 
### STREAMS OF YESTERDAY

A NOVEL

BY

W.H. HARROD

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by W.H. Harrod

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

ISBN-13:978-1466401907

ISBN-10:1466401907

For all those people whose acceptance and support of the opinions, rights, and aspirations of their fellow human beings taught me there is a better way

## Chapter One

"It's the truth that frightens people the most. Don't you know that by now?"

My blunt trauma impaired brain detected an underlying tone of incredulity in the exasperated speaker's words as I tried to orient myself to the unfamiliar surroundings.

"That just might be the most stupid thing I've ever heard a grown man say. Didn't you, even for a second, stop to think where you were and whom you were talking to? Why if I hadn't been sittin' less than five feet away, Preacher Roy would probably be in jail right this minute. For murder no less!"

My memory started coming back to me. As it did, I became aware of an excruciating pain as if someone was trying to pound a hole through my skull from the inside. A melting bag of ice atop my head leaked cold water onto the collar of my blue denim work shirt. _Why does my head hurt, and why am I holding this melting bag of ice? And who the hell is this guy that's calling me stupid?_

Unable to provide answers to these questions, I listened in anticipation of another barrage of insults. "I ain't never seen a guy get knocked out with a half-frozen five pound roll of beef sausage before. It's a good thing Preacher Roy cut a big chunk out of that thing or else you might never have woke up."

The indignant individual challenging my intellectual credentials looked somewhat familiar to me. He was a late middle-aged ordinary looking white male, except for a persistent scowl, wearing the same type khaki uniform customarily associated with law enforcement officers everywhere. A shiny badge pinned on his shirt and a silver plated pistol safely secured in a holster on his hip gave him away.

_I'm riding in a police car_. That's as much information as my addled brain chose to give me for the time being, so I pressed the dripping ice bag to my aching head and awaited another salvo. My survival instincts told me that a guy sounding this angry stood nowhere close to being done with ripping apart the person's ass he was so angry with, which at the moment looked to be mine.

"I thought you and Preacher Roy were friends," said the uniformed individual confirming my suspicion. "Why every time he came into town for supplies he bragged on how fine a person you are. How he could count on you to come back every year to help him harvest his wheat crop. Then you go and say what you did in front of all his parishioners. Why for a moment there, I thought he might just out right explode— he _swole_ up and turned as red as a ripe tomato. I don't recollect ever seeing a guy get so mad, so quick, especially, a preacher."

The hot July afternoon sun shown bright through the driver's side window of the police car in which we traveled. Fields of wheat— some awaiting harvest and others having earlier given up their yearly bounty— stretched as far as the eye could see on both sides of the two-lane highway. The rolling Kansas wheat fields during harvest time are a beautiful sight to behold. That's why I always made an effort to coordinate my travels for the summer to coincide with the harvest season. I looked forward to spending a couple of weeks at Preacher Roy's farm on my annual trek north. _So why am I riding through the countryside in a police car holding a leaking bag of ice to my aching head wondering why Preacher Roy hit me with a roll of frozen sausage?_

"I know something about your background," said the officer. "You're a well-educated former professional man. You're a decorated war veteran, and you don't use alcohol or drugs, at least you never have around here. You've got money in your wallet. Your driver's license lists a south Texas address. You've been showing up around here during harvest for some years now. Preacher Roy once told me he thought you were just another lost soul searching for something, or someplace, to believe in. Well, I guess you're going to have to search someplace else from here on. I suspect Preacher Roy won't take it kindly if you ever show up at his door again after what happened today. I'm going to go back and charge him with disturbing the peace and let him spend a few hours sittin' by my desk at the jail. I don't intend for this ever to come before a judge so that's why I'm getting you out of the county. And it goes without saying, I don't ever expect to see you in my county again."

"Sheriff Slaybaugh," I said, remembering my driver's name.

"What?" he answered surprised at hearing his name spoken aloud.

"You're Sheriff Slaybaugh. I know you. Where are we? What happened?" Confused, I waited for his reply.

The Sheriff shook his head as he realized I was still without my wits. "He really did knock the dog shit out of you. You probably don't even recall what happened, do you?"

The Sheriff laughed as he guided the patrol car along the deserted rural Kansas highway. I awaited an explanation for my current predicament. What little sense I possessed at the moment told me something strange must have transpired regarding my ability to coexist peacefully with my fellow humans. Unless this irritated peace officer chauffeuring me along a rural Kansas highway became inclined to bring me up to speed on the events leading up to this ass chewing, I expected to remain in the dark as the confused mass residing in the top of my scull was determined to do nothing other than scream in agony.

More of my brain cells came back on-line as I listened to the Sheriff recite parts of my life's résumé. I filled in some of the gaps as he drove along. Like the fact that my name is Wilson W. Clayton, a fifty-eight year old white male of sound mind and body— although the part about the sound mind has been a matter of contention amongst my family and former friends for sometime now. I recollected having been considered an even-tempered and non-violent, though severely self-absorbed individual, which was somewhat confusing in light of the Sheriff's accusations of my inciting a preacher to violence. Additional personal attributes, along with a few liabilities of slight significance, also came to mind.

"Where are we headed?" I asked. As the question rolled across my lips I admitted to myself that finding out where we were going made about as much sense as anything. I waited for an answer.

The Sheriff took his time as if he were rethinking his plan. Finally, he turned to me and, in a tone of voice leaving no room for discussion, informed me he aimed to take me along with my few belongings stuffed into my old army duffle bag to the west county line. He planned to deposit me and my possessions unceremoniously under a black oak tree at a roadside stop located less than one hundred yards beyond the county boundary. From there, I could hitch a ride to wherever I wanted to go as long as I didn't come back into his jurisdiction.

As my mind became clearer, a number of thoughts occurred to me. I recalled intending to head north when I left the Preacher's farm, and the Preacher owed me two weeks pay.

Most important of all, what the hell happened? What did I do, or say, that caused an avowed man of God to beat me on the head with an oversized hunk of frozen meat in front of his parishioners? It's true I'm not a religious person, but I don't recall harboring abiding desires to openly argue my personal prejudices regarding the whole pantheon of common sense defying religious dogmas presently being foisted upon a gullible and, otherwise, all too willing public. Long ago I resolved to keep my mouth shut relating to such matters as long as people, in turn, left me alone. Preacher Roy always had. That's why I enjoyed staying with him during harvest. He asked few questions and gave me plenty of hard work to do. He also gave me a fair day's wage and kept me well fed. At this point in my life, I neither asked nor expected anything more.

"What—" I started to ask as the Sheriff cut me off.

"I got the money the Preacher owes you right here in my pocket if you're worried about that. He acted like he wasn't going to pay up. But I told him straight out he was about to get into serious trouble as it was, and he needed to get this deal closed out ASAP. So here's your eight hundred dollars in cash."

The Sheriff handed me an envelope and instructed me to count the money. I did as instructed and verified eight one hundred dollar bills were present. That left only the single issue of what the hell happened to be resolved before I got deposited alongside a deserted rural highway to fend for myself. Once more, the Sheriff beat me to the punch.

"Just so you won't have a lingering curiosity as to what caused this mess, I'm going to do my best to recall the whole affair for you in the next ten minutes— the time it will take us to reach the county line."

"Do you recall how down right giddy the Preacher acted during the church-sponsored lunch? He was having himself a gay old time, for sure, and I know for a fact, it wasn't the Holy Spirit alone that caused his especially good mood. Most folks don't know this but the Preacher has been known to throw back a few from time to time. This was one of those times. As I drove into the church parking lot, I noticed him out along side his truck taking a big swig from the bottle of vodka he keeps locked in his glove box for special occasions. Later, I observed him make a couple more trips back to his truck. You might say the Preacher had the benefit of more than one spirit lifting his soul this afternoon. Don't get me wrong, I ain't got no problem with preachers taking a drink now and then. Hell! We're all human! At times a good pull on a bottle of happy juice does us all some good."

The Sheriff halted his story before continuing, "I know the guy's been under a lot of stress this past year. Apart from all the problems the farmers around here are having with the hail damage and the high costs of production along with the falling grain prices and so on, he also had to deal with all his parishioners' difficulties. In his small flock alone, there have been deaths, divorces, and bankruptcies. You name it, and he had to deal with it. So he's deserving of a good long pull on a bottle, if you ask me. But that still don't justify what he did."

This time the Sheriff's hiatus lasted longer than before. I wasn't about to interrupt his thinking. All in all, his general mood seemed to be tilting to one of neutrality. Until I got the entire story I felt it best not to interrupt him with a dumb question. So I waited and watched as the sea of golden wheat fields passed by.

"I don't ever recall hearing the Preacher come right out and ask a person to join the church and be saved," said the Sheriff as he restarted his tale. "For all the years I've known him, folks came to him and asked to become a part of the church. There must have been some reason why he up and asked you to 'come to Jesus' right there in front of his flock. I know I about choked on a bite of my barbeque sandwich, and I wasn't the only one there to take notice of his unusual offer."

A bad feeling came over me as I heard him say this. I'm usually a tolerant person about religion, but I've been known to take offense whenever another person's belief system is imposed upon me. I can become an unforgiving individual on those occasions. This may have been one of those times. I stiffened my spine awaiting the worst.

"'Give yourself to Jesus, son. He's the only one you can believe in.' is what the Preacher said to you right there in front of the world. He must have thought highly of you to make that request of you in front of his flock. To the Preacher, you were something special."

As expected, the Sheriff once again halted his story. By now I felt torn between wondering why in the hell he didn't go on and finish the damn story and feeling fearful of finding out that my combative nature caused me to respond to the Preacher's request with some ill-conceived and spiteful remark.

"Preacher Roy, I'm sure you know, is a simple man. He's not as educated like you. He never went to college or graduate school or got out of the country to get exposed to different cultures, religions, or whatever. Pretty much everything he knows, he learned within fifty miles of where we are right now. You probably know all about the world and people's outdated and often violently conflicting religious prejudices. You started asking questions long ago, and you have gotten few if any intelligent answers in return. You know that things just don't add up. They never have, and they never will. You bear the burden of enlightenment in a noble fashion. You don't go around flaunting your superior knowledge or intellect. You let the common folks live with their foolish superstitions and their dreams of ultimate justice in a better place. That is unless they make the big mistake of insulting your superior intellect by asking you to join them in their foolishness. If they ever make that mistake, you make them pay dearly."

This did not sound good. I had a bad feeling about what lay ahead. The thought also occurred to me that the man did have a gun. We were way out in the middle of nowhere, and I expected few people in the county cared little about what happened to me after what I did, whatever that happened to be.

"Do you know what you did to that simple man by telling him the truth? Your truth!" The Sheriff's voice raised one octave as he delivered this last statement. "You took away everything the man had. You left him standing there holding nothing but the crap that life loads a workingman down with— hard dirty work from dawn to dusk. Death, violence, poverty, sickness, greed, and prejudice is what the man was left with after you put him in his place for insulting your intelligence. But you forgot one thing, Mr. Smart Guy. When some people are left with no way out, they get desperate, and when they get desperate, they lash out at those things that threaten them. In this instance, you became the threat, and you were lucky it was just a roll of sausage he held in his hand."

The Sheriff stopped talking and turned his attention back towards the highway stretching far off into the horizon. At least he hadn't pulled out his pistol, and if he intended to cause me to feel like an asshole, he had succeeded. Chalk up one more failed relationship due to not being able to control my big mouth. It might help if I thought I had learned a lesson, but history told me chances of that were slim. It's not like I hadn't fought this problem for most of my life.

We approached the county line by this time, and I could see the rest stop up ahead on the side of the road. A lone black oak tree sitting a ways off the road stood ready to provide ample shade for weary travelers halting their journey under its stout limbs. The Sheriff pulled the police cruiser to a stop under the oak tree out of the hot sun and turned off the engine. _My fate is in his hands, so be it_. My sudden fatalistic attitude surprised me. I realized I'd sunk even further down into my own isolated little world of blatant cynicism and general disinterest. Yet at the moment, I knew I really didn't give a big rat's ass what happened next.

After making a show of taking his Stetson hat off and laying it gently on the back seat, the Sheriff used both of his large hands to rub the weariness from his eyes. "You know pardoner, you and I are probably fairly close to being the same age. And I expect we've covered much of the same territory during our lives. I remember trying to make some sense out of that Vietnam fiasco which I fought in, too, by the way. I have to admit that I witnessed things over there that I'll never be able to forget nor make sense of. I, too, as a young man witnessed ignorant public officials beating citizens of color simply trying to exercise their rights as free men and women. I, also, as they say, experimented with some of that marijuana stuff and even joined in on a couple of anti-war marches after I got back home. I imagine you know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you? Yeah, you do."

I'd have to admit I expected anything but this from the man. I sat there holding the dripping wet bag of ice to my head staring at the Sheriff. He saw he'd struck a cord.

"But after some time, the notion came to me," continued the Sheriff, "that I was acting like that crazy Spanish guy in the book who rode around on that old nag of a horse charging at windmills thinking they're giants. I couldn't see that I was accomplishing much at all. Those evil giants I was fighting didn't really exist either. What did exist were organizations made up of people. Some of those people were a lot like me. I decided then and there I wasn't going to go around looking for giants any longer. Instead, I became determined to try another approach on a much smaller scale. I would find me a place to make my stand, and I would dig in and defend it— not by surrounding it with cynicism and barbed wire but by getting involved and building lasting friendships with fair- minded people in the community. I would let my actions be the true indication of my character. I believe most of the people in this area know what I stand for, and I can't ever recollect giving a speech or standing toe-to-toe arguing with anyone during my entire thirty years of service to the public. One more thing before I let you go. It's my opinion, based on years of observation, folks who are the most defensive and quick tempered about their beliefs whether Christian, Atheist, Republican, Democrat, or whatever are also the ones who are the least certain about what they supposedly do or do not believe in. The people who are confident in their beliefs don't feel threatened when challenged, and they don't find it necessary to respond to every yahoo who calls them out. It's easy to see that the Preacher has some doubts, but what about you? You didn't get up and take a swing at your attacker, but you sure as hell felt threatened enough to cut him to his soul with your words. Think about it."

Having finished his talk, the Sheriff retrieved his hat. Placing it securely on his head, he reached for the door handle.

"What was it I said?" I asked him.

The Sheriff thought for a few seconds. "You said, 'This so-called savior promised his followers he would return before their generation passed away. Yet he didn't come back for them. Why would I be dumb enough to believe he will come back for me two thousand years later?' That's what you said."

## Chapter Two

Not bad. Not bad at all. You're getting better and better at this 'alienating the entire world' crap. This time you succeeded in getting a man of God so mad he wanted to kill you with his food. There are millions of ordinary, mean-spirited ass holes in the world, but they're mere slackers when compared to you, my friend. You are something special in deed.

