I guess Corpus does have something in common with the rest of the country, Mason thought. But he’d come around quite a bit in the few months since he moved. He and Alex biked off school property, but not before he sent a single group message reminding his friends of their impromptu Monday night meeting.
“You wonna stop by before you head home?” Alex asked.
“Sure, I’ll drop by,” Mason told him as they rode their bikes through the entrance of Alex’s trailer lot.
Around five trailers down was the one belonging to Alex’s family.
“Home sweet home,” Alex said unironically.
The two boys planted the kickstands of their bikes into the gravel and made their way up to the trailer. Any kid in an average suburban school would have been apprehensive about inviting their friends over when they lived in a mid-sized trailer. That wasn’t the case in Corpus. Not when, at least, half the population of students all had similar living arrangements.
To be sure, Corpus, Georgia during the pre-Civil War era had been home to many plantations. And plantations, of course, consisted of dirt roads and fresh acreage of crops as far as the eye could see. The North won the war and that was all she wrote.
The era following the Civil War was known as Reconstruction and was intended to bring the south into modernity. The town of Corpus resisted this Reconstruction era in the 1870s and all of the government aid that followed.
This attitude of rejecting the help of untrusted outsiders continued for a full century and beyond. Roads were never paved and big businesses were never welcomed. The townsfolk of Corpus historically gave the stink-eye to city slickers and northerners.
The earliest city council voted down every attempt to modernize the tiny town. Opportunities came and went.
“Over my dead body,” a councilman once snafued when the governing body voted on allowing the country’s biggest nuclear power company to build a power plant in Corpus.
“But the creation of this plant will bring with it an influx of jobs, an increase in population, and a boom in technological advancements,” the potential power plant’s director of operations argued.
“And that’s exactly why we’re voting against it.”
“I don’t understand?”
“We don’t need no or want fancy plants here. We do just fine on farming and agriculture.”
And while that may have been true in the early 1980s when the power plant was envisioned, today the agriculture business was far from booming.
The same attitude affected the development of real estate.
“You want to destroy our farms to build doggone mansions?” the townspeople argued in the mid-twentieth century.
Of course, real estate developers did not intend to build mansions, but mid-sized homes may as well have been mansions to the average citizen of Corpus at the time.
“Those in favor, say I,” requested a councilman at the town meeting for real estate development.
“I just can’t approve of these big city real estate developers controlling our town,” another council member argued.
“And I agree,” a third member nodded.
So decades ago, while America was building itself the dream of two story homes and white picket fences, Corpus was stubbornly refusing to press forward with, well, any societal advancement at all.
Thus, mobile home land lots became abundant.
Alex’s parents had bought their trailer twelve years ago. It was cramped and the walls were thin. In addition to the A/C unit that was powered through the trailer, each bedroom required a personal space heater in the winter. But it got the job done and it’s all Alex had ever known as home. He had the ebullience of southern appreciation.
“Small as it is, I love it here,” Alex said.
He spoke with innocence in his voice. An innocence of not missing what he’d never known. Any sort of crowded city or fast paced urban life was as foreign to Alex as the far reaches of the galaxy in a Star Wars film.
Mason, however, was from the capitol of North Carolina. And he’d twice been to New York with his father before his dad passed.
“I’ll always appreciate that about you, Alex,” Mason told him. And he meant that.
Mason may have had a taste of big city life in his young years but still he began to appreciate the modesty and quietness of Corpus. And of his friends. Particularly Alex.
Mason may have hung out with four other kids but Alex was his favorite. They hadn’t known each other for long but Alex’s gentle and quiet spirit had the makings of a best friend. At least that’s how the thinking goes when you’re that age. What a time to be alive. Life truly couldn’t get simpler than this here.
They two boys made their way into the trailer then into the combined living room and kitchen area.
“Hello boys, welcome home,” Alex’s portly mother said jovially.
“Hey mom.”
“Hey Mrs McGuire.”
“Hey, darling. Are you here to stay for supper? I’m cooking our favorite.”
Mason could smell her helpings as soon as they entered the trailer. It was sweet, it was tangy – but he couldn’t quite put his finger on exactly what it was. Then he peered over to the counter where she stood.
“Mmm, delicious,” Alex breathed. “But Mason’s gotta get home soon. I’m going over to his place tonight.”
“Oh, well doesn’t that sound fun, dear,” his mother said.
His mother stirred meatballs in a crockpot. Then came the whammy. She had been dousing an entire jar of grape jelly over the meatballs.
“Sweet ’n’ spicy, meatballs,” Mrs McGuire said. “The jam make it sweet ‘n peppers make it spicy, I reckon.”
Mason had never tried jam over meatballs back home. But here it was a damn near delicatessen.
Before he could continue thinking about what was in that pot, the front door opened and a girl entered. This was Alex’s sixteen-year-old sister, Taylor. She was a pretty girl with dirty blonde hair whose looks never even registered to Mason. He’d spoken to her maybe four times since he met Alex.
“Hey mom, hey Alex,” she said before turning to Mason. “Hey kid, what’s your name again?”
“Mason,” he told her.
