by Jim Kraus
He stepped close to me and put his hand on my arm in a most fatherly way.
“Janet told me about what happened. I am so sorry for your loss. And I know that a few extra dollars—and work—is often what God wants for us. Keeps us occupied and focused on others, not ourselves. And the money can’t hurt. What do you think? Start on Monday? The pay is adequate. Better pay than working at some horrid Quickie-Mart or an abominable warehouse store, regardless of what they sell. We offer benefits. Vacation time, 401(k), dental. Wait, do we have dental? I think so. Some dental, anyhow. Flexible hours. Mostly flexible. Work from home some of the time. You know, Mary Fassler, I have made the position sound so nice that perhaps I’ll apply.”
For twenty seconds, I tried to formulate a cogent reply, or consider different options, or think of questions to ask, or something.
Instead, I simply said, “Yes. I’ll take it. I can start Monday. Can I bring my dog to the office on any day I have to work late?”
Kistler Hibbs smiled.
“As long as it doesn’t have rabies—or at least as long as it doesn’t show, then it is okay with me.”
Before our walk, I treated Rufus to a half slice of Key lime pie. So far, his enthusiasm for the dessert had not waned a bit.
As we walked to the end of the driveway, I decided to turn away from the ocean this evening, and head toward the small retail area of Atlantic Beach. I had driven through the area a few times, but never seemed to really see what stores were there. Walking would let me really explore.
I turned toward the sound, part of the Atlantic Intercoastal Waterway, divided from the ocean by the narrow spit of land that Atlantic Beach had been built upon.
“You seem happy,” Rufus said as we walked along a dark stretch of sidewalk.
“I am,” I replied. “I found a job today.”
I’m not sure if Rufus knew what a job really encompassed. I suppose I could have explained it to him, but it would have taken a long time. I cut it as short as I could. “That’s a very good thing. It means that I will have enough money to buy a Key lime pie every week.”
“Well, that is good news,” Rufus said, his stubby tail wagging as much as it could, given its shortened arc. “Very good news.”
The first time I took him to the newspaper office, he would have questions. I would wait until then to answer them.
We turned south, down the short business district. The area, bright and well lit, had several dozen pedestrians and walkers strolling about. An independent coffee shop stood on one corner—Sandy Sandy’s Coffee Shop. As we walked past, the warm, enveloping, velvet odor of roasted coffee and steamed milk filled the night. Rufus lifted his head and drew in deeply. I would have stopped, but all the outside tables were taken, and I had had a lot of coffee today and I mostly didn’t feel like sitting.
Across the street was a smallish beach accessory store—bamboo mats, swimming suits, Boogie Boards, suntan products, and endless rows of vacation stuff that no one needs but buys only when on vacation. A drugstore was part of the mix of stores, along with a convenience store with gas pumps, a restaurant that looked like a mom-and-pop affair, a real estate office (not The Star Team—think more modest), a resale shop that looked as if it sold higher-end items, and at the end of the block, a store with a neon sign that glowed RENT-A-SCOOTER.
We crossed the street and I looked in the darkened window. A row of scooters stood against one wall, lined up on the diagonal, looking all gleamy and polishy in the reflected neon.
(I really did write novels before this. Really.)
Rufus sniffed at the door.
“Smells like the smell your car makes.”
“It does. But this store has scooters, not cars. They’re sort of like motorcycles.”
“I don’t like motorcycles. They make a lot of noise. They scare me.”
“I know, Rufus. But scooters are much smaller and slower.”
“Like a bicycle?”
“More like a bicycle than a motorcycle. And not scary.”
He sniffed again at the door.
“I think I’ll come back . . . maybe tomorrow. . . and rent a scooter for the day.”
Rufus turned his head sideways and offered me a very odd look, as if he had just imagined the most ridiculous image in the world.
“Really? You?”
I didn’t take kindly to being sneered at by a dog’s preconceptions of what I could or could not do—or worse yet, what I should or should not do. I would bet that Rufus did not mean the comment in a snide way—but that’s how it came out.