I paused for a moment in my effort to update my personal self-inventory file with my most recent relationship disaster. I searched for the right word or phrase to describe this most recent debacle. I had pushed right up against the limits of the universe of known inappropriate behaviors. Mostly I piss people off real bad, but this time my victim bludgeoned me with his food.

Think about it. Here you are sitting alone on a filthy roadside picnic table, right smack in the geographical center of the country and miles from another living human being with only a half pack of Zingers and a bottle of water to get you through the night and without even a scrap of toilet paper. Do you think it's essential to piss off every single human being on the planet? Do you always have to tell them how it really is?

I soon realized this useless harangue was getting me nowhere. I'd chastised myself too often before with no positive results. I was right about my not giving a big crap. This still puzzled me somewhat because I hadn't always thought this way. I'd made lots of friends over the years. Once a friendly enough and occasionally funny guy, I think some people even liked me. I don't know what happened, but now I think the entire planet sucks. I don't trust anyone. Nor do I believe anyone, and now I'm all by myself in this screwed up world. But as I said, I'm only slightly puzzled because down deep I believe I know the reason. I believe it's because I know the truth. And what is that truth? It's rather simple: In the scope of this unfathomable universe, the so-called intelligent creatures inhabiting or rather soiling this grain of sand called earth, in actuality, are merely a slightly more advanced form of destructive bacteria with an inflated sense of self-importance and a penchant for perpetuating ancient superstitions. That's it! And when I tell this to people, most of them decide they don't want to talk to me anymore.

But screw'em! It's not that big a loss because I don't think I cared that much for the whole bunch of them anyway. There were exceptions. For instance, I love my daughter although my absences from her life indicated otherwise, and now that she's an adult, she is paying me back by excluding me from her life. I also thought an awful lot of my ex-wife in my own screwed up way. I know it wasn't love because I've been told that selfish and self-centered people like me don't love. We only want to control things. Control is very important to people of my ilk, and if you can't control _it_ , then get the hell away because someday whatever _it_ is may turn on you and hurt you.

I paid no attention to the passage of time or the thought of getting up to hitch a ride to the next county metropolis a dozen miles away. I couldn't let go of this insane event even though much earlier I convinced myself that I was the one in the right. I was the one a so-called man of God assaulted. That's as far as the conversation needed to go. End of discussion, the man beat me with meat!

Yet, I refused to let this most recent incident pass. I sat there going over the numerous times during my life when I found it necessary to tell misinformed individuals how things really are. I recalled a lifetime of instances where it became essential for me to enlighten the blasphemer of the truth as the truth giver _knowist_ it. Even when speaking up caused ill feelings from the person being brought to task, I pressed on with my truth mission. _But ultimately to what purpose? What good has making sure others know how you think and feel about any of a million subjects served?_

All of a sudden, I felt a profound sense of aloneness. My mind ceased churning the same pathetic facts over and over in my brain. I knew instinctively and perhaps for the first time in many years that there must be something better than this. I could not say what, but I knew I didn't want to go on this way. As I pondered this thought, the surrounding sea of golden wheat appeared before my eyes as if I never noticed its presence before. As I gazed into the horizon, golden stalks of wheat swayed in the gentle breeze creating the momentary sensation of my standing on the shore of a vast ocean. In a sense, I did stand on the shore of an ocean all by myself, and I knew that I must find a way to cross if I wanted to go on living. Maybe I did arrive late in life to an idea as basic as this, but, nevertheless, the obvious way out of this screwed up existence now lay before me. Either I make the crossing or give it up.

"So what are you going to do?" I asked aloud as I stood up from the picnic table. My options were few and, at the time, unattractive. I could stay there and perish from thirst and starvation or start walking towards the west to my next planned stop in Montana. But considering my penchant for losing friends and influencing people to try to hurt me, I decided I should think about the idea for a moment or even two. For as I recalled, the Preacher, who until his most recent moment of blind rage, was a person of even temperament. How might the evangelical group who owned the RV park and awaited my presence in Montana react under the same circumstances? Most of those people up the road were fanatics and survivalists. They might stick moose horns on my head and give me a five-minute head start. Going north didn't make much sense, at least until I found away to allow myself to live among humans and keep my mouth shut.

I realized affecting a change would not come about easily, much less overnight. I needed time to concentrate on the matter and get a handle on my antisocial thoughts. The only solution that came to mind urged me to turn around and head south to the Texas coast, back to my RV trailer waiting in storage in Aransas Pass. A quick call ahead to the RV park owner where I wintered every year between September and May is all it would take to get my rig out of storage and set up on a pad only two rows away from the park's spa and pool.

"Are you sure you want to live down there during the heat and humidity of the summer in an old RV that doesn't have reliable conditioning?" I asked this question in a tone of voice that obviated my distaste at this prospect becoming a reality. South Texas in the summer did not strike me as a pleasant place for anyone with an aversion to sweat and humidity. People did not sweat in south Texas, they leaked!

This new problem roamed around in my addled brain trying to secure a foothold along side other ideas making any sense as I became aware of the sound of tires rolling across the gravel lot separating me and my most recent new home from the highway. Still engrossed in my newest dilemma involving future travel arrangements, I felt a sense of irritation at the possibility of being distracted before I completed revising my plans. _Can't this driver see that the only picnic table at this rest stop is occupied? Maybe it's the good Sheriff coming back to finish_ –

My intended sarcastic response evaporated as the vehicle coming towards me rolled to a stop not ten feet from where I stood in front of the picnic table. I admit I was prepared for any weird occurrence given the way my day had gone so far. But not this. Looking dead at me through the dirty windshield of his banged up old pickup was none other than Preacher Roy.

I'd expected anything but this. What should I do? Stay there and wait for him to finish the job he started earlier? Is he still packing meat? _This is not funny, you idiot_ , I cautioned myself as I monitored every movement of the now glowering former man of peace. The Preacher did not move even an eyelash. Neither did I as I stared back. But I did not stand there doing nothing. I reviewed every escape plan imaginable. I realized my possibilities were limited. I could climb the tree— the only tree in sight for miles in any direction. _But what if he's packing something more lethal than a sausage?_ I could also run in any direction, as the terrain was parking lot flat no matter which way I looked. But I realized that sooner or later I would ultimately have to come down from the tree. Also, he could follow me in his truck no matter which direction I ran. I decided to wait for him to move first.

It seemed an eternity until I heard the unmistakable sound of the banged up, old pickup's creaky door start to open. The pounding in my chest betrayed my unexpected attempts to portray the innocent man determined to be steadfast in the face of further injustice. _See what he has in his hands before you make your move_.

With the truck door now open, the Preacher rotated his torso preparing to exit. _Steady, man! Steady_ , I reminded myself. I could feel my spine stiffening. Here is where I would make my stand, I decided, having succumbed to an unexpected rush of testosterone. Let the forces of ignorance flail away to their sick mind's content. For on this day a single man would stand up and say enough! Not one step further will I concede to the evildoers of religious dogma. From this day forward I—

The menacing mass emerging from the truck turned to face me. I wasn't ready for the sight I beheld— not that of a crazy man intent upon ridding the world of a godless heathen but, instead, a blubbering supplicant pleading for forgiveness.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "Please forgive me." Blubber. Blubber. Blubber. Blubber. I recoiled in shock. A great blubbering mass stumbled towards me with arms opened wide awaiting an embrace. For a moment, this became an even more frightening scenario. I had prepared myself for a battle. Instead, I now faced the guilt-ridden embrace of a two hundred fifty pound human sprinkler system. Taken by surprise, I stood defenseless while being enveloped within the desperate grasp of a man determined to do whatever it took to secure forgiveness.

I stood there with my arms hanging helplessly at my side encircled in Preacher Roy's unyielding grip. His large calloused hands attached to thick muscular arms— the product of a lifetime of toil in the fields— left no doubt as to whom decided when this unexpected love fest ended. The only coherent sounds coming from Preacher Roy in between the gasps and moans were pleas for forgiveness. Once a person manages to break through my highly evolved defense system designed to prevent me from becoming too emotional over other people's silly problems, I sometimes feel dangerously exposed. Except for the fact I feared the moisture falling on the back of my neck might be snot instead of tears, Preacher Roy had gained my fullest sympathy. _What in the heck do I do now?_ I asked this question more than once as I stood hoping Preacher Roy would soon stop for a break. I realized that as I alone supported the muscular two hundred fifty pound bawling penitent, this might go on for quite awhile.

My fears were unfounded as I began to sense a lessening of the Preacher's embrace. I instinctively prepared myself for the awkward moment sure to follow. I have never been good at accepting praise or apologies so I reminded myself to be gracious and not allow the other person to grovel or beg for forgiveness. I liked this about myself. I enjoyed those all too few opportunities where I had the chance to be magnanimous.

"You're a cruel son-of-a-bitch, Will Clayton!" The Preacher muttered these words as he stepped away to face me square up.

_Did I miss something here?_ I asked myself as I backed away to see if the Preacher held anything in his hands. There in front of me stood the same man who seconds before almost drowned me with his tears. What happened to my chance to be magnanimous?

"Whaaa—" I began as the Preacher wiped his eyes with an oversized red bandana handkerchief.

"No! No that's not what I wanted to say," interrupted the Preacher before I could finish my question. "All I want and need to say is, I am truthfully sorry, and I mean it from the bottom of my heart." The Preacher looked to be a little more in control of his emotions by this time. Maybe there was yet an opportunity for me to employ my best, oh that's okay, I understand, demeanor.

"It's all right, you don't have to—" I started once more before again being interrupted.

"But damn it, that weren't right. You shouldn't have said that right there in front of those folks. I can put up with the naysayers and the doubters because that's my job. Many of those folks are just hanging on by a thread. You pull that rug out from under some of them, and there isn't no hope left. So I'm sorry, but I had to do it. I hope you will understand and forgive me. I'll get right down on my knees here in the gravel if you want, Will. I mean it! I'm asking you to forgive a sinner who has been trying all his adult life to be a better man."

This time, I waited to see if the Preacher had more to say. Instead he bided his time wiping his red, swollen eye sockets. This, along with his disheveled appearance, led me to believe the man might be sincere. I decided to make one more try.

"Preacher Roy, your apology is accepted." Now I intended to enlighten him on my theories regarding the wisdom of not bearing a grudge and also my philosophy on it not being my place to judge and—

"Oh thank you so much, Will. I just knew you were not the type to bear a grudge. I said that same thing to the Sheriff. I said that man is not the judging type. But the Sheriff said anybody who gets knocked over the head with a sausage is bound to have a grudge. He said I was crazy to come out here to talk to you— that you might bring charges before the sheriff in the next county if I came out here and bothered you again. You're not going to do that are you, Will? I sure hope you won't because I, for certain, would have a hard time explaining to my parishioners how I was hauled to jail twice in one day and in different counties no less."

Before I could think of anything to say the Preacher crossed over to the picnic table and sat down on the bench several inches from where I stood. He looked to be a man tired beyond his years which I judged to be somewhere in his early fifties. Then he did something that gave me another jolt. He reached into the back pocket of his bib overalls and pulled out a half pint of booze. The best I could tell it looked to be a bottle of vodka. He then proceeded to unscrew the cap and take a long swig of what my old grandpa called the happy juice.

"Will, I know you must think poorly of me now, and I admit to you that I am not the Christian that I ought to be. I want to let you know that I am trying to become the good man that many people think I am. I know my flock deserves better than me, and if someone would show up around here other than those holier than thou evangelical bible thumping charlatans who are so quick to sit in judgment, I would turn this job over to them in a second. But I can't because there ain't no one but me, and these folks are just gettin' by day to day. They don't need some pious fraud tellin' them to pray harder and to be sure to put a little more in the offerin' plate each Sunday. They need someone to help them find a way out of the messes they're in. Somebody to tell them there are others who are suffering just like them who are willing to kick in as much as they can to try to find real solutions during this brief time we're sojourning here on this earth." Having had his say, the Preacher unscrewed the cap from his bottle and took another drink. This time he offered a drink to his roadside companion.

I looked down at the hard labor roughened hand holding the half empty liquor bottle before I politely declined his offer.

"No thanks, Preacher. I don't drink alcohol." I reminded him of this knowing we had touched on the subject before. But at the time, I did not know the Preacher took an occasional drink of the firewater that had caused me more than a small amount of trouble way back in my younger days. He caught me looking at the bottle with a puzzled expression and shook his head as he returned the cap to the bottle before putting it back into his rear pocket.

"I reckon this looks a mite peculiar to you— seeing a preacher sucking on a bottle of liquor, don't it? And I suppose it won't help for me to tell you this happens not more than a couple times a year at most. But that's the truth! I rarely resort to this stuff unless I just get to where I'm about to explode. And as I said, that usually doesn't happen more than a couple times each year. Today, as you might imagine, was one of those times. I'll be all right by morning. I have to be. Too many people are depending on me to be there for them. People are losing their jobs, their homes, their savings, and as I understand it, there are even more hard times ahead for us all. So today I needed a little more help than normal. I know what my prospects are in this life, and I ain't complaining about the cards I've been dealt. Most days with a little help from my friends and the good book, I make out just fine. Every once in a great while, though, something comes along that really scares me, and I begin to have doubts. When I get real scared like I did today, I sometimes do some crazy things. If this is all there is for all those good folks who are suffering from so much sickness and poverty and sometimes just downright meanness on the part of their fellow man, I suspect, I just don't want to be here much longer."

"Actually Preacher," I said while he once more wiped his brow with the bandana, "I prefer to do as you do and try to stay out of the judging business. There are enough people around here and everywhere else doing too much judging as far as I'm concerned. I tell myself that all I want to do is live in peace and go about my way. But given this most recent incident where I once more opened my mouth when it served no good purpose, I'm going to have to go somewhere and work on that living in peace part. Before we part, I want to tell you I'm sorry for saying what I did. I realized while I've been sitting here alone I did it just to be mean and spiteful and to put you in your place. I didn't even stop to think who else I might be hurting. I think I'll just start heading back down to Texas and begin working on my own bad attitude. This has been a learning experience for me, too."

Having finished my say, I offered my hand to the Preacher who looked as if he were deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. He never once acknowledged my extended hand.

"I guess I'll be going now," I said attempting to get at least some response from the Preacher before I walked out to the highway to start the first leg of my long journey south. But still no response came. "Well, okay. I'll see—"

"Don't go, Will," said the Preacher who awoke from his mental wanderings. "Stay here with us for awhile. Give me another chance. I think there might be things we can teach each other. Please!"