“Yeah, I’ll remember this time. I think I’ve seen your sister around school. Maybe even have a class or two with her.”
“Madison,” he told her.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Taylor said before turning her attention down the hall and swooping into her room. “Tell me when the food’s ready!” she shouted out and slammed her door. Her kind of tone partially suggested she didn’t want to be bothered by parents and siblings.
Alex ushered Mason into his tiny room down the hall. It was a good thing his parents only had two kids. Or he’d have been sharing a room, for sure. And these rooms were far too small to be shared.
His walls were covered in movie and video game posters. Throughout the history of teendom, escapism has also been a boy’s favorite form of entertainment. But for Alex – and the boys he hung around – it was a damn near religion.
There were action figures of every kind on a homemade stand and a video game set up next to a small television. The true eyesore was the piles of clothes thrown all about the room. It was, however, no more messy than the room of any boy his age.
Without a big brother to receive them from, Alex was not the proud owner of any hand-me-downs. Well, at least not from his immediate family. Almost all of his clothes came from the local mom and pops thrift store, aptly named “Mom ’n’ Pop’s Thrift Store.”
Birthdays were the best. Those were the days Alex received new clothes. But he always preferred the newest video game. The gaming console took his parents quite a bit of saving to afford. And, you can be sure, they purchased a used one from Mom ’n’ Pop’s Pawn Shop – a place that bore no relation in ownership to the thrift store.
Video games became a way of life.
“Check out my new headset,” Alex said as he pointed toward his gami
ng area. His red headset had a microphone piece that extended down to the wearer’s mouth. It wasn’t as state-of-the-art, like the newest ones that contained built-in mics. But it was still new – and best of all, it belonged to Alex. It was something he was proud to call his own.
“I bet it does the job nicely,” Mason said, revolving it around as he grabbed it.
“Won’t need it tonight though, if we’ll all be together.”
“Yeah, definitely.”
After a quick discussion of Alex’s newest video games that turned into a long discuss of Alex’s newest video games, Mason left for his own home.
***
Mason’s mother, Melanie Lane, didn’t get to her scheduled interview until five hours after it was initially scheduled. After her kids left for school, she had put on her favorite floral sleeveless dress. Her makeup was on point, and she was ready for whatever questions would come her way.
“You got this, Mel,” she said to herself. “Hell, how hard could it be to prepare for a waitress interview?”
She knew as long as the manager wasn’t a leering creep she’d be just fine. A little setting powder and she’d be off.
Then her cellphone rang. If there was one area in which the city of Corpus had advanced, it was this. Only the police department, the town hall, a few businesses and the over-seventy set such as Old Man McIntyre still used landline phones. You almost couldn’t get one even if you wanted one. The nearest phone company that provided landlines was fifty miles away from Corpus. No one wanted to make a trek like that so everyone was left with the option of cellphones and smartphones, provided largely by the one carrier that had a store in the middle of Corpus.
“Hello?” Mel said, not recognizing the number.
“Ello. This is Mr Ford, manager down at the Grits ’n’ Gravy Diner.”
“Yes?” she said. “Hello Mr Ford.”
“Hi, Miss Melanie. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel yer scheduled interview this mornin’.”
“Oh,” Mel said with disappointed. “Why’s that?”
“Well, gosh-flip-darn-it. We had somethin’ real strange happen last night.”
“Yes?” she said curiously. “Go on.”
“It appears as if someone broke into ’er meat locker. They took all the red meat. The chicken and fish is there. But the steaks ’n’ lamb, all gone. The liver too.”
“Wow, well, uh,” Mel stammered.
“Yeah, I’m afraid I’ve been on the phone with my meat providers all morning. We pay good money fer insurance but you know how insurance companies can be.”
“Of course, Mr Ford. I imagine it’s like pulling teeth,” she half laughed.
Mel was relieved. Not that the diner had been broken into and all its’ meat stolen. No. Just the fact that the interview was being cancelled over something that had nothing to do with her – as opposed to being cancelled because of her.
“It sure as heck is. I’m actually calling you on my personal cellphone while I got them on this here diner phone. It’s absolutely horrible.”
“And they won’t cover your losses?” Mel asked.
“Oh, they will,” Mr Ford answered, “but it will take forever and a half to get them to do it. And by that I mean I’ll prolly be on this phone wranglin’ with ’em til this afternoon. What a cryin’ shame.”
“That’s awful,” Mel said, unsure of what else to add.
“It sure is. Corpus just ain’t what it used to be. Who in their right mind breaks into a meat locker? Some poor hungry soul? Or someone more sinister? Some pranksters maybe.”
“Pranksters?” Mel said.
“I mean why else would they leave the chicken ’n’ fish. Poor folk don’t tend to be too picky ’bout what they eat, know what-ah-mean?”
“I suppose you’re right, Mr Ford.”
“Yeah, I reckon so,” he sighed.
“Have you filed a police report?” Mel asked.
“I called ’em. Strange thing, they said it’s gonna take a while to get down to me if a crime is not currently in progress. Apparently someone died out on Old Mill’s Road last night and all the force is out there investigatin’ what went on.”
