to humiliate me in front of the girls. “Look, man, we got to rinse these bottles out with a little of your water.”
“Okay,” I replied. We were close to our water outlet. Vince and I filled the bottles and then shared the spoils. He filled his before I filled mine.
Vince then said, “Look, man, let’s get you up and running.” I felt less intimidated. “Where you headed, Vince?”
“Lyme, Connecticut. I came from Salem. My Dad passed away two and a half years ago. I am nervous. There is no way my mom can survive.”
At this point I told Vince about our watering hole. “Thanks, man, but I need to move on,” he said politely. “God has plans for all of us. I just hope he spares my mom. She is all I have.” He put his hand over his face to mask his tears. After he put his kickstand up, he ended with the words, “God be with you.” He started his cycle and drove off without looking back.
“That’s a man on a mission,” I said to Jessica and Vivian. Sure could use a few friends like that, I thought. “Okay, girls, let’s blow this pop stand.”
“How much farther, Dad?” Jessica said with impatience.
“We are within twenty minutes form the Connecticut border. From there it is maybe another ten minutes.” The cars were fewer in numbers.
We reached Exit 1. It was the last exit in Rhode Island. We descended downward, and now we could see the state border. Most of the visitors to Casino Woods followed the little signs. They pointed to another exit that led away from our watering hole. As we got off 95, we came to a stop sign.
“Look, Jessica. This is where I use to buy fireworks.” There were several places to buy them within a quarter of a mile “Why are they closed, Dad?” Jessica ask.
“I am not totally sure, but they are illegal in Rhode Island and Massachusetts.”
The Rhode Island State Troopers would normally see the cars coming on 95. The exit was within eyesight of their perch. For five to six weeks before the Fourth of July, they stopped cars. If they caught you, you would lose your purchase and incur a fine. Most customers from Massachusetts went to New Hampshire. There were multiple back roads. The survival rate was better up there.
Now we were very close. “Dad, why did you come all this way?” “What are you getting at, Jessica?”
“We have some small casinos in Massachusetts.”
“That’s true, Jessica, but they are fairly new and small. The politicians have their hand in everyone’s pocket. Massachusetts is a one-party state. The joke is you can fit all the Republicans in a clown car. In last few elections, there was a little increase in the affluent areas.
There are always objections from the churches and progressive activists.
Besides, Jessica, Foxwoods is larger. The alcoholic drinks are free. The waitresses are nicer.”
“You mean they are pretty.”
“I didn’t say that, Jessica.”
“Men, they are so shallow” Jessica retorted with a little sarcasm.
“Uh-huh, you got that right, girl” Vivian said in agreement. There was no use fighting it. I just kept quiet. There was activity around the bend. There were several vintage vehicles, bicycles, wheelbarrows, carts, and even a horse.
“Are we there, Dad?” Jessica asked excitedly.
“Yes, we are, Jessica.” There was a line of about twenty people. It was mixture of locals and Pequot Indians. A water pipe that came out of the hillside had a sign from the Board of Health that said “This water is not authorized or tested by the Board of Health!”
During the past ten to fifteen years, I often saw the locals and the Pequot’s fill their plastic containers here. It was ironic. When I noticed the old vintage cars and trucks, I used to feel sad for them. Now without modern EMP sensitive electronics, they are the ones remaining on the roads.
When one traveled down this country road, the economic struggle was apparent. The houses needed repair. The barns, trucks, and tractors were vintage. It really reminded me of old Nebraska. Even though the economic struggle was real, the people were of solid character.
As the casino opened, the money ventures swooped in, attempting to buy as much as they could. Slowly hotels, gas stations, and coffee shops sprang up. Town fathers kept the zoning tight. “This is not Las Vegas. This is the land of the Pequot and Puritans.” Their buildings fit the integrity of the landscape. I always felt good that many of them did not sell out. The license to build the casino did go to the tribe. Many became rich, which was good for them. In the beginning many of the dealers and pit bosses were Pequot. As Foxwoods grew, the percentages changed.
I pulled the Buick off to the side of the road and asked the girls, “Do you want to fill the bottles or guard the Buick?” Jessica felt squeamish about using the rifle to stand guard. “Vivian and I will do the filling.” I noticed a poster with the number six written on it. It stood more than two feet tall and two feet wide. The girls took four bottles each and stood in line behind a Pequot Indian father and son. The son was in front. His pants were blue jeans, and his shirt was tribal. In his belt Jessica saw a long hunting knife. The father was five-foot-ten and maybe 190 pounds. His attire was tribal with a loose-fitting shirt over his pants.
As the girls settled in, the father turned his head slowly to the left.
He made a slight glance toward Jessica and muttered in a low, masculine voice. “Hmm, white man took our land. White man brings us his diseases. Now white man brings his war machine.” Both Jessica and Vivian bowed their head in fear. Once more he looked back and noticed Vivian. “Hmm,” he said with a slight smile. He probably misjudged Jessica. Her good friend was African American. Maybe this met with his approval.
The water pipe looked like it was jerry-rigged. There was no concrete basin or any elaborate fittings. It was a simple pipe that had been driven into the hillside. One simply put out a water container to collect spring water.
April often produced afternoons as cloudy and cool as this one.
It had been a harsh and snowy winter. The last two to three years the winters seemed to get worse. Cape Cod had always been known for winter golf, but the new weather patterns changed that. Jessica and Vivian were mostly quiet. The mood was resolute and somber. No one seemed to smile or talk.
The only two who seemed different were two young New Yorkers who arrived in a spiffy Edsel. I bet that the storage fee for that beauty is hefty, I thought. Its backseat and trunk were filled with empty water bottles. New York City from this point was a good three-and-a-half-hour drive. They looked like people who made six-figure salaries. My guess was that they were either lawyers or marketing execs. One wore black pants with white stripes, and the other wore light tan khaki pants. God, don’t they ever give up, I thought. I knew New Yorkers often made fashion statements, but at th
is point, who cared?
An older couple with six containers just finished. The New Yorkers had been impatiently waiting their turn, making remarks about how they had traveled the farthest and deserved to fill up all they wanted. They seemed insensitive to the others around them when their turn started. The one is khaki pants filled four bottles, brought them to the Edsel, and then returned with eight more empties while the one in black pants filled up two more.
The young Indian son spoke up. “Sign says six. You fill up to six and go back of the line.”
Black Pants looked at him, brushed back his coat, and responded, “Yeah, right.” He then returned to filling up his water bottles. You could cut the tension in the air with a knife. The father put his hand on his son’s back. He stepped to the side and spoke with his deep voice.
“Sign says six. This territory is ours. These are our ways. If you don’t like them, leave.” He brushed his tribal shirt to the side, showing a much larger gun than the New Yorkers carried. At this point everyone was getting nervous.
Although I was a good hundred feet away, I had to act to prevent any unnecessary violence. I grabbed my rifle and ran for the first fifty feet with the barrel pointed down. Now I walked at a fast clip and yelled out, “Do we have a problem here?” The two New Yorkers looked at me to size up the situation.
“No, there is no problem.” They put aside all but the original plastic containers. Still pointing my barrel, I gazed at the father. He looked back at me. We did not utter any words. He simply let his tribal shirt cover his gun. I walked slowly back to the Buick. Every few feet I glanced at the two New Yorkers but not at the father. I decided to sit on the hood of the Buick and keep the rifle on my lap. It was now the father and son’s turn. They walked back with their full quota. Jessica and Vivian began to fill their quota.
Boston Darkens Page 2