I did not expect this response in a million years. I did not know what to say to the man. His idea sounded so preposterous. Stay here after everything that had happened? That defined insanity. The Sheriff promised to put me in jail if I ever showed my face in town again, and the locals might want to string me up for what I said. This isn't called the Bible Belt for nothing! There also was the matter of what I would do for work. The harvest season had run its course and most of the custom cutters were on the roads heading north as we spoke. Plus, I needed time alone to rehearse the idea of not being such an opinionated jerk.

"Thanks Preacher Roy, but—" Once more he abruptly cut me off.

"Please listen to me for a minute, Will. There's a job waiting for you in town if you'll take it. Plus there's room and board to go with it. This job would be just what you need if you really want to get more involved with others," pleaded the Preacher.

"Preacher, I—" still he refused to let me finish.

"Will, this job is something you told me once you knew something about. Matter-of-fact, you said you once operated a couple of these same businesses."

"What?" my curiosity became aroused. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about operating Junior Junior's café, Will. You've eaten there with me before. You know how bad the food is now. The man needs help. He needs it bad!"

"He didn't sound like a man looking for help when we were there for lunch last Saturday," I reminded the Preacher.

"Will, you know in your heart that Junior Junior is the worst cook in the world. He's trying to do everything around there including washing the dishes. Pumps gas, runs the register all the while he's frying eggs and sausage. That boy ain't ever cooked a lick in his life until his crazy wife ran off with that pot and pan salesman last spring. Since then, he's been moping around waiting for her to come back, and we've all been suffering something terrible. If we don't get something done soon the whole town's going to quit on him and go over to Sophie Watson's daughter's place where she fixes all that hippie health food. I'm tellin' you Will, we got a real crisis in the making here. Can you help us out, Will? Please."

I didn't know quite what to say as the idea sounded so ridiculous to me in the first place. Twenty years had passed since I owned a couple of small restaurants plus interest in a bar. I knew by this time I'd forgotten about everything I had ever known about the restaurant business. Plus, the Sheriff's direct threat and the sure-to-be angry church members who overheard my mean spirited declarations to the Preacher came to mind. His idea did not make sense.

"Thanks a lot for the offer Preacher Roy, but—" I started to say before he interrupted again.

"Will, just come back with me and let's go see Junior Junior and talk it over. Then if you still want to go on your way, I'll drive you to Salina tonight. I promise. That beats the heck out of you trying to start out hitching a ride on this lonely old road that will be lucky to see a dozen cars come along all night. Don't worry about the Sheriff. I reminded him I was the wrongdoer. Those folks who were unfortunate enough to witness another one of my fits of craziness won't have no opinion about it one way or another come tomorrow. Come on and get in so we can get back and talk with Junior Junior before he goes home and starts drinking. That's the only way he says he can get to sleep. I sure feel sorry for the poor boy. He always treated that woman so good, too."

Five minutes later I found myself riding in Preacher Roy's dirty old pickup miles away from the roadside stop heading back to the thriving city of Jonesboro, Kansas, population 1,044. Located smack dab in the middle of Jones County, it existed as a town that knew its best days were in the past and took every opportunity to tell the world about how in 1872 some ruffians came to the then county seat and stole all the legal records under the cover of darkness and absconded to that cursed den of thieves and known Baptists called Justice City. There they stayed while conspirators at the state government made up mostly of Baptists at the time refused to intercede in what they considered a purely local matter.

"What kind of people are the folks of Jonesboro," I asked as we drove along. "I mean—"

"I know what you mean," interrupted the Preacher. "You mean are they like those people that followed that insane preacher down to South America and ended up drinking the funny fruit punch? Considering what I did, you got a right to ask those kinds of questions. But we're not like that at all. You'll see. I promise you."

"That's not what I meant. I just never got to know many people in the community having spent most of my time at your farm," I answered.

"Just wait. You'll see that we are fairly normal folks around here and always have been. Nothing out of the ordinary about this place, for sure." The Preacher smiled trying to assure me he knew what he talked about.

The Preacher adjusted his rear view mirror to redirect the rays of the sun now penetrating horizontally through the rear window of the truck. As he did this, I considered his statement about his small community being ordinary like other communities. This interested me as I generally held that most communal living arrangements were fraught with idiosyncrasies.

"I'm sure you are right," I answered, "but I am curious as to the liberal usage of the letter 'J' around the area. For instance, all the main cities in the county begin with the letter 'J.' Jonesboro, Justice City, Jenksville, Julip, and so forth. The county is Jones County. The main street in town is named Jefferson. Your last name is Jennings. I'm possibly going to be working for a guy named Junior Junior, and by the way, what's Junior Junior's last name?"

The Preacher's look told me he didn't exactly appreciate my line of questioning. _Here I go again_.

"Johnson," the Preacher said in a weary voice.

"Johnson?" I repeated with a note of inquisitiveness in my voice.

The Preacher looked straight ahead as he responded. "James Joseph Johnson Jr. Jr. That's the man's name. His daddy was the actual Junior though. I guess people around here just like the name Junior. So when the real Junior's son arrived he became Junior Junior. People around here wouldn't take kindly to a name like James Joseph Johnson III, if you know what I mean?"

I knew I should stop as my brain started to ache, but I had to know more. "You said he had a wife?"

"His wife, if he still has a wife, is named Judy."

"How about his dog? What's his dog's name?" I couldn't stop myself. I had this almost giddy feeling for some odd reason, kind of like back in Nam when you crawled out a muddy hole after a mortar attack and felt happy just to be alive. Where guys that didn't even like each other joked and kidded around with one another until the euphoria of still being alive wore off and they remembered they were still living in a rat infested shithole that would be shelled a hundred more times before their rotation date came around.

This time the Preacher took a deep breath and closed his eyes before answering. Sort of like folks do when they are meditating.

"His dog's name is Jesse # 3 or J3 around town."

I had room for one more and no more, "And what kind of dog is it by the way?"

The large head sitting atop the Preacher's equally large torso began to turn in my direction until I could make out the unmistakable malicious grin on his face. "It's a Jabrador. Ha, ha, ha! Now, are you happy? You're right! If they were to outlaw the letter "J" we would probably not be able to communicate with each other around here. Ha, ha, ha!"

_He got me_ , I admitted as I watched the Preacher enjoy his clever comeback. This guy's okay. The man possessed a sense of humor and wherever there is humor, there is hope. I looked out upon the flat horizon spreading out forever before me with a different perspective. _Hope_ , I said to myself. I hadn't thought of that word for long time.

## Chapter Three

The sight of the Jonesboro city water tower in the distance brought me back to reality. The Preacher had asked me to make a communal commitment— to take on a job that invited the criticism of the entire community if I failed. Preparing food for hungry and often discriminating people is a risky business at best. I recalled a number of uncomfortable instances where I stood toe to toe with irate customers apologizing for mistakes they'd already half eaten. It's my belief that people generally have more patience with a defective product if part of it is not in their stomachs. I wanted to get along better with the world in general, but doing it as a cook gave me cause to hesitate.

"So how long have you known that Junior Junior wanted help?" I inquired casually so as not to let on that I harbored serious doubts.

The Preacher hesitated a moment before turning to respond. "Well, actually, it's just me and the other folks in town who are looking for help because we can't go on puttin' up with his terrible food any longer. We've been planning to bring the subject up real soon. So it looks like this is going to be the day."

"So he knows nothing about this idea of yours?" I asked.

"Well, I'm sure he's suspecting something's going on because he's hardly getting any tips now. But because the service is as bad as the food, I'll admit he may not have figured the whole thing out yet." The Preacher offered this last observation as an afterthought.

"And is the part about the room and board your idea, also?"

"Will, I'm going to ask you to trust me on this, if you can." The Preacher's tone sounded serious. "I'll admit the details are not all worked out nice and smooth, but this is going to happen, one way or another. The townsfolk won't put up with this much longer, and no one believes his wife is coming back anytime soon. We sure didn't expect this opportunity with you would develop the way it did. But it did, and I intend to make the best of it. And as I think about it, it's not too great a reach for me to come to the conclusion that maybe I was suppose to whack you on the noggin with that sausage— probably not as hard as I did, but I have to tell you truthfully that I'm starting to feel less guilty about the whole thing."

I instinctively knew it served no purpose to argue with the man. Besides, I wasn't looking for a job, so the Preacher bore the burden of selling the deal, and I doubted he could. On more than one occasion I had displayed my displeasure at Junior Junior's sloppy attempts to feed me runny eggs that I left untouched. I called his dog a useless fleabag the day it urinated on my foot while I stood at the counter paying for the food I left uneaten on the table. I didn't think Junior Junior liked me much if I was honest. The man resembled the goofy mechanic wearing the turned-up baseball cap on television some years back, and he possessed no concept of banter. As for the Preacher, how could I go about reasoning with a man who suspected God caused him to bludgeon me with meat so I could become a fry cook? If things went the way I expected, I'd be getting a free ride to Salina in a couple of hours. But just to grease the wheels on the vehicle I hoped would be carrying me away from this insanity, one more matter needed to be brought up.

"You are sure that all the church-going folks in this town will be tolerant of a heathen in their midst, but I wonder if you still haven't told them the worst part yet?" I knew this comment would get the Preacher's attention.

"What do you mean the worst? What else is there that I don't know about you?" The concern in the Preacher's tone showed his earlier optimism had diminished.

"But I thought you knew," I said with feigned disbelief.

"Knew what?" he asked, his concern changing to fear.

"That I'm a card-carrying Democrat! I expect the people of this community can put up with a heathen much easier than they could a Democrat. That's all I've heard them talk about at the diner. They're asking what the world is going on when those crazy Democrats are trying to get a crazy, half white/half black liberal elected president."

"You're a Democrat? I never heard you mention that before. How come you didn't tell me that?" asked the Preacher, his concern apparent.

I refused to give the Preacher any help. Besides, I was not a Democrat. I always voted, when I bothered to vote, as an Independent. "What difference does it make as long as I was just passing through?"

"Oh my lord, a Democrat! Now that is different! The folks around here can forgive almost anything but that. It was hard enough for them to have to put up with two of them. Now with you, that would be three. That's a fifty percent increase!" said the Preacher as his resolve melted before my eyes.

His admission regarding the existence of other souls in town crazy enough to admit to their membership in such a heretical political organization increased my interest. "There are other Democrats in town? Who are they?" I asked.

"What?" responded the Preacher from deep within his own thoughts regarding this most unexpected and disturbing bit of information. "Why one of them is Sophie Watson's daughter, Mary June. She used to be such a levelheaded girl until she went to San Francisco. I think she was a hippie. She got herself educated and came back here a few years ago after her husband died. She had all sorts of crazy ideas about saving the environment. She even talked to some of us farmers about growing crops without chemicals. Called it organic farming. The poor woman's daft! As far as the other one, we don't know who it is, yet."

"Is she the one that's doing the cooking at that place where they specialize in health food or as you refer to it, them hippie fixin's?"

"That's the one. She's a real nice lady— don't get me wrong. She helps out in every community effort we get going. People respect all the stuff she does to help, so I guess that's why they put up with her being one of them Socialists Democrats."

This last remark caught my attention although it did not surprise me. This statement typified what I expected to overhear in any conversation taking place within the city limits of Jonesboro. I knew it was a waste of time, but I could not resist inquiring about the facts or logic supporting the socialist tag now commonly attached to the term Democrat.

"Preacher, I'm confused here. Why do you refer to Democrats as Socialists?" I patiently awaited his reply.

The Preacher scrunched his forehead as if he were experiencing a sudden pain. "Will, this is just common sense. Like I said to you before, any political group who takes the hard-earned money of folks and gives it away to others who didn't work for it is Socialist. So Democrats is Socialists!"

"So you are saying the Democrats are redistributing the wealth of the country to people who don't deserve it, is that right?" I again awaited his reply.

"That's exactly right, Will, exactly right." The Preacher smiled.

"But the Democrats aren't in power at this time so who is to blame for all the money that's presently going out to all those undeserving people?"

The Preacher thought before he answered. "That's just it, Will. We ain't got that problem now so much cause we got a Republican President."

"That so? Then why is it so many economists and financial professionals report that our country has, in fact, undergone the greatest transfer of wealth from the middle class and poor to the wealthy in the history of our country during the last ten years? Our leaders did nothing while trillions of dollars were transferred from nine out of ten Americans to the rich. It wasn't because the rich worked harder but because of public policy changes, changes in the tax codes, changes in the laws that regulate capital and labor, and changes in our foreign trade relationships. So if the government has, over the last decade, enacted legislation causing these blatant undeserved transfers of wealth to the rich, isn't that welfare, also? And wouldn't that mean that the current Republican administration is a defacto Socialist party, also?"

"What? What are you talking about? Where did you get that information?" The Preacher possessed not the slightest idea of what I was talking about.

"The information is easily available from any financial publication. It's no secret. If we are going to be fair, we are all a bunch of Socialists. Wouldn't you agree? Both parties are guilty of taking the hard-earned money of the middle class and giving it away to those who are very rich, or according to your beliefs, the undeserving poor." I could not hide the hint of a smile as I sat and waited for the Preacher to answer.

The Preacher took the soiled and worn ball cap displaying the emblem of his seed grain provider off his head and laid it on the seat between us. Then he rubbed his forehead as if trying to massage away the pain.

"Will," he began slowly, "do you remember what you said back there about not being so quick to tell folks when they might be wrong? I would like for you to keep this information to yourself when we get to town. And Will, I would also ask that you keep your being a Democrat to yourself. Would you do that for me? Please?"

I saw pain in the man's eyes. The man suffered if ever I saw anyone suffer. This could be a good starting point for me to begin my new life of restraining myself when tempted to enlighten the ignorant.

"Well Preacher, I get what you mean even though it's not as if being a Democrat was the same as being a bank robber or something worse."

"Will, we got a former bank robber, an embezzler, two ex-cons that sold shares of nonexistent oil company stock to local citizens, and a woman who swears up and down she has no idea how her unfaithful husband ended up in a hundred gallon oil drum at the county landfill. All of the aforementioned are once again citizens of good standing in the community for two reasons. One, they came back to church, and two, they vote a straight Republican ticket. If I had to be truthful, I would have to admit that only one of those is an absolute requirement. I'll let you guess which it is."

"Welcome to Jonesboro," read the suddenly not so convincing sign along the side of the highway. _Well Junior Junior, it looks like it's going to be up to you whether I begin my new life here or somewhere else down the road_ , I told myself as the Preacher's old pickup entered the city limits. The sun setting behind us in the west reminded me that the end of a very long and exhausting day drew neigh. I looked forward to a hot shower and a soft bed— either here or a motel in Salina, it didn't matter. I experienced an eerie sense that I drifted on an ocean current bound for where I did not know. Well, so be it.