“That’s awful. Someone just died in the street?”
“Somethin’ about a car on the side of ’er road. Maybe they were hit? I can’t be sure.”
“Devastating, just devastating,” Mel said in a hushed tone.
“But regardless, I wanted to know if we could postpone your interview until around two in the afternoon.”
“Of course, Mr Ford. That would be great.”
“Alright, Miss Lane I’ll see you then.”
Mel didn’t remove her makeup or change clothes, but she did do what she always did this time of morning. The same thing many stay-at-home moms of Corpus did while the kids were at school – a little bit of cleaning and a whole lot of tv viewing. She flipped through news, soaps, premium cable, and Netflix. Thousands of options and rarely a single good show available.
At least they have cable out here, she thought to herself.
She got up, made a sandwich, and went right back to her television in the living room. The tv itself being the most modern thing in the room – nay, the house, that otherwise looked as if it were transported in time from the fifties, or forties, or maybe even earlier.
I don’t remember it being so old-timey here, she thought. Then again, I guess thirty years ago is a great many years.
She’d thought of remodeling the house, updating it to a style that suited her and the kids more. But the $5000 and change worth of savings account her mother left her was not enough to cover a miracle – or a home renovation and redecoration project.
The minutes turned to hours and soon enough the afternoon approached. The kids were on their way home. Thankfully the drive to the diner was only minutes way.
A great big sign read ‘Grits ’n’ Gravy Diner’. It wasn’t much, but when you were black widowed mother raising two kids and didn’t have a professional degree and weren’t a certified skilled worker, a job was a job. Especially in Corpus.
In fact, the average town has a Grits ’n’ Gravy Diner. Only they’re known as The Waffle House. Corpus, in contrast, didn’t even have a single stinkin’ Waffle House. They had something more local, something not owned by a corporation – a buzzword with negative connotations in Corpus.
So in place of Waffle House, Corpus had the Grits ‘n’ Gravy Diner. And it was one of a kind. As far as Mel knew, it was the only one plotted in America. Unique to Corpus.
After the sign, the second thing Mel noticed as she pulled into the diner lot were the two police cruisers embossed with the word “SHERIFF” on either side. Otherwise, there were roughly a half dozen cars spread throughout the parking lot.
The Grits ’n’ Gravy Diner was a popular gathering – or, at least, the closest thing Corpus had to a popular and regular gathering spot.
Mel parked and entered the diner. The place was abuzz with chatter of some sort. Two policemen were talking to the manager – the same manager who was about to interview Mel for the coveted position of diner waitress.
“It’s about time you guys got here,” Mr Ford said angrily.
It became readily apparent to Mel that the sheriff’s department had arrived only moments before she did.
On the left was the tall stoic Sheriff Zeddman and next to him was the shorter, scrawnier Deputy Coleman.
“I’m afraid we were tending to a very serious matter this morning,” Sheriff told him with the customary tip-of-the-hat.
“That non-white couple found dead!” an elderly person called out from their seat just a few spots down from where the police stood.
“We don’t need to be commenting and speculating on that just yet,” Deputy Coleman assured them, his wide brim hat also tipped. His hands clasped to his belt buckle as if he were the sheriff in a Clint Eastwood western.
“If someone’s been killed in our town,” another sitting customer chimed in, “we deserv
e to know ’bout it!”
A flurry of agreement spread across the diner patrons.
“We will release information as soon as it becomes available to us,” Sheriff Zeddman assured them. “In the meantime, let’s not let allow any prejudice to overshadow these circumstances.”
A series of rumblings broke out.
“You must know something!” someone called out.
“It was an unfortunate event,” the sheriff said, waving his hands in a manner that attempted to calm down the crowd.
“That’s all yer know?!” someone yelled out.
“We will be releasing as much information as we possibly can tomorrow morning. Tune in to WKP-26. I’ll be on the local radio,” the Sheriff told them.
As it were, Corpus was too small a town to have its own local news show. There wasn’t enough news to report in order to sustain a daily half hour news show each morning and evening. If Corpus had its own local news show it would consist of daily crop reports and not much else. It was always the town without news. Until now.
“I’m awfully sorry to hear about that,” Mr Ford interrupted, “but there are other problems facing the community.”
“Yes,” the sheriff said astutely, “That’s what we’re here for. How can we help you?”
“I’d like to file a police report! Some damn no-good hood broke into this here diner last night. Broke the front door lock, then made their way back through the kitchen and broken into our frozen meat locker.”
“Do ya have cameras?” Deputy Coleman asked. And immediately he knew – from the look on Mr Ford’s face, which read fool, are you kidding me – that the answer was no. “Nevermind,” he mumbled.
As everyone in the diner around him listened, as Mel stood in the back – hearing the story for the second time now, Mr Ford recounted coming in to work and finding the door broken with every bit of red meat having disappeared.
“And then what?” Deputy Coleman asked as he jotted down the information being told to him.
“So, these thieves didn’t go for the cash registers after breaking in through the front door?” Sheriff Zeddman asked.
“No, sir, Sheriff. All money has been accounted for. The cash register ain’t been touched. But the meat locker is another story.”
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