“Yes. I could ride a scooter. I did it in college. Once or twice. I liked it then and I might try it again.”
I wanted to add a snotty “You have any problems with that?” but felt pretty certain that the sarcasm would go over the poor dog’s head and he would simply think I was angry with him—which I was not.
Maybe I will. Maybe it’s time to try out my wings . . .
This time I snorted.
Sounds like a bad country and western song title.
As we turned the corner on Robin, Rufus asked me the final question of the evening: “Can I have more Key lime pie when we get home?”
20
On Saturday—a warm day, not hot, not sunny, but pleasant—I walked over to Rent-a-Scooter. I had decided to show Rufus that I could be impetuous if I wanted to be, and that I could drive a scooter.
I hoped that I hadn’t forgotten how to do it. College lay decades in the past, and I had forgotten everything I learned in freshman English composition, so maybe my scooter skills would be a little on the rusty side.
A bell tinkled above me as I walked in. Rufus had been right. It did smell of gas and motor oil, and car wax. Or scooter wax, I guess.
Some scooters in the line I had seen that night were gone—rented out, no doubt. It was still preseason, and the crowds had not descended on the beach yet. I wondered what that would look and feel like, and if I would begin to resent the tourists after a time, the traditional scornful native, wishing all these strangers and interlopers would simply go home.
After a moment, a door to the back end of the store opened and a tall man, about my age, with dark hair and dark eyes, wearing a gray mechanic’s shirt, came out.
For a moment, his dark features reminded me too much of Jacob. I swallowed hard. As he drew closer, the resemblance faded, except for the coloring—I would guess Italian.
“Hello. Welcome to Rent-a-Scooter.”
I smiled back. “I’d like to rent a scooter, please, for the afternoon.”
He wiped his hands on a shop towel. “You’ve come to the right place. For a scooter, that is. We have them.” The name Viktor was stitched above his breast pocket.
He, Viktor, I guess, asked me where I wanted to go.
“Just around town. I’m new here and I would like to explore the area a little.”
He asked if I wanted to go fast. I gave him my best schoolmarm look and replied, “Do I look like I like to drive fast?”
He agreed with me, but added, “Looks can be deceiving.”
He pointed to a blue scooter. “This Vespa is easy to ride. Not fast, but not slow, either. And I have a helmet that matches it. You said for the afternoon, right?”
“A couple of hours.”
“Back by five?”
“Before then. More like two hours.”
“We can do that. I need a driver’s license. And you need to fill out a waiver release form. Once we do that, I can go over the controls. You’ll be on the road in no time at all.”
He smelled of oil and freshly laundered clothes—an odd combination. Intriguing.
The Vespa featured the simplest of controls. The right hand twisted the throttle for gas, and both sides had brake levers. It was like sitting at a desk, with both feet flat on the floorboard. Not much different from a bicycle, the Vespa was quick and responsive. It also ran quietly. Rufus wouldn’t be scared. I felt much younger as I cruised about. Incongruous, improbable, and a littl
e unnerved, but younger.
I drove past my house, and onto the driveway. I beeped the horn. It sounded like an Italian horn should sound.
Rufus’s head popped up in the screen door. I waved. “Rufus, it’s me,” I shouted. He did not seem convinced. I would not go get him—he couldn’t, nor would he, ride on the scooter with me. I pointed at the machine. “I like it. Can I buy one?”
Rufus took that opportunity to turn away from the door, like a parent obviously disgusted by an offspring’s actions. I took it as his mild disapproval.
I so enjoyed my two-hour ride that when I pulled into the garage area at the rear of the store, I knew I had to have a scooter of my own. Viktor waved hello.
“Enjoy the ride?”
He was handsome in a down-home sort of way. Striking almost.
I’m not really obsessed by men. Honest. Viktor did not wear a wedding ring. I notice these things. That’s all. And he was handsome.
“I really did. Like riding a bicycle. You don’t forget. And I kept it on the slow side.”
“That’s good. Being safe.”