## Chapter Four

Junior Junior's station stood on the west side of town near the local grain co-op. Jonesboro felt lucky to still have a functioning grain storage facility. The townsfolk owed this to being located along the main rail line and not a spur. There were enough small farmers in the area to support keeping the operation of two gleaming metal towers standing along side the old square tin-sided silo that served the community in the horse and buggy era. I suspected it would only be a short time before the corporate farming industry and their huge semi trucks used for hauling grain to mammoth elevator complexes in the larger metropolitan areas rendered this facility unprofitable and, therefore, unneeded. Soon the remaining farmers in the area would no longer be able to buy their seed or sell and store their crops locally or drive into town and chat with the local co-op manager about the weather and local grain prices. Unless things changed, this symbol of an era, now passing quietly into history, will live on as an empty and rusting reminder of a simpler life abandoned in the name of progress. Ultimately, small grain elevators will end up as casualties of corporate America's quest to eliminate any cost negatively impacting the bottom line.

I recalled a remark in an article I had read years earlier that went something like, "Growth for the sake of growth is the philosophy of the cancer cell." Much of the fear and loathing I felt towards corporations arose from my belief that statements such as this exemplified corporate America's selfish demeanor.

The sound of tires rolling over loose gravel brought me back to the present matter relating to our arrival at Junior Junior's service station and café which, as I recalled, no longer bothered to open on Sundays since his wife ran off. I hadn't figured out why he didn't because being edible wasn't an essential requirement for the food he prepared. Maybe the male customers didn't want to risk their loved ones' health by exposing them to the inedible fare they encountered on a daily basis.

The parking lot was empty except for two vehicles. One I recognized as belonging to the Sheriff who unceremoniously delivered my person to the remote roadside picnic table earlier that day. The other looked like Junior Junior's truck, but I couldn't swear to it because most of the trucks in the area looked so similar. They were all either GM or Ford products sporting the requisite storage lock boxes up against the front cab in the rear bed, as well as sturdy trailer hitches. These working pickups were washed only on special occasions like funerals, weddings, or when the proud owner took the wife to the mall in Manhattan or Salina.

The Preacher headed straight towards the restaurant part of the structure directly facing the highway. The front of the restaurant, consisting almost entirely of glass, allowed interested parties to determine who and how many patrons came, went, or, even more amazing, stayed. We drove to within eight feet of the structure and stopped. Only two individuals populated the building. Those same two individuals stared intently at the Preacher's truck and its two occupants. A two-headed mule pulling a battleship may have drawn less attention from the building's lone occupants. An uncomfortable moment followed as I stared at the Sheriff who, in turn, looked directly back at me. That lasted until the Sheriff exhibited a wry smile that turned into a chuckle as he turned back around to drink his coffee. Only Junior Junior continued to gape as if seeing a ghost.

"You just let me do the talking, you hear?" said the Preacher as he hurriedly exited the truck.

I sat still, not able to determine if the Preacher wanted me to stay in the vehicle or go inside. He covered almost half the distance to the door before realizing that he traveled alone. Turning to me with a grimace, he waved for me to follow. I have to admit, I experienced a hard time getting my legs to move as fast as the Preacher's hand gyrations suggested. I was content right where I sat. This wasn't my idea so why should I go inside. I leaned over towards the open driver's side window and made my own suggestion.

"I think I'd rather just sit here. You guys work this out and let me know what you want to do." I think the Preacher saw that my idea had merit. It might be easier to talk about someone in a critical fashion if that someone was not listening in.

"I got ya," said the Preacher, more with his facial expression than his words. He acknowledged the advantage of my sitting tight, "Just give me a few minutes to get this straightened out."

I watched from my front row seat as the Preacher entered the building and walked over to the booth occupied by the two former gapers and sat down by Junior Junior, right across from the Sheriff. As soon as he sat down, the Preacher started in. He talked to the Sheriff as if Junior Junior did not exist. The facial features and the hand gestures of the Preacher became more exaggerated. The Sheriff sat impassively without attempting to make a response. Junior Junior might have been in France as far as the two main participants in the discussion cared. He sat there beside the Preacher with his turned-up baseball cap rotating side to side as he followed the back and forth conversation.

This animated discussion between my two former antagonists began to amuse me. The Preacher went on as if he battled Satan for one of his flock's soul. The Sheriff smiled and shook his head from time to time as if listening to one of the town's citizens pleading not to be given a ticket for doing twenty-six in a twenty-five zone. Junior Junior during this time might have caught a bucket of flies in that gaping hole dominating the front of his head if he were so inclined. I found myself sitting there rather enjoying the thought of my receiving so much attention. That is until all three stopped talking and listening and turned to look straight at me. Having been caught off guard I did what people often do in similar circumstances, I displayed my weakest and stupidest grin. It was the kind of grin you expected to see on the face of a guy who refused to hide the fact that he let the silent fart in the elevator.

The three abruptly turned away and resumed their earlier positions— the Preacher preaching, the Sheriff smiling and listening, and Junior Junior catching flies. I, likewise, resumed my attempt to determine who won the argument, discussion, or whatever one wanted to call what they were doing. I observed the trio sitting not more than twelve feet before me while hoping to detect any signs that foretold my destiny. Once more I got caught off guard as they all in unison stopped talking and listening and looked straight at me as if I represented a sideshow oddity. And once more, not being prepared, I again flashed my "Hello, I'm a complete idiot" grin.

Now I was mad! I didn't care what they decided to do. Well, I guess I did if the Sheriff intended to follow through with his earlier implied threat of dealing with me in a harsh way if I ever crossed a Jones County boundary line again. But assuming that the obvious chuckles he exhibited while listening to the Preacher's pleas to have my basic rights of speech and movement reinstated meant my physical person no longer was in danger, I felt somewhat safe. Still, I wasn't so fond of the idea of prolonging my association with this bunch of agrarian isolationists anyway. Just get me to Salina, and I'll be on my way back to Texas.

Sure enough, after several more minutes of fly catching, gesticulating, and grinning, the trio turned their collective attention back to where I sat radiating defiance. I'm not sure what they thought they saw, but I hoped they detected in my weak snarl the zenith of passive aggressive behavior. This time the conversation between the Preacher and the Sheriff continued as they looked in my direction. Not once did they give any indication of taking notice of my attempt to look anything but docile and compliant. Turning back towards one another, they shook hands as if to consummate an agreement and arose from the table leaving Junior Junior not having ever said a word.

As I watched the Preacher return to the truck to inform me of my fate, I had not the slightest idea of what they had decided upon. Junior Junior had said not a single word, so I assumed the fry cook offer failed to get any backers. Since I hadn't considered that opportunity a real résumé stuffer anyway, I expected my ego would survive the rejection. _So it's on to Salina and a good night's rest before heading south_.

The Preacher opened the truck door and slid in beside me. "Well, you're the brand new manager of this fine restaurant establishment. You start tomorrow morning. We best get you over to your new living quarters so you can get rested up for a big day." The Preacher radiated optimism.

"But you never said one word to Junior Junior the whole time! And Junior Junior never said a word! To anybody! About anything! So how can this be?" My voice elevated an octave or two leaving no doubt as to my surprise at this unexpected announcement.

"Junior Junior don't talk much," responded the Preacher. "You should know that by now. Have you ever heard him say anything? I seriously doubt if you have or ever will. What he does is grunt. The man can express about everything he thinks or feels through his grunts."

Without saying another word, the Preacher started the truck and backed away from the restaurant. I must have experienced a mild state of shock because I sat there with utter confusion written all over my frowning, totally disbelieving face. "Now where are we going?" I asked, having regained some semblance of a person at least partially alert and functioning.

The Preacher didn't bother answering until he brought the truck to a dead stop not fifty yards from where we started. "Right here's where we're going," he told the town's designated cook while pointing to a two story carriage house located behind Junior Junior's turn of the century, white, two-story, pristine condition, Folk Victorian style home. Many, including myself, considered Junior Junior's immaculately maintained residence to be the most attractive residence in the community. I never inquired, but it went without saying that the possibility of Junior Junior having anything to do with this beautiful building, built over one hundred years earlier, remained in doubt. Story was that his long gone wife deserved all the credit for purchasing, rehabbing, and maintaining this once popular workingman's version of the more expensive and elaborately designed Queen Anne Victorian styled home. Folk Victorians didn't require professional architectural designs and craftsmen to apply the spindles, gingerbread, and decorative brackets associated with the more costly Queen Anne version. The freshly painted white wood clapboard siding, set off by green shutters framing every window, along with the enticing covered porch encircling the entire front and east side of the house, had on more than one occasion caused me to stop and admire this stately structure sitting behind the white picket fence and manicured shrubbery. _I'll bet the insides don't look nearly so immaculate_ , I thought, having forgotten for the moment my surprise at being named the town's official fry cook.

_What in the hell am I going to do now_? My energized brain screamed so loud I couldn't imagine anyone standing next to me not hearing my internal lamentations. _What have you done? Are you crazy? What were you thinking? You can't exist here among these sycophantic neo-conservative philistines! It's one thing to stop by for a chat during the yearly journey north, but living here? That's insane!_

"Well, here's your new home— the entire second floor," Preacher Roy's voice reeked of self-satisfaction. He obviously felt very proud of himself.

The carriage house, located at the rear of Junior Junior's stately residence, long ago converted to accommodate vehicles as opposed to horses, did present itself well. The whole second floor, consisting of almost one thousand square feet of space, now served as guest quarters. I had earlier heard that it provided every convenience necessary to allow an occupant to live comfortably. Somehow the thought that it now served as my personal residence gave me no comfort.

"What's wrong?" asked the Preacher. "How come you got such a constipated look? I thought you'd be real happy with the deal I worked out for you. You ain't thinking of letting me down are you, Will? I would be surely disappointed if you are, Will. Cause' I have to tell you, Will, I've had a real tryin' day. Tell me it ain't true, Will."

Preacher Roy's pleading brought me back to reality, and I recalled my conversation with myself earlier that day when I realized I must make an attempt to find a way to live within society. If I ran away this time, I might not ever get another chance to come to terms with humanity, or my gradual loss of it. My life pretty much sucked, and it stood scant chance of getting better if I persisted in avoiding public intercourse. These weren't bad people, nor were they especially good people, they were simply people. They had hopes, fears, prejudices, and a lifetime's ration of partisan politics and religious dogma shoved down their throats everyday. Why would they be anything different than what they were?

My response came so fast it surprised me. Whatever part of my brain that makes decisions at the subconscious level did not consult with the conscious part before deciding right here is where I needed to be. "It isn't true, Preacher," I assured him.

"That's real good to hear, Will," said a smiling Preacher Roy.

## Chapter Five

_It's going to be a hot one_ , I thought as I made my way down the single flight of wooden stairs that allowed access to Junior Junior's second floor carriage house apartment. _My how time flies when one is having fun_. I'd repeated this sentiment almost daily for a month now. I was obviously intent on using hackneyed phrases rather than my brain for source material while having another of those troubling conversations with myself. Irritated, I stopped in mid-stride. "I told you to stop talking to yourself. Do you hear me?" I said aloud. "Yes," I replied, much to my annoyance.

Looking around to see if anyone had noticed me, and observing not a living being nearby, I breathed a sigh of relief. Once more assured I would be dealing with my conscious self for the foreseeable future, I headed straight for Junior Junior's diner located across the gravel lot in front of me. Flo, my waitress/cook, whom I hired the first day I took charge, had been there for two hours. She opened up, and I closed. As I approached the entrance, pickup trucks were pulling into the lot carrying workers headed to jobs located throughout the county and beyond. Whether we liked it or not, the services and products we offered every workday determined in part how the rest of their day went. If we weren't open at exactly 6 a.m. and the coffee wasn't hot and the food wasn't tasty, then we expected to be held partly to blame if the remainder of their day did not go well. And don't think they wouldn't let you know about it the next time they came in. I'm not at all certain an accident on the way to work might be of less importance than a plate of cold gravy and runny scrambled eggs.

Fortunately with Flo doing most of the cooking, we did not have to worry. A natural born diner cook and waitress, she'd served people food most of her life. Said that's all she ever wanted to do, except for finding the right man. She'd been married three times and let it be known she was looking for number four. All the previous husbands had not lived up to her expectations was the story I heard without ever having to ask. I'd been forewarned to not make the mistake of inquiring what deficiencies were present in them. Apparently, much of the problem dealt with what went on during the late evening hours between the covers. Rumor was she just plain wore the guys out to the point they up and ran off looking for a safe place to get a night's rest.

Everybody liked her. It's simply that nobody wanted to give her the notion they were interested in being number four. I took the precaution of dispelling any notion of my being a candidate for number four by coming straight out and informing her I got my balls shot off in the war. Although that's not true, I could see how she had started to size me up, and I became desperate. She responded to this unexpected and unsolicited bit of personal information on my part by saying she suspected right off something was different about me. She had cause to wonder, she said, as I hadn't displayed any interest at all towards such a fine example of middle-aged womanhood. She thought maybe I might be one of those, you know, happy people. I thanked her for her understanding and made a mental note to add some crude typical male expletives to my everyday vocabulary to support my claim to manhood. We made quite a team. She was the lovelorn fry cook, and I falsely claimed to be without the tools to make me a prime candidate for her number four.

After only a month during which Flo and I worked out an entirely new menu as well as hours of operation, a regular morning crowd formed and let the new management know they intended to be there every workday morning expecting us to send them off to the mines fully awake with full stomachs and a hearty "Thank you very much and please come back," ringing in their ears. Distinct and sometimes odd personalities began to emerge. There was the bug-eyed County Judge who always sat by himself in the farthest corner. Other customers referred to him as the _Taxi Driver_ because he always looked around to see if anyone was staring at him. Obviously paranoid, the guy confronted anyone caught looking in his direction. "Are you looking at me?" he'd inquire on those occasions parroting that famous actor in the movie. Consequently, none of the newly formed regulars made that mistake more than once. Gossip had it, he believed drug dealers from back east, who accidentally lost a big shipment of marijuana in the county when one of their mules got stoned on the cargo and drove a beater Cadillac full of the stuff through one of the anti-drug billboards prominently displayed along side the county's main arterial, put a contract on him. The driver, reportedly a relative of the owner of the illicit weed, landed in the county jail and probably would stay there for the next four hundred years if the judge got his way. There was also the Mayor who sold insurance, stocks, bonds, mutual funds, pyramid scheme soap, real estate, and Girl Scout cookies. If the guy added used cars to his repertoire he would represent the complete pantheon of dreaded salespersons most wage earners wanted not to find themselves alone with. Fortunately, he did not stop in everyday or business would surely have suffered. I calculated I could make a decent living as the lucky guy who sold him his business cards. He reportedly stuck cards in every hand, pocket, sack, mail slot, cookie bag, windshield wiper, and on every bulletin board in a twenty-mile radius. At last count, I had thirteen in less than thirty days.

