Ethan's
holiday wasn't long enough. He was slack and dejected as he packed
his old cardboard suitcase. No need folding old laundry, just jam it
in and shut the lid. He sat on the edge of his bed, the sun just
rising, premature as usual, but already in anticipation, his bus
wasn't due for another two hours, right about check-out time. So much
stress. He thought to go the 24 hr. diner next door for a quick
breakfast, but then thought his stomach might not travel well, and
finally made an ill fated choice - taking a tuna sandwich along on
his trip might not be such a bad idea. Yes, indeed.
As it
turns out, his holiday coincided with the peak of dreary season on
the seashore, which he now reasoned was reflected in the
very-off-season bargain rate. It was his birthday weekend and all he
could afford on his meager paycheck, but now it all came into focus.
Gloomy
fog ruled the day, every day, with drizzle in the morning, drizzle at
night, and drizzle intermittent in between, with a glint of sun. But,
so be it, packed tight but insufficiently bundled himself, Ethan
ventured into this dense haze of morn in search of his tuna sandwich.
He took
a stool at the counter and studied the tired menu, knowing in advance
what he could afford, but toying with his decision for sport. Menu
skimming while pretending it was an open book. The meatloaf tempted
him, but how fresh could it be at 7 AM? Odds are it was a leftover
from yesterday, if not the day before.
He had
a coffee while he waited. It too, was miserable, warmed overnight on
the back-burner, rendered down to a thick black bitter mess. The
waitress, that nondescript amorphous being, appearing, disappearing,
on cue, slipped the check under the brown paper sack.
“Take
your time,” she said, slipping away again.
“You
waiting for the bus?” came the voice, from the dim light of the
back corner.
“I
am. Who wants to know?” Then from the shadows a man emerged,
walking gingerly, slouched badly, come walking toward him.
“Anybody
sittin here?” He tapped the empty stool next to Ethan with his
cane.
The kid
looked around. “I dunno, place is pretty busy...”
This
drew a chuckle from the old-timer. “Headed East or West?”
“West,
Why?”
“I
think I may have bit-off a bit too much, thinking I could manage this
trip on my own...”
“Where
to?”
“Central
Valley. California.”
“Whoa,
that's a far drive...”
“Too
far?”
“Never
far enough. You need a driver? California here I come.”
“You
sure, son. I gotta trust you the entire route...can't be backing out”
“Dad,
the gates of heaven just opened so wide, I am...I'm awestruck!”
“A
simple 'trust me' would suffice.”
“At
your service, Sir.”
They
shook on it.
“Now
order some breakfast. It's a long day and a long road to go. I'd
suggest “The Big Mama”...
“Huh...oh,
sure, whatever you say. I am wide open.”
“ Best
maintain a tight grip on that.”
“I..wha?”
“ Never
show you hand.”
“Ah!
Didn't see that one coming.”
“We'll
have plenty of time to work on our communication ...and education.”
Ethan
surprised himself and consumed the entire Big Mama. It sat heavy in
his belly, but once they hit the road he loosened his belt, and was constantly assured it would endure the
day's voyage. Now, we'll see if the old man can endure the resultant
gastronomic gases. Could be, 'windows down' halfway to Oklahoma, but
it was his suggestion, so he must be aware of the consequences.
“How'd
you know about The Big Mama?
“Used
to pass through here on a regular basis. Always ignored the place,
but had occasion to stop, and once I stopped, I never stopped
anywhere else in the region.
Part of
my many problems is my gut give out. Now I got to eat baby food
strained through a goddamn diaper!'
“ooohhhhhh....”
“I
didn't say it would be easy. So, yes, I know the joint by heart.
Hell, I helped closed it up one Christmas.”
“They
actually closed on Christmas?”
“Just
that one year. Turns out a bunch of us where snowbound and isolated
so we got to drinking, a lot, because there was a lot of time to
kill, and during which we managed to convince the also-inebriated
owner that no one was going to travel this road in a snowstorm, so he
best take the opportunity to make a break, soon, when they project a
short clearing between storm fronts and get home to his family. Those
of us who could, all because traffic westbound would only follow the
slow moving storm, well, we half-joking offered to mind the place
until help arrived. He was a trusting soul, or a lost one, but he
surprisingly agreed. We watched as he worked frantically, wiping the
bar, straightened the shelves, taking the money box, and locking up
'the good stuff' with a lock that wasn't worth a squat. Last minute
precautionary measures, complete.
“Last
one out...” as he started out.
“Get's
the lights!” was the refrain.
“...and
locks the door.”
We
acknowledged his command, and wished him well. He was so
trusting no one had the heart to disappoint him, although most, if
not all in attendance, were highly tempted. But any thoughts of
disorderly activity in said bar, curiously dissipated as a whistling
wind whipped the door shut behind him, and found us in a silent
moment, before it fractured in bawdy laughter.
He was
headed to his in-laws, where he would have a lousy time, get snowed
in yet again, then followed a snowplow down the mountain at 20 mph,
with long and frequent stops. Ten hours of driving, and five days
late, they arrived. Over the course of their extended stay he had
much time to reflect on his actions. Yes, he could be in a lot of
trouble he came to realize, and regretted ever leaving the place
behind, in the hands of a rowdy crew of strangers and regulars and
not sure he trusted either.
So the
dread followed him as he returned. He pulled into the empty lot.
Stepped out of the car and examined the exterior of the long low
building. No damages he could see.
He
found the door locked and secure, as requested and sighed some
relief. He pulled out his key-chain and addressed the lock. It
complied. Entering in morning light, the place was quiet as a church,
as if in anticipation of the expected recognition of it's immaculate
condition. It was spotless and orderly. He was struck. And on the
bar was a tall beer glass stuffed with bills and a note on a napkin
that read:
“Thank You, Sir, for your trust – peace be with you.”
V