I handed him the helmet. I am sure my hair looked like an exact impression of the inside of a helmet. Not my most striking look. Not anyone’s striking look.
“Do you sell any of these scooters? Are any for sale?”
Viktor slipped the helmet over one of the handlebars.
“I do sell a few, Miss Fassler. But not until the end of the season. I buy a dozen new scooters at the beginning of the year, and at the end, I sell off a few that are a couple of years old. Still in good shape, but customers expect new models. Are you in the market?”
“I would love to have one. I had a blast.”
“Can you wait until Labor Day? I’ll have some to sell then. I’ll make sure I keep a good one for you. A lot cheaper than buying new, that’s for sure.”
“I can wait. I’ll come back at the end of summer.”
At that moment, a young girl came through the back door, curly black hair a circular buzz around her face as she ran. “Daddy!” she shouted and leapt up at him from a few feet away. He caught her and swept her into his arms, where she snuggled against him. A horn sounded in the alley. Viktor waved and the car drove off.
“The end of summer will be fine,” Viktor said. “I’ll see you then, okay?”
Why are all the good ones taken?
I sat at the Shark Shack, enjoying my second order of grouper bites. Rufus had three of them, so I did not feel overly indulgent at the second order. I had french-fried sweet potatoes as well, another decadent southern delicacy. I don’t know if it was really a southern dish or not, but a few restaurants offered them and they have since become my favorite greasy side dish.
Rufus sat, panting. He acted odd in the warm weather. Dogs pant when they are hot. We all know that. It helps dissipate heat, since they don’t sweat. But Rufus gave the impression that he didn’t like to pant, or found it undignified. He would pant for a short moment, close his mouth, swallow, pant, close his mouth, as if the act of panting made him self-conscious. He seemed healthy enough. I asked him during a walk if the heat bothered him.
“No. No. Not at all. Why do you ask?” he replied.
So I let the subject drop.
The waitress came out and sat next to me on the picnic bench. She patted Rufus’s head, which he gratefully accepted.
“Thanks for the story on Marine wives,” Cindi said. “Everyone on the base said it was one of the best stories they had read on the subject.”
Cindi had been the first person I had talked to when we came to Atlantic Beach.
It seemed like a long time ago.
She was one of the Marine wives I interviewed for the story on military spouses—the trials they face, the separations, the anxiety, their often nomadic existence. She was a pleasant person to talk to—and very self-aware. That made for a good story. That made the paper as my first story. Well-received too.
“My husband usually hates things like that, yet he thought it was really good.”
“Thanks, Cindi. I appreciate that. Sometimes stories turn out different from what you expected. But I liked working on that one.”
“I’ve got another couple of tables to work. How about if I treat you to a Key lime pie for dessert?”
Rufus nearly fell over turning around and getting into position for a handout.
A reporter for a newspaper in a small city was as close to a media personality as a person could get without being anything close to a media personality. Besides the newspaper, there was one local TV station that offered a local newscast. So together, we were “the media.”
Armed with my clip-on name tag: Mary Fassler/Reporter/Carteret County Herald, I could probably go anywhere, unchallenged, throughout Carteret County. I usually carried a large, older, digital camera with me as well, so I looked the part of a journalist. People assumed that you were on the job, and doors opened almost automatically. In truth, how often does the ordinary person’s life show up in a newspaper? Rich and famous people might grow tired of their notoriety, but the average person never made it into print unless he or she was in a traffic accident, got arrested, or died.
Not the best way to get noted.
So when I, as a reporter, showed up at someone’s office, or place of work, or home, I generally received a warm welcome. Maybe the fellow who covered city hall has a different take on the subject, but for me, the job proved to be an all-access key that opened doors and caused people to talk freely. Someone was interested in what he or she had to say. And, of course, I would not be going all “Mike Wallace” on them. I would write a nice story. That made a difference too.
I did a story on what public school teachers did over the summer. The pay in Carteret County is not the highest in the nation, so most of them worked: painting houses, running a Sweetie-Freeze soft serve stand (all the good names had been trademarked), tutoring, doing lawn service, serving as a lifeguard, and the most unusual—pig wrangling. On a pig farm, someone has to get the pigs onto trucks and to market. Phil Kerl was the only pig wrangler I had ever met.