I also took interest in one guy who wore a ball cap signifying he'd served in the 1st Infantry Division in Vietnam in 1969. I had served in the same unit during that time period. I hadn't confronted him yet with the news that I, too, laid claim to being a fellow Big Red One survivor of that most unfortunate expedition. I wanted to wait until I had more time to exchange old war stories with him. I expected it would be good to talk with an individual who most likely shared, at least, some of my experiences. He appeared to be every bit as socially challenged as me so I wanted to approach him cautiously. You never knew what you were going to get from a fellow Nam vet when you identified your colors. As they used to say in our unit back in the Nam, "If you're going to be one, then be a Big Red One!"

There were others whom I felt sure qualified for the 'list of characters' roll I had unintentionally created in my mind: Preacher Roy, the sausage bludgeoner led the list. Sheriff Slaybaugh, my unwelcome wagon host, made it. Junior Junior, need I say more? The Democrat hippie lady, one Mary June Jangles, who had decided to give up on the restaurant idea since Junior Junior's now produced edible food which put the kibosh on her attempt to convert the town to her health food menu also got included. This event suspiciously coincided with the recent appearance of middle finger obscene gestures drawn in the dust on Junior Junior's vehicle and storefront windows. I hadn't met the woman personally, but I can only imagine what she's like if she's the type to get mad because other folks don't share her passion in foods that don't bleed.

To complete my preliminary local cast of characters' list, I must include another individual I'd yet to set eyes upon. He was referred to only as UB2, short for Unabomber Two. Seems this elderly gentleman showed up in town from who knows where almost ten years ago and settled in at the stately old Muxlow estate out on the south edge of town. All the local folks know is that his initials are D. B. He almost never came to town, and when he did, it was to make appearances at the local bank and post office, where he mailed a single package before making a quick stop at the supermarket/deli/bakery/movie rental establishment. When he finished, he walked directly south on the county highway back to his home, and no one saw him again until the first of the next month. He never talked to anybody, ever, and he always wore dark sunglasses and a jacket with a hood pulled over his head, just like the Unabomber did in the police sketches. You say hello to him, and he just passed on by. People wondered what he did out there alone. Can't anyone say, though, because the house is at least an eighth mile back off the road, surrounded by trees and shrubs. Hardly anyone came around on the same day that he did any more as they didn't want to get blown up if he happens to be mailing one of those suspected package bombs. Sheriff Slaybaugh told them they were out of their minds and to let the poor man live in peace, but his opinion had scant effect. I didn't know how I'd manage it, but this was one guy I badly wanted to meet. For some weird reason, I thought we might have something in common, namely, everybody in town thought us both to be strange. I didn't tell the other folks this because I was on a very short leash as it was. I wondered on a number of occasions if he might not be the second Democrat.

Scarcely had I completed my mental wanderings before I found myself approaching the diner's front door. The early morning sun in the east showed signs of another scorcher day. _Best make sure there is plenty of tea and crushed ice for all the carry outs_ , I thought as I pushed against the heavy glass door allowing passage into the building housing my newest résumé-expanding venture.

"Hurry, Will! This bunch is about to drive me up the wall with all their, 'Please hurry or I'm going to be late,' bullshit. Ain't none of them got to be at work for an hour, and most of them won't be missed if they don't show up at all." Flo looked to be in her usual fine form. She didn't take any crap from anyone and, by now, everyone knew it. She also gave the best service around which is why the guys didn't take offense when she jumped square into their phony efforts to get their individual orders a little quicker.

"Hey Flo, I'm telling you I'll be late if I can't get out this door in the next three minutes," complained one of the young guys who drove daily to the county seat to the east to spend the day working at the plant manufacturing rear attachments for tractors.

"Hey, give me a break kid! You still got fifty minutes to drive a measly twenty miles. I know your momma and don't think I won't tell her the next time I see her at church that you're always giving me a hard time in the mornings. I know she didn't raise you to be disrespectful to your elders." Flo knew all of their parents or wives and would not hesitate to tell on the whole bunch of them.

"I ain't trying to be disrespectful, Flo," pleaded the impatient young man. "I just got to get to work early today to show the boss that that weaseling little prick from Dorn County ain't a more 'conscientious employee' than me. We're both trying to get the next promotion coming up."

Flo set the sack of sausage and egg biscuits on the counter right as the young man finished pleading his case. "Thanks Flo, you're the best," he yelled over his shoulder as he turned towards the door leaving a five-dollar bill on the counter. She smiled as she placed the five in the till while extracting a single dollar bill to place in the tip jar.

"That boy knows better then to start yelling at me. Why I changed that boy's diapers many a time back in the day," said Flo. She finished fending off this most recent mildly agitated member of the local blue collar workers' society, then turned back to the grill where more sausages and scrambled eggs awaited delivery to the breakfast buffet bar or being piled directly on to one of the tasty biscuits destined for the carry-out trade.

"Hey, Will," came a shout from the big table over in the corner where all the 'old geezers' sat who didn't have a darn thing to do for the most part except talk about how bad the younger generation and the _librals_ back east were screwing up the world. "You know how you can tell the difference between one of those eastern _librals_ and a lazy polecat?"

Not surprised to hear taunts coming from the 'geezer corner,' as it was christened by the younger customers who were also well accustomed to receiving unflattering comments from the tables surrounded by mostly octogenarian truants, I went along as usual with their little game. "Why no gentlemen, I can't say that I do know how to tell the difference," I said with a smile.

My response caused the whole table to grin in unison. I obviously had set myself up for whatever political mischief they might be inclined to come up with that morning.

"Well, Will," said Big Bob Buford, the usual instigator of the group's semi-senile mischief, "that's because there ain't no difference! Ha! Ha! Ha!" The whole table erupted in laughter that lasted until Hubert Crackenthaller started gasping for air so hard they had to help him put his oxygen mask back on. Usually he had it on, but he must have wanted to enjoy a chew of tobacco with his morning coffee.

I smiled as usual and walked back into the kitchen to see where I could help out. The geezers would amuse themselves for the better part of the next hour with this latest attempt at liberal bashing. Upon entering the kitchen, I noticed the two large pans of cinnamon rolls were over half gone. The blueberry muffin trays also looked thin. I reminded myself to ask Flo if it wouldn't be wise for me to get another tray of each prepared for her the night before just in case. It didn't usually require much more effort on my part. Unbeknownst to the customers who seemed to be growing happier everyday with Junior Junior's new menu and management, all it took to get the trays of cinnamon rolls ready for Flo to bake fresh the next morning was to take several dozen small, frozen solid and un-proofed rolls out of a big box stored in a freezer that were delivered by a wholesale restaurant supplier in Salina and place them on baking pans that I then shoved into a crudely constructed proofer box I'd built from scrap parts. By the time Flo came in at 4 a.m., they would be puffed up and ready to be placed in one of the two large pizza ovens I discovered under piled boxes in the back of Junior Junior's kitchen the very first day. After a time in the oven, Junior Junior's became the place to go to get the best cinnamon rolls and blueberry muffins in the county. Customers never suspected the rolls came out of a box of frozen pellets and the muffins from a box of premixed ingredients, and we never got around to telling them any different. If it made them feel good to think that flour-covered bakers slaved away all night long to get these legitimately tasty pastry items to their hungry mouths the next morning, it worked for us.

This pretty much described our complete diner operating system— provide a wholesome menu that tastes good, can be prepared quickly, served in volume by the fewest people, and at a reasonable price. Fortunately, my earlier training as an industrial engineer/cost accountant hadn't been for naught. Though Flo would tell you it was nothing more than the application of some good old common sense, which she lamented, was in short supply these days.

Satisfied that Flo didn't need me behind the counter where she held court over all who approached, I decided to check out the breakfast bar. That's where we really saved the time while gaining the good graces of the folks who, for the most part, did not have the time to sit around waiting for their breakfast to be made to order. We endeavored to keep the ample sized, movable, sneeze proofed and heated food bar well-stocked with basic breakfast items: scrambled eggs, hash browns, sausage, bacon, gravy, big fluffy biscuits, silver dollar-sized hot cakes, along with syrup, fruit, orange juice, jelly, butter, and bran cereal for those who might need some help getting that heaping helping out the other end before their next visit. For those who didn't arrive with such hearty appetites, they could choose a smaller portion to go or stay. All indications said the whole town plus the surrounding area was well pleased with our efforts. Not a single person acted upset that one of those 'librals' now made himself at home in the community that was proud they twice voted into office an individual considered by millions, and maybe even billions, of humans around the world to be the most inept politician to darken our country's hallowed Presidential halls in all its history.

All of this went on without the assistance, or perhaps the interference, of Junior Junior, who it so happened, seemed okay with not having to take the former abuse he previously received in abundance. Now he only needed to stand behind the cash register and take the money. Seeing as his sales of gas, lubricants, candy, soda pop, coffee, smokes, and some of the areas finest chewing tobacco grew substantially, along with the booming diner business, he appeared to be a happy Junior Junior.

Satisfied the food bar looked well stocked and the customers happy, I decided to check out the register to see if Junior Junior adhered to my new cash register coding system. Previously, he rang up all sales under a single code, when he remembered to do it at all, resulting in a homogenous and useless total at the end of the day. We ended up with nothing resembling an accurate sales break down, which meant we had no idea where our profit and loss centers were. Junior Junior seemed right perturbed at my insisting upon all of us taking the time to correctly record all sales by the proper classification. That was until I showed him after only a couple weeks that certain items were not worth the effort and that his profits would increase if we concentrated on those areas and items that displayed marketability. Junior Junior became the much happier entrepreneur with the increased sales as well as the praise being heaped upon him from all sectors for making the brilliant changes responsible for turning his once struggling business around. I personally wanted to tell people they should be thanking Preacher Roy because it was his idea to bring in someone possessing an IQ more than two numerical digits in length. The only thing he griped about after that related to my insistence that he reconcile the daily cash receipts and expenditures using forms I designed for his business and then deposit all money less the next day's opening cash in the local bank night deposit box. I made sure everyone knew we kept little cash on the premises after closing.

As I surveyed the building, I admitted to myself that quite a lot had changed for the better in the last four weeks. It hadn't been that difficult to determine where and what changes needed to be made in the operation of the business. I even somewhat enjoyed using my past administrative and accounting experiences to affect a going business in a positive and profitable way. At times during the month, I harkened back to the times when I enjoyed being a part of corporate America's business elite. The feeling did not last for long before I recalled all the bullshit that went along with the few good experiences.

In my opinion, corporate America represented, with but few exceptions, everything screwed up and fatally flawed about our country's capitalistic system. If we could be so lucky as to find another Teddy Roosevelt, I felt sure he would waste little time before shoving his rough riding boots up their collective thieving asses once more. I gave up hope of that happening long ago. The two party political system was completely corrupt and beyond redemption. American politics dealt primarily with the transfer of wealth. The Republican Party ensured that the wealth traveled upwards to benefit the wealthy elite leaving the scraps and the debt to the common folk and ironically, most of the delusional right wing sycophants who believed they, too, were members of a more deserving minority. Even now as their way of life crumbled beneath all the cancerous subprime debt presently threatening to destroy small town Kansas lifestyles, most followers persisted in believing all true adherents would be saved by the fraudulent elected officials who were beholden first and foremost to their corporate benefactors.

The Democrats, if possible, were even more pathetic as they believed the country's wealth best traveled in a downward direction to the poor and less fortunate which it sometimes temporarily did as transfer payments before ultimately ending up in the same corporate coffers. They wanted to save the world, while for the most part, living side by side in the same suburban enclaves with their delusional Republican brethren enjoying all the same amenities. They, likewise, commuted many miles daily to places of employment via large automobiles requiring billions of barrels of oil yearly from foreigners who despise us, yet were willing to underwrite more of the increasing national debt we ran up to finance this crazy lifestyle. The Democrats wanted to tax rich people and corporations, and the Republicans believed practically all taxes and social services should be abolished. Both had indicated they were perfectly willing, if push came to shove, to pay for this public largess by having the country borrow the money from foreigners, ourselves, our children, or, if necessary, by printing it.

I reminded myself I risked getting all riled up again, and for nothing, if I kept thinking about the mess we were in. I could go off on a tangent at the drop of a hat. That's one reason I no longer worked for corporate America. The injustice and stupidity of the whole system drove me to the point where I sometimes became a ranting lunatic, railing at the unmitigated arrogance and outright greed exhibited by high level corporate executives or the simple minded, well-intended, let's save the entire world even though we're bankrupt and won't reduce our standard of living to pay for it, efforts of the Democrats.

I reflected upon my original thoughts regarding the changes affecting all areas of my life in the last four weeks. Yes, much had changed, but only on the surface. I still roamed the world looking for I knew not what, while the corporate scumbags sold out the American dream to the cheapest foreign bidder and millions of clueless left and right wing political partisans of this once great country screamed at one another over a host of what should be secondary social issues. Meanwhile, the greatest country to advance the cause of human freedom the world has ever known continued to collapse under the weight of its own financial stupidity.

Maybe for the time being, my life had changed for the better, right here, and for this single instance. But over all, things in this country were getting worse and barring a miracle happening soon, nothing stood to prevent it. Not even the election of a new President this fall or me gaining the temporary favor of a bunch of diehard right wing rural partisans.

## Chapter Six

The rest of my Friday went much as usual. Things were falling into a pattern regarding my newest career change in the Kansas hinterland. I didn't mind the routine developing around my management of Junior Junior's restaurant. I pretty much exercised complete control of the business, and Junior Junior, to my knowledge, never actually said a single word about my management style. He did grunt on a few occasions when I pressed him on various issues. One day when I asked him what the day's date was, he walked over to a wall calendar and pointed to the large black numbers indicating the day of the month. _Maybe he really can't talk_ , I told myself. But later, Flo assured me he could enunciate words somewhat clearly on those rare occasions when required.

One of those occasions happened soon afterwards when an oldster by the name of Jasper commenced to rail at Junior Junior over the $4.07 per gallon price of gas. He became very upset at Junior Junior, along with the government, and especially, those thieving 'librals' who stood behind the whole sordid affair. I had returned from a trip to the local supermarket where I'd picked up a few basic supplies to tied us over until the following Wednesday when our main supplier from Salina swung by with our regular order. I parked Junior Junior's pickup truck off to the side of the lot out of the way of paying customer spaces and walked towards the restaurant entrance when I heard this Jasper fellow tell Junior Junior he was "damn sure not going to put up with rising gas prices any longer." He said in a screeching loud voice that he would be going home to get his shotgun and "put a stop to all this thievery."

I stopped dead in my tracks waiting to see what Junior Junior would do feeling sure he would break his silence in this instance. I saw Junior Junior grunt a couple of times which only seemed to incense this Jasper fellow even more. Jasper's voice became even more shrill when he turned away swearing to exact justice as soon as he returned from home with his trusty firearm. As I stood watching and waiting for Junior Junior's reaction, the afore mentioned claimant tottered towards his decades old pickup and after revving the engine until I expected it to explode, put the vehicle in gear and sped out of the lot at the pace of a dying turtle. _Whatever's going to happen is going to take a while_ , I told myself as I proceeded to deliver my emergency supplies to Flo who was in a snit at our having gone through the entire supply of carry-out condiments so soon. She showed no interest when I informed her an enraged older guy named Jasper went home to get his shotgun and intended to come back and shoot Junior Junior.

I dropped off the supplies and turned my attention back to Junior Junior and the public threat made upon his person. I wanted to see how this would turn out. Maybe now Junior Junior might actually speak a few words or, maybe, even form a sentence. My hopes were crushed when I overheard Junior Junior speak ever so succinctly into the phone to whoever answered his plea for help.

The conversation went something like this: "It's Jasper again." That's all! After hanging up the phone Junior Junior went and sat down on a worn out old office chair he'd obviously made use of for years. I knew there wasn't any need in my trying to get anything out of Junior Junior as to what he thought might happen, so I crossed over and sat down in the other equally worn out office chair. I figured if I hung by close enough I'd be sure to witness something unusual. I doubted a shooting would actually take place because Jasper didn't look as if he had the gumption to lift a shotgun but, maybe, someone might get arrested. Junior Junior might speak some words or even form multiple sentences during the surely to follow police investigation.

Junior Junior busied himself all this time by scanning a crumpled up old magazine with a picture of a mule on the back cover. _What lofty thoughts must be crowded into that glob of mushy matter residing in his skull_ , I opined to myself. I, on the other hand, made no effort to hide my own morbid curiosity at this pathetic modern day rendition of the long ago Kansas cow town shootout. No horses, no dirt streets, no swinging saloon doors, and no frightened citizens scurrying to get inside; only a lone, unarmed Mayberry throwback sitting quietly reading about mules seemingly unaware that a threat was made on his life and his property.

"Barley's here," came the cry through the door leading into the restaurant part of the building. Flo must have gotten over the condiment snafu. A smile lit up her face as she came through the same doorway carrying her purse and car keys, indicating an end of another workday. Time for her to go home and watch the afternoon soaps she usually talked about when she wasn't arguing with customers or stalking another unsuspecting male.

Barley, the town's Police Chief— if a guy with one part-time officer working for him and no jail to lock people up in can be called a chief— introduced himself to me the first day I reported to work at the restaurant. At first I did not know he was a law enforcement officer because he was dressed in regular civilian attire and didn't carry a gun. He impressed me with his firm handshake and warm welcome. He said he looked forward to me getting his favorite restaurant back on the right track, and I should let him know if he could be of help. Another thing I noticed about him over the following days and weeks had to do with him showing no indication of being in lock step with the other local red state sycophants. On several occasions, I recalled him reminding the vociferous blue state haters and geezers that most of the mess the country presently found itself in came by way of the current administration having turned our country's banking system over to individuals coming directly from Wall Street high finance whose intentions were to make loans available to every human being capable of signing their name to a mortgage document. I took comfort from the knowledge there were other voices of reason nearby whose thoughts were not always directed along purely partisan lines.

Like Junior Junior, Chief Barley showed no sign of being in any hurry to get out of his vehicle or get inside to talk to the person threatened. He slowly exited his decade old, and sadly in need of replacement, excuse for a patrol vehicle still missing all four wheel covers that were stolen several years earlier by culprits yet to be found out, but according to the Chief, still of very special interest.

"Hey, Junior Junior," said the Chief as he casually walked into the station.

"Ungh," came the even less enthusiastic reply from Junior Junior.

"Mr. Clayton, and how are you today?" the Chief asked turning in my direction. My surprise at the lack of drama in the room must have been apparent to the Chief, but he went on as if his visit held no purpose. I imagined he might as well have mentioned the weather or the price of wheat given his nonchalant manner.

"Well, Junior Junior, I saw that the price of wheat dropped another nickel this morning. Hope we get some of that moisture that's falling down to the southwest; we could sure use it," said the Chief as if he'd read my mind.

"Ungh," grunted Junior Junior once again.

_Didn't they realize that an extremely irate senior citizen was right at that moment on his way back to Junior Junior's station with a firearm? Surely they must! But why then did they act as if everything was normal? Was there something I didn't know? Did the guy just go home and forget all about it?_ Questions banged around in my brain, and I wanted answers.

"And you, Mr. Clayton, how is your day going? Well, I hope," asked the Chief as if making a social call instead of responding to a death threat.

I had to know what was going on. "Chief, am I missing something here? Are you not concerned that the old fellow will come back with his gun like he said he would? And please call me Will."

The Chief didn't respond immediately but rather looked over to Junior Junior while exchanging a knowing smile. "Well, Will, he might be if he doesn't get distracted by something else on the way home. It's usually the last place he stops at that he remembers. Why he might be down at the roadside fruit stand admiring the melons and apples. If he is, he's plum forgot all about this little matter. Only reason Junior Junior called me was to let me know that Jasper's out and about. Besides, we took his gun away from him long ago. We just need to make sure he doesn't miss his turn at the edge of town and end up over in Justice City. That's a forty mile round trip for me to go fetch him. What with Junior Junior charging the city so much for gas, we got to be careful or we'll use up our fuel budget before we get finished with the second month of the new fiscal year."

The pained look on Junior Junior's face proved he'd long ago tired of hearing this all too common lament. The Chief's laughter showed he also knew station operators like Junior Junior sat at the bottom of the oil industry food chain and played no part in the pricing decisions— they worked for mere pennies and did not deserve the public's wrath.

No Dodge City shootout loomed after all. Nor did I hear any additional conversation from the "Sphinx of Jonesboro." _Too bad_ , I thought having hoped for a break in the monotony. I gave my excuses and walked back into the deserted diner.

Few customers stopped in between the lunchtime rush and the final spate of business transpiring between 2:30 p.m. and 3 p.m. when the few employees working in the offices and stores close to the diner ventured in for a mid-afternoon repast. After that, business amounted to practically zilch. That's when I customarily locked up and started preparing for the next day. I devoted a couple of hours after locking the door to taking inventory and cleaning up what Flo hadn't gotten to because of time constraints or because she'd gotten mad for not receiving enough tips. By this time we'd gotten most things down to a routine, and I found the remaining chores easier to accomplish. Usually by 5 p.m. I headed out the door confident the diner sat ready for Flo's dour countenance to make its appearance at 4 a.m. the following morning.

This day looked to be no exception. I stood giving the diner one last look to ensure I'd forgotten nothing. Sure enough, the proofers sat waiting filled with frozen cinnamon roll pellets and the daily receipts were now in Junior Junior's possession for the nightly deposit. All pots, pans, and dishes were cleaned and ready for the next day. All I had to do amounted to walking out the door and locking it behind me. Satisfied, I gave a last look through the large plate glass front window before I headed out the door. An old VW bug, looking as if it had not been washed in years, idling at one of the gas pumps caught my eye. Painted white lettering on the car door applied in a thoroughly unprofessional fashion formed the words "Peace & Love." _That thing belongs back in the '60s_ , I told myself while I stared at the strange sight.

"That's not from around here," I said aloud as I stood mesmerized by the flashback from my formative years. "Surely no one from around here would dare drive anything like that around town. That's the kind of heap one of those hippies would drive."

My mind froze in mid-sentence as my eyes focused on an individual observing my interest in the strange vehicle. It was a late middle-aged woman wearing a plain white full-length linen dress and vest like the ones stylish in the '60s. Her long grayish blond tresses, obviously uncombed since childhood and accentuated by a tie-died headband, left no doubt in my mind as to the identity of this individual. This must be Mary June Jangles, the hippie lady, recently returned from a forty- year sojourn in San Francisco. I'd wanted to meet this woman for sometime to tell her how sorry I was about her restaurant failure. Now she stood right in front of me filling her old VW with outrageously priced gas, while at the same time giving me...... the bird?

She must have seen the look of complete surprise on my face as I reacted to her unexpected, and I might add, inappropriate and undeserved gesture. It's not my fault the farmers in the area compared her menu to the supply list they presented to the dealers selling them feed for the farm animals. They likened eating at her establishment to be about as close to grazing as they ever wanted to get. They wagered a person stood to have a better chance of finding a local insurance agent not belonging to every church and civic organization in town than a hunk of red meat in her kitchen.

Junior Junior arrived at the pump right as she finished filling her tank. He took out his big money stuffed cash holder and gladly took the several bills offered to him before including them with his bulging wad. He didn't bother to say thanks or anything else as they both abruptly turned and went their own ways. I'm not certain, but I believe this obviously misinformed woman, the one who gave me the obscene gesture that I felt I did not in anyway deserve, smiled at me as she drove off the lot. Not laughed, smiled! There's a difference. If she laughed that meant she considered me not worthy of a good face-to-face ass chewing. If she smiled that meant something else, and if it she meant something else, then maybe I'd get to see her again. For some unexplained reason, I liked that idea.

## Chapter Seven

I enjoyed sitting alone in the diner on late Sunday afternoons. I used this time to make notes about any number of issues I expected to deal with during the upcoming week. I did the same thing earlier in life during my time in service to various greedy capitalist movers and shakers. I possessed two speeds, so I've been told, on and off. When I'm off, I can overlook most of the crap that seems to pile up along side life's highways. But when I'm on, well then I've been told I'm down right super anal. I need to know every detail relating to whatever I'm involved with. Nothing is too insignificant. I don't like surprises, and that's why I try to anticipate events having even the slightest potential of materializing. This can take a lot of time, and more often than not, my attempt to envision the future often turns out wrong. But when I'm right, I feel vindicated for all the other times I erred.

This time, though, something felt different. My thoughts traveled miles away from the diner's business. Matters regarding the operation of the diner fell into place quickly following the introduction of a few Business 101 fundamentals, along with a little common sense. What I concerned myself with presently involved something else entirely.

_What in the hell was I going to do about that brazenly rude Mary June Jangles? Why the nerve of that woman. Flipping me the bird? I had to do something, but what? Chase her down and give her the bird back?_ I had used that exact tactic once before while in high school. As I recall, it didn't work. The recipient of my middle finger gesture of displeasure, a young lady, had summarily informed me that my steady company no longer interested her as she'd received a better offer from a young stud with a cool car. She subsequently told her new boyfriend, a football player and a car owner, about my middle finger salute, and he chased me down and beat the crap out of me.

_Guess I ought to mark that one off the list right up front_ , I reminded myself as I sat there hoping for a solution. As I coaxed my brain trust towards solving this dilemma, a familiar looking pickup truck pulled into the vacant diner parking lot. This served no purpose unless someone wanted to turn around because neither of Junior Junior's gas or food dispensing businesses was open on Sundays. If someone wanted gas they needed to drive the half-mile back down the street to the quick shop that sold gas every day of the week.

_It's Preacher Roy's truck_ , I told myself as my view of the vehicle improved. I looked at my watch and saw it was 1:45 p.m. I wondered what he wanted in town since nothing opened on Sunday except the quick shop and the town supermarket. My curiosity increased while I watched him pull directly up to the diner just like he did that first night. Not hesitating, he turned off the engine, exited the truck, and came straight up to the closest front diner window and bent forward to get a better look inside the darkened interior. After squinting to get a better look, he saw me sitting alone in a booth with pen in hand making notes. Smiling upon seeing me looking back at him, he motioned for me to go to the diner door. I didn't have time to respond before the Preacher turned and headed in that direction.

"Afternoon, Preacher, surprised to see you in town today. Anything I can help you with?" As I spoke, Preacher Roy squeezed past me in the open doorway to get fully inside the diner.

"Don't need a thing," he responded. "Just thought I'd drop by and see how you're doing. Junior Junior told me you often spend time at the diner on Sunday afternoons. So... how are you doing?"

I turned to face the Preacher as he in turn went directly to the booth where my papers lay strewn atop the table and took a seat.

"Oh, I'm doing all right, I suppose. At least the management hasn't told me I'm doing anything wrong," I jokingly commented as I joined the Preacher at the booth.

Preacher Roy smiled. "That's great news, Will. I knew this job would be just the thing you were looking for. Why everybody in the whole town's talking about the amazing transformation that's occurred here in the last month. They're all beholden to you for all you've done. I've been trying to get in to visit with you, but I've been so doggone busy that I haven't had the time."

"I knew you would get by one of these days, Preacher Roy. I expect you have been busy trying to get back to normal after that huge harvest?" I'd heard the Preacher stayed busy hauling wheat to the local grain elevator trying to lock in a price.

"Actually, I've been hauling wheat to the grain elevator about every day. If I'd known I'd be selling this soon, I'd have taken it directly from the field to the elevator. Only reason I didn't in the first place was because you can end up sitting in line for hours to unload. And this year was the biggest crop on record. It was also the most expensive crop on record. Gas was the main culprit, but I feel lucky my old combine held up for another year. I fear the day when it breaks down for good, and I have to start hiring custom cutters. The prices they charged this year skyrocketed and when you include the cost of fertilizer and fuel, it's hard for a lot of folks to make any money. If you are renting land, it's even worse." The Preacher wiped his brow using an oversized handkerchief as if talking about the increased farming costs made him weary.

"I hope I'm not the only one who got paid this year," I commented as I watched him replace his bandana in the pocket of his bib overalls.

"Oh no! I did okay. I got smart when the price of wheat got close to ten dollars last winter and forward contracted half my acreage. Sure made me look smart when the market came down to six dollars and change this summer. No, I did all right. The way prices are going down it won't be long before it will be smarter to take my land out of production and get paid by the government to let it sit."

I knew that would not be happening if the Preacher thought he stood to somehow come out ahead farming the land. I hated to think what might happen to this good man if farming no longer was an option. I believed every time corporate farming caused a few more hardworking farmers to give up and sell out, the worse off we became as a nation. This country began as an agrarian society. Most of the founders of this once great country were men of the soil. The further away our citizens moved from those roots, the less viable we became as an economic entity.

There is a disturbing irony in the realization that we, originally a nation of farmers, abandoned the land and the once thriving rural communities for a supposedly more prosperous and easier life working in factories in the cities and suburbs— only to find ourselves now abandoned by those factories as they departed the USA for cheap foreign labor. Many of those farms are now owned by large corporations that have no need for millions of ex-factory workers or even the current farm workers.