I did a story on a day in the life of one of Morehead City’s oldest doctors who still made house calls. I decided then that he would be my doctor, only to find out that he wasn’t adding new patients. “At eighty-four years old, I need to slow down a little. Smell the roses. Take Sundays off.” He was a peach of a southern gentleman.
I did a story on a policeman who served on the New York City Police force for twenty years and retired to Carteret County. His was a typical story. He wound up bored stiff within six months, applied for a patrolman’s job, and has been on the local force for twelve years. “I love it down here. It took a couple of years to get used to the pace. I found myself getting everywhere a half-hour early.”
And now I was working on a piece about a local man, a twenty-four-year-old man, a rising star in the ranks of the world’s top professional surfers. Atlantic Beach is not a noted surfer’s beach, but this is where he got his start. I had to stop him at least twenty times to ask for a definition of one odd phrase or term after another. I mean, who knew what an “ankle snapper” meant or what a “rhino chaser” was?
With this job, I even had my own desk at the offices of the Carteret County Herald—in the far corner, next to a window. I think other people used the desk in my absence, so I kept the personal effects to a bare minimum. I had a fake ivy plant, a picture of Rufus, and a clear glass jar filled with seashells. Hokey, yes, but I thought it looked pretty.
Kistler Hibbs entered the newsroom with a flourish. He did most things with a flourish, making it nigh onto impossible to ignore him. And everyone called him “Kistler Hibbs.” Never Mr. Hibbs. Never Kistler. Never Sir. Just Kistler Hibbs—like it was all one word.
I liked him even more now than I did the day we first met. He was a generous man, a great editor, and a stitch.
Friday afternoons were empty times at the office. The Friday edition went to the printer the night before, at
midnight. The Monday edition remained . . . like a week away. People who had the time, or the ability, or the nerve, made themselves scarce on Friday. Except for the sports department. Friday was a big high school sports night, but during the slow summer months, the Minor League Baseball team, the Morehead City Marlins, garnered some time, attention, and ink.
But all in all, Friday afternoons were quiet afternoons. I liked working in the office, more than I liked working at home. Rufus didn’t seem to mind. When I asked him if it would bother him if I was gone for a few hours during the day, he simply asked if I intended to come back before our walk. I assured him that I would. “Okay, then. I can take a nap until you get home,” he answered.
Working at the newspaper office gave me a new sense of belonging, of having a place that I could go to. I began to feel at home here—at the office, in Atlantic Beach, by the ocean. Despite the fiasco with Billy B (and that’s how I began characterizing it—as a romantic fiasco) I started to feel as if this was the home and the job and the location that I was meant to have.
Could this have been God-ordained? Like I said before, he and I aren’t talking. But Rufus seems happy and content. Maybe that’s all the sign I needed. Or all the sign I will ever get.
Kistler Hibbs spread his arms wide when he saw me and shouted, in a nice, but very loud voice: “Mary Fassler—my Brenda Starr reporter!”
I waved back at him, and continued to type. In the old days, I imagine, a newsroom had been a noisier place, with clacking typewriters and paper being yanked out of the reels, and phones jangling, and the staccato tapping of hot-lead linotype machines in the back room. Now all you heard was the soft, nearly mute digital clicking of keyboards and the unearthly warble of cell phones.
I sound like a cranky old woman, don’t I? And a little of me is cranky. But not old. Not yet.
By the time I finished the ninth paragraph, Kistler Hibbs had sidled up next to me and nearly reclined on the desk opposite mine. His proclivity to lie about was another reason the staff kept breakables and crushables off their desks. He propped up his ample head with his ample forearm. It looked so totally uncomfortable that it would make strangers wince when they saw him. But he could maintain the position for upward of thirty minutes. Maybe he did yoga in his off hours. Or Pilates. Yet he didn’t seem to have off hours. He was always here when I worked in the office.