What will these millions of displaced workers do? Where will they live, and where will they work to support their families? We are no longer an agrarian society, and we soon will no longer be a manufacturing society. What's next, the service sector? But those workers exist to provide services for the people who work the land or for the workers who manufacture the hard goods, which creates real wealth for a society.

Are we to end up as the ancient Romans did where most of the citizens performed no productive work and were provided for by massive armies trampling the world stealing from subjugated countries in order to feed and entertain the idle masses? Is that it? Are we to use this massive military we possess, based in more than a thousand installations around the globe, for the purpose of stealing from other hardworking societies so that the citizens of this country can be fed? What about the necessity of keeping those now excess and idle workers, plus their families, occupied when not eating food they did not produce? Will games be provided constantly in giant stadiums or on television or will the two major political parties that equally promote our nation's pillaging and plundering of the world take turns inciting their constituents to go to the streets to protest the incompetence and lack of patriotism or the ungodliness of an opposition party that in reality is but a clone of the other party? Is this how it will turn out in one, five, ten, or fifty years?

My thoughts finally drifted back to the Preacher who likewise seemed self-absorbed. "Aren't land prices going up though?" I asked him. I couldn't help but overhear some of the farmers' daily talk about that one good point while they sat for hours chatting at the diner.

"Well, that is a fact, oddly enough," answered Preacher Roy with a quizzical tone in his voice. "But when you find out what's driving the prices upward you have to wonder how it's going to help out in the long run."

"What do you mean?" I asked, eager for more information.

"It's not the farming interests that are driving the prices of farm land upward. Not even the corporate farms are interested in land at these prices," answered Preacher Roy.

"Who is?" I asked hurriedly.

"I hear it's the investors fleeing the crazy stock market. Plus, some foreign money is also coming into play. I guess a thirty to forty percent drop in the market will cause just about anybody to start seeking alternatives. Like they say, there is only so much land and when everything else is going south, land starts looking good."

"You mean the crops they grow will not allow the venture to cash flow?" I asked.

"Oh heck no! No way! Grain prices are going down and the cost of production is going up daily. They will most likely rent the land back to the farmer who sold it for a nominal amount allowing him to make a small profit, hopefully. This is going to be a long term affair, and those who bought in early might decide to take some profit from the stragglers who will be getting into the farm land market late. I even gave selling some thought myself, but I would be lost without my farm. I don't know what I would do if something happened so that I couldn't be a farmer no more." Having said this, Preacher Roy got a distant look in his eyes as he peered through the large glass window towards the horizon.

"You own your land outright, don't you?" I asked, thinking he might have already told me he did.

"Absolutely! My father inherited the land from his father, who, in turn, inherited it from his father. They fought to survive during the 'Dirty Thirties' when the Depression and the Dust Bowl era drove many good folks from the farms. My family hung on for all they were worth. There has never been a note held on the property since my great-grandfather bought it in 1935. I'm the fourth generation to farm here. Only thing is, I don't have a son to pass it along to, so if either of my two daughters and their husbands don't decide to come out here and take over in a few more years, it looks like it will go to a new family of farmers. There ain't no way I will sell out to the big corporations. Somehow I aim to get somebody who is not afraid of hard work to carry on the tradition of the family farm." Once again, Preacher Roy looked away towards the street. I sensed the uncertainty Preacher Roy must be feeling at that moment. Would anyone have enough gumption to step up someday and take over his life's work? Would they also devote their life to ensuring multi-national agricultural conglomerates never got their hands on his family's life's work?

I didn't know where to take the conversation from this point, so I decided to wait for Preacher Roy to expose his hand. I knew he was not the kind of person to drop by without something specific in mind. A reason existed for his visit beyond the excuse that he wanted to see how I was getting along.

"You know Will, I ain't getting any younger," said my suddenly pensive booth companion. _Here it comes_ , I told myself. _Get ready_.

"Do you worry about old age, Will? I mean you seem comfortable roaming around not appearing to worry about the future or getting old and frail. I've been giving that some thought of late. I mean what if I get sick or hurt before I get old enough to qualify for Medicare? That's over ten years off. Like most of the people in the area that don't have a job with the government or some big company, I ain't got any health insurance to speak of, excepting some major medical that still leaves me and the wife with a lot to worry about. I mean all I got is this land which is worth a small fortune right now, but that will change next month or next year. If I did up and sell it, what would I do with the money? Buy stocks that I don't know anything about so I can lose my life savings like millions of others? Or just put it in a suitcase and bury it out behind the barn. What do you think, Will?"

I didn't know where to start. My first inclination told me to tell him I had not the slightest idea. I'd renounced all my accumulated wealth years ago. I had up and walked away from years of saving up for the future or a rainy day. At the time, it seemed a great burden to me. I spent all my time guarding my accumulated wealth. Not a day went by when I wasn't checking my stock portfolio or bond portfolio or real estate portfolio or my market guru's portfolio or comparing it to some television financial expert's hypothetical portfolio. Eventually, I developed portfolio-sis. I finally realized I did not own all that stuff, but rather, it owned me. I'd devoted most of my early adult life to concocting ways to get, protect, and admire wealth. All thoughts about happiness, decency, family, and community relationships were dismissed outright. That's the way it had to be if I wanted to be somebody.

I eventually decided on one thing I felt safe telling the Preacher. "Preacher Roy, I'm going to be succinct. Right now, don't do anything. You may have issues, but basically, you are still in better shape than the vast majority of people who call themselves citizens of the richest country in the world. Pardon my French, but I fear a real shit storm is in store for this country in the not too distant future. It may very well be that few investments will hold their value in the coming years other than assets such as farmland, mineral resources, and the basic craft and survival skills. I would urge you not to contemplate making a career change while this ax is held over our collective heads."

Preacher Roy's weary expression changed immediately. A knowing smile appeared upon his sun darkened and weatherworn face. "You know," he said, "you better watch out. People around here are starting to think differently of you. You keep it up and you'll end up mayor or county commissioner or even something bigger, even though you are one of those Democrats."

Still chuckling, Preacher Roy got up from the table and headed for the door. I felt sort of odd having been abandoned all of a sudden. Barely hesitating as he reached the unlocked front entrance, he briefly turned to give a nod back towards the booth. He gave another chuckle and headed through the door to his truck. Half a minute later, he pulled his truck on to the street and headed out of town.

_Well, that was interesting_ , I thought as I watched Preacher Roy's truck disappear from sight. _Where was I?_ I pondered while turning back to the pile of notes strewn before me. At the very top of the pile, a lone blank piece of paper contained the initials MJJ along with a big question mark.

I quickly realized this burning issue required more intelligent thought before a plan could be devised. I needed to let this matter gestate. There was no need to hurry since I did not plan to go anywhere. From what I saw and heard neither were most of the other denizens of this fading farm community.

## Chapter Eight

"I'm warning you Junior Junior, the next time that horse you call a dog comes over to my house and digs a hole in my front lawn while on his way to my tomato garden to take a dump, I'm going to call Chief Barley and file a complaint. This is my second warning, so don't think I won't do it if there is a third time. I don't care if we are distant cousins, I'll do it!"

I, along with everyone else in the diner, couldn't help but over hear this most recent complaint concerning Junior Junior's roving hound. At least weekly, someone came into the diner howling about J3's (that's Jesse # 3) latest search and destroy mission. J3 made late night excursions throughout the community whenever the mood struck. His owner refused to restrain the animal in any way, therefore, condemning the local homeowners to constant raids upon their home environs. The familiar sound of knowing chuckles resonated from a number of tables because all the locals knew of or had earlier experienced one or more of J3's late night visits.

"I'm going to be late for work this morning because I had to clean dog crap off my shoes." This barely audible final complaint came from the irate property owner as she exited the diner heading for her waiting car.

I glanced to the front of the building to see how Junior Junior responded to this latest gripe concerning his wayward dog. I observed no response, as Junior Junior said nothing nor implied any interest at all in the proceedings. He merely picked up a copy of his favorite fishing magazine and sat down in his worn out chair to read it or more likely, I expected, to gaze enviously at all the trophy fish pictures.

I don't know why I expected anything other than that from Junior Junior. Lately I'd tried to stop myself, but a suspicion had gained purchase in my cranium regarding Junior Junior being an idiot. Not in a bad way idiot. I mean a natural born idiot. He probably didn't ignore people while they stood waiting for a reply to a question. He most likely simply didn't understand the question. He did not laugh at the antics of the crazy old coots coming in daily because he simply didn't get their jokes, or realize they were jokes. And as for his dog crapping in someone's yard, Junior Junior probably figured _outsides are outsides_.

I turned back to the more pressing matters at hand, which at that moment meant helping Flo clean tables to make way for the constant flow of new customers coming in to enjoy Junior Junior's increasingly popular morning buffet. As I grabbed a tray to bus a couple of recently emptied tables over near the geezer corner, I automatically prepared myself for whatever mischief they were sure to toss my way. I did not mind their perpetually clumsy attempts at political and social humor at my expense. As a matter of fact, I kind of enjoyed sparring with them because they were for the most part a jovial and good-humored group. I did marvel at their profound ignorance regarding most of the topics they tried to use as a way to have some fun at the expense of one of those Socialist Democrats that to them included anyone who didn't agree with their far-right limited viewpoints. My initial lie to Preacher Roy claiming to be a Democrat had come back to haunt me.

"Hey, Will," came the expected call to arms.

"Yes, gentlemen? Nice to see all of you here this morning. Is there something I can get for you? As you well know, we fortunate members of Junior Junior's dedicated service staff take great pride in our prompt and courteous service to you, our loyal customers."

It took a while before any member of the group responded. I don't think more than a couple of them realized that I was kidding

"You a real funny guy, Will, I mean a real funny guy!" countered Big Bob Buford, the group ringleader. "As a matter of fact," he continued in the same snide manner, "I'll bet you learned how to be such a friendly and personable fellow back there in one of those big eastern colleges where they teach all those ultra _libral_ socialist courses you Democrats are so fond of. Ain't that right?"

I loved this guy. He typified the far-right mouth organ, meaning he possessed a miniscule knowledge base and no one would ever accuse him of having verified a supposed fact. Neither would he ever allow the truth to get in the way of a well-nurtured lifelong prejudice.

"Why Mr. Buford, nice to see you again this morning. Perhaps you would first enlighten me as to your definition of ultra liberal socialism. I'm not familiar with the phrase?" I observed my adversary pause momentarily as he parsed my inquiry. Confident he understood what I asked of him, he responded.

"Well pardoner, let me spell it out for you in plain language. What it means is, there are a lot of free loaders that are getting money and places to live and food and free medicine and doctor services they don't work for. That's what it means."

Having acquitted himself admirably, if the part snarl, part grin now covering his face represented his estimation of his response, he sat back to watch his victim squirm.

"So basically," I began my rebuttal, "people who get or take things that they did not work for such as money, housing, food, and medical assistance are liberals and socialists. Is that about it?"

Big Bob was all smiles. "You got it, pardoner. It's real plain and simple, ain't it?"

I deliberately paused to let the group have time to observe Big Bob's glee at having trapped me in a corner. Finally, he had put one of those slippery 'librals' in his place.

"By the way, Big Bob," I began, "do you get Social Security?"

Eyes narrowing to slits, he responded. "You damn straight I do, and I paid for it, too. So I deserve every penny I get."

"Of course you do, and hopefully one day there will still be Social Security for me, too. But is there anything else you might get that you didn't pay for? I mean anything?" I waited for his response.

"If I'm getting it... I paid for it, and I deserve it." His tone sounded even more defiant this time.

"How about the rest of you gentlemen, about the same? If you are getting it, you paid for it?" I awaited the group's response, which came immediately. To a man, they avowed they all received only what they were due.

"Well then, I only need to ask a few questions before I get back to my day job. How much have you paid into the Medicare fund? I believe you are all over sixty-five and you rely on those services. I believe most of the burden for providing for these vast and essential medical services is being laid upon the shoulders of our currently employed workers and future generations. I realize you very generously paid for part of the previous retiree's Medicare Part A hospitalization coverage and, likewise, current workers are presently paying for yours in return. That's socialized medicine.

And what about Part B of Medicare? You pay a monthly premium taken from your monthly Social Security checks for Part B that is equal to less than 25% of the actual cost of the services you receive. That's socialized medicine.

Plus, the Social Security trust fund that is supposed to provide for your monthly Social Security checks by withholding the monthly premium for Part B has no money. It was spent long ago on your behalf in lieu of your government having to tax your generation more for the services you received. So it turns out your generation spent the trust fund money and is dependent upon a new generation of taxpayers to make up for those deficits to the Social Security trust fund. That's socialism.

And lastly, what about the Social Security prescription drug coverage plan sponsored by the current President and his supposedly conservative party? Against all that the Republican Party stood for and to the primary benefit of the corporate pharmaceutical companies, they sponsored and passed a drug benefit plan for retirees providing for the major part of the cost for prescription drugs which also allows these same companies to sell those same subsidized drugs to retirees at nonnegotiable prices in excess of several hundred percent more than they are sold in other countries. That gentlemen, is not only socialism, but socialism designed primarily to profit those wonderful paragons of capitalism at corporate America. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get back to work."

Having finished my response to the geezers' latest attempt at playing political smack down, I walked away to resume my much more important table busing task. I could hear the majority of the group talking hurriedly amongst themselves as I began piling the last of the dirty dishes into a large plastic tote. I instinctively knew one individual did not partake in idle chatter at this time. For him, this represented more than polite political discourse; this was all about political domination. Yes, even the friendly geezers had an Alpha Male, a Big Dog, a provocateur to guide them along the road to hating all things not consistent with an increasingly belligerent and limited neoconservative worldview.

I didn't bother to look up as I heard chairs being pushed aside by someone in a hurry to get to the front part of the building. The loud bang preceding the usual squeaky noise heard when the front door opened and closed confirmed my suspicion. Elvis had left the building. _You just had to do it, didn't you? You just couldn't leave it alone_. Chastising myself would not make any difference, and I knew it. Big Bob was a showoff and a bully, and I instinctively disliked bullies regardless of their religious or political views. As for the showoff part, Big Bob possessed nothing more than a narrow-minded, self-serving, and unsubstantiated viewpoint.

"See you tomorrow, Will. See you tomorrow, Flo," came a chorus of farewells from the laughing and chattering geezers as they headed for the exit to make their way home to momma and the ubiquitous list of small chores that their spouses used to control their otherwise unproductive lives.

As I turned to acknowledge the group's farewells, one of the group members, a pint-sized and usually reticent individual named William Miller, broke off from the exiting party and came towards me.

"Hope you don't pay any attention to Big Bob's sometimes less than polite remarks, Will. You're doing a good job," was his lone comment to me as he patted me on the shoulder before passing on by towards the exit.

"Thanks," I said, watching him follow the others out the door. This was a good reminder to me to not let the callous actions and rude comments of a misguided few color my opinion towards the other members of the political party that sadly had been coaxed into sponsoring the selfish interest of corporate and evangelical America during the last eight years.

I looked at my watch. Nine a.m. on the dot stared back at me from my oversized wristwatch. No longer did I sport around one of those fashionable thin faced, no numbers, designer brand watches that had become an absolute necessity back in the corporate butt-kissing era of my working life. Someplace I still had one of those multi-jeweled, multi-caret gold, 'my bank account is bigger than yours' screaming pieces of jewelry prized by most of the members of any 'Egomaniacs with an Inferiority Complex' society. Now I sported a watch that cost less than thirty dollars and had a face bigger than most wall clocks.

Flo brought me back to the present with one of her patented threats to any regular that tried to leave without tipping. She had devised a way of watching the whole room no matter what else she was doing. Often one of the regulars simply forgot to leave a tip after jawing for an extended period with another customer. When this occurred she never said a word until the offender got to within ten feet of the door. Then she let them have it.

"Delbert Watson, I know where you live, and I will come over there and steal your bird dog if you try to get out the door without leaving me some hard evidence of your appreciation of my professional attention to your fine dining enjoyment!"

Of course, Delbert and anyone else caught trying to abscond always scurried back to the register counter to not only pay their bill but also leave an even larger tip. Flo, stealing a page out of my, how to act magnanimous manual, always smiled and assured them they were forgiven and were welcome to come back tomorrow for some more of Junior Junior's fine food and Flo's always professional food delivery and optional romance counseling services.

A short time later as I stood by the register checking out the establishment and having decided all appeared well for the moment, I espied a frightening sight coming towards the diner's front door. Mayor Jimmy Jenkins had me in his sights before he came within ten yards of the building. I felt a sense of panic come over me. If the back door was to be my escape route, then I needed to start for it on a dead run if I expected to get away. I quickly realized running across a filled to almost capacity restaurant and bursting through the designated emergency exit might cause our newly gained regular clientele to follow suit. I realized to my own horror that I was trapped. I had to take one for the team.

"And a very fine morning to you, Will," chirped the local Mayor, realtor, et al as he came directly to the checkout counter where I stood, frozen grin and all.

"Mayor Jenkins, how nice to see you this morning. Will you be dining with us, I hope?" I deserved an award, as I showed no sign of the near panic I'd felt only moments earlier.

"No time today, Will. My schedule is too crowded. I was wondering if I might have a private word with you." His face oddly lacked the usual forced grin most salesmen customarily display when cornering their prey.

"Well...sure, I guess so. Let's sit in the area over towards the exit door. It looks to be clearing out." I didn't trust him not to make some kind of sales pitch once we were seated. Flo looked curiously in our direction as I led the way to the only clean table in the area. She knew how hard I tried to avoid the Mayor.

I sat down first so I could take the chair that put my back to the wall, allowing me to watch the entire room and be ready to help Flo if things got hectic while I entertained His Honor.

"So Mayor Jenkins, how can I be of help to you this morning?" I said this to let him know I expected not to be taken from my work to listen to a sales pitch. The Mayor acted as if I'd not said a thing.

"I understand you have an extensive financial background, Will. Is that correct?" asked the mayor as if he were interviewing me for a job.

I did not have many fond memories of my former life in the corporate financial sector so I felt somewhat uneasy with his inquiry. "At one time that statement would be true, but I haven't functioned in that capacity for some years. Why do you ask?"

The Mayor rubbed his chin and then glanced around the room before responding. "Because I've heard that you were, in your past, something of a maverick when you worked for various big corporations, and I also heard you were not afraid to go toe to toe with your superiors when you disagreed with their policies. Is that correct?"

This surprised me. Something else was going on here. I had to admit my interest level increased. "Preacher Roy must have told you about some of my past that I revealed to him, and that's fine. I never told him to keep it private. So yes, I earned a reputation as a royal pain in the ass to various corporate hierarchies. The Preacher must have also told you that for some odd reason I get angry when I see bullies trying to take advantage of the average Joe who works hard for his wages."

"That's exactly what I'd hoped to hear, Will. I'm going to ask you to do something for me, if you would. In this folder, which I'm going to ask you to take and review in complete privacy, is information relating to a civic issue that is beginning to cause me some concern in my capacity as the town's official representative. You are an outsider who might possibly offer an unbiased perspective on a very important project the town is considering undertaking. This needs to be done in complete secrecy, Will. Preacher Roy told me you are the one individual I can count on for help. How about it? Can you help me get the information to make the right decision for my fellow Jonesboro citizens?"

To say I appeared stunned would be an understatement of the first order. I'd been fearful the guy wanted to sell me something, and instead, someone wanted me to fix another local problem.

"I don't know Mayor, I—" The Mayor didn't let me finish.

"Will, you have a reputation as a guy who is willing to stand up for the working people. This may be a situation where those same folks are about to get taken advantage of big time. I believe this is important Will, and I need some help because frankly, I'm in over my head. The people I may be going up against are well-funded corporate professionals, and I'm sure they're going to throw numbers and statistics at me that only a professional can decipher. To get that kind of help, I will have to look for professionals from out of town. That would take the approval of the rest of the city council, and I suspect they will not allow it."

"Why wouldn't they allow it?" I asked hurriedly.

The Mayor took his time before answering my question as if he were weighing how far he could trust me. "Will, what would you think about fellow commissioners who stand to make a lot of money off a business deal telling you, 'it's not about the money?'"

"It is most assuredly all about the money!" I told him without having to think about his question for even a second. "I'll take a look at it tonight."

## Chapter Nine

_This is getting to be a bad habit_ , I thought as I sat alone in the closed and darkened diner. Only this time I awaited the arrival of the Mayor whom I'd called the previous afternoon to inform I'd finished reading the material he presented to me a couple days earlier. My feelings were mixed regarding getting involved in any local political shenanigans. I told myself their political and civic issues were none of my business. I only stopped in Jonesboro for an extended visit and expected to move on down the road looking for something different to peak my curiosity for a while. Albeit hopeful that my inability to commune with my fellow humans might be somewhat improved by the experience, there was little doubt I would eventually view this entire community in life's rear-view mirror.

The Mayor's insurance office building stood at the other end of town, so I expected him to arrive via his well-cared for, late 90's Honda Accord. The same Honda Accord everyone in town knew by now approached the two hundred fifty thousand mile mark. If such a large number did not impress you by itself, he usually followed up by revealing how most of those miles were driven on roads within thirty miles of Jonesboro. I wasn't sure, but it seemed conceivable that Mayor Jimmy Jenkins may not have ever ventured out of the state of Kansas.

As if on cue, a faded bronze-colored vehicle turned into the lot and proceeded towards the front parking area adjacent to the diner. It was the Mayor, and he looked to be rifling through stacks of loose papers and documents typically residing on his vehicle's front seat. By the time the Honda came to a complete stop not more than six feet from the diner entrance, the Mayor looked to be in possession of whatever he had been searching for.

Exiting the car, he headed directly for the diner door and joined me at the window booth. "Do you mind if we sit away from the window?" he said while still standing.

Though surprised, I concurred, and followed him to a table farther back in the dining area well away from the window. He sat down first and I followed, sitting directly across from him. I placed the documents on the table in front of me and waited for him to speak.

"Well okay, what do you think?" he abruptly asked as if we were already deep into a discussion. "You ever run into anything like this? Does this strike you as a good idea? Does—"

"Mayor Jenkins, why don't you tell me what's on your mind first, then we can proceed from there." I'd learned long ago to be leery of giving advice when you do not know the position of the individual receiving the advice. I definitely held an opinion on the subject. The question is, did anyone benefit from my telling it to the mayor of a very small town in Kansas?

The Mayor gave my request some thought. "You're right. But I must rely upon your discretion in keeping our conversation between the two of us. That's another thing Preacher Roy said I could count on. Come to think of it, the man sure thinks a lot of you. Seems kind of weird that he whacked you with that frozen roll of sausage if he likes you so much."

"But anyway, I don't like the idea at all. I checked into it and discovered the company listed is actually owned by an organization located in Spain. Why in the heck would we want to turn our city water department over to a foreign company to operate for us? This whole thing seems strange to me. Sure, we have financial issues and constraints like every other small town, but I can't see that as a cause to turn over complete financial and operational control of our water department to foreigners."

That's what I'd hoped to hear him say. Now it made sense to ask him the next important question. Who exactly came up with this idea in the first place? Usually this information led to the crux of the issue, which was, who stood to profit from the deal? Like the guy said in the famous Mafia movie, "Whoever comes to you trying to set up the meeting is the traitor."

"Who brought this idea to you in the first place?" I asked the Mayor straight off. If my hunch was right, this answer might very well give a clear indication of where we needed to go next.

The Mayor didn't hesitate, "Councilman John Buford brought the idea up for discussion about a month back during an informal session. We had gotten together specifically to discuss future financial matters related to updating our deteriorating city water system. I was more than a little surprised when he presented a proposal from, as it turns out, a foreign company specifically directed to our town's particular needs. Usually we solicit these types of proposals."

"What were they offering to do?" I asked.

"It was comprehensive," answered the Mayor, "and offered to contract with the city to provide for the complete operation and maintenance of our entire system. This included all hiring, firing, purchasing, collecting payments, maintenance issues, etc. They also offered to enter into long-term concession or sale agreements if we wanted to get completely out of the business. The other commissioners are very impressed with the plan, especially the part that took them off the hook of battling voters to come up with the tax money to finance all the millions of dollars of repairs and improvements needed to bring our system up-to-date."

I started to get a nasty feeling in my gut. With each additional word coming out of the Mayor's mouth, the hair on the back of my neck came closer to standing on end. I expected to close the deal with my next question.

"You mentioned a commissioner by the name of Buford. Would he perchance be any kin to Big Bob Buford I've come to know and admire as one of our valued diner customers?"

"Admire my ass!" shot back the Mayor causing me to raise my eyebrows in surprise at his frankness. Maybe I'd been a might quick to categorize His Honor. Of a sudden, he appeared a man with a similar disposition towards crooks and weasels as myself. "The man's a loud mouth and a bully. He's got most of his retired buddies so intimidated they are afraid to express any opinion less they get his approval."

"That is interesting," I remarked mostly to myself.

"Interesting my ass!" barked the Mayor. "John Buford couldn't discuss anything as complex as this issue if his life depended on it. The man's a turnip! It's his brother Bob, or Big Bob as he's referred to by all the butt- kissers in town who are scared to death of the man. That's why John got reelected. People are afraid of his brother."

"But what would Big Bob know about the water department that his brother wouldn't know?" I asked.

"Are you kidding?" the Mayor laughed. "Bob Buford ran the water department here for twenty years. He retired about eighteen months ago. He knows more about the water department than anyone else in the whole town and probably the county. Why right at this minute his handpicked replacement, his brother's son from up Topeka ways, is probably over at his house giving him a complete update of everything going on at the water department."

"It seems that I may have underestimated Big Bob," I declared to the Mayor. "I'm more accustomed to seeing the real power residing in the hands of less conspicuous individuals. But it sounds as if Big Bob has an awful lot to say around here."

The Mayor shook his head side to side and closed his eyes for a moment before responding. "I wish I knew you well enough to tell you what I really think about the Buford cabal. They practically have their hands in everything that happens in the city limits of Jonesboro. I don't worry so much about what my constituents think about local issues as much as I worry about how the Bufords are going to respond. They have a sizable number of followers who believe and do exactly as they say. I've gotten burnt more than once for supporting changes that didn't sit well with the Bufords."

Before we sat down I'd felt somewhat confident I would be able to ferret out the real issues surrounding this affair. I would be able to offer the Mayor a few tidbits of wisdom and be done with the whole matter. As I said, what difference did it make to me if these people were incapable of making intelligent decisions regarding their public utilities? At least they had utilities, unlike billions of unfortunate people elsewhere in the world. But something about this felt different. For some strange reason, this became more personal. Maybe that was it. I now had a face and a voice for the mischief-maker. As long as Big Bob Buford limited his stupid remarks to the diner, they were easily rebutted and his existence was tolerable, but not now. He'd crossed a line causing me to want to get involved in matters having little to do with my personal existence. _Oh damn! Here I go again,_ I thought as my bad habit of helping the little guy surfaced.

I needed to level with the Mayor. "Mayor, I hate bullies. And I especially despise arrogant bullies who prey on hardworking people. I see you are carrying more documents with you. Do you have additional information you want me to look at?"

The Mayor did not respond immediately, but he looked me directly in the eye as if he were attempting to decide whether or not to tell me more. I decided to stay quiet and not influence his decision beyond what I'd already said.

"So it's come down to this," he said more to himself than to me. "I'm left with the decision to either let my community be taken advantage of by some local thugs or ask for the help of a mendicant Democrat. Life certainly is strange."

I recognized the man's dilemma, and I appreciated his quandary. I felt it would not be inappropriate to level with him about my true political affiliations. "Mayor, if you think you want some help with this matter but are concerned about the political fallout from working with a Democrat, let me level with you. I am not a registered Democrat. I lied to Preacher Roy in an attempt to dissuade him from encouraging me to take on the management of the diner. I vote on the issues and not arbitrary platforms designed to expedite the advancement of both parties' elites and their moneyed supporters. I am not registered to vote in Kansas any longer, as I am presently a resident of the state of Texas where I have been legally registered as an Independent for several years. Plus, the very fact you are here talking to me tells me you are not pleased knowing the Republican Party is presently dictated to by corporate America and the evangelical religious sects neither of which, in my opinion, gives a crap about traditional Republican values that are centered equally between beliefs in fiscal conservatism and social responsibility. I am relying on your discretion in maintaining my charade. I definitely want Big Bob to keep thinking of me as a Democrat. I enjoy knowing it sticks in his craw. The man's blood pressure must rise fifty points each time I come near him."

This brought a smile to the Mayor's face. He looked to be warming to the idea of my getting more involved in his town's bothersome issue. "Mr. Clayton, I'm relieved to hear this admission of political neutrality, and I will guard your secret, but I wonder if your interest is great enough to bear the burden of knowing that there is possibly much more to be learned about the Bufords' underhanded dealings regarding the community of Jonesboro?"

"It's your call, Mayor. That's what you're paid the big bucks for— making the big decisions." I had nothing more to say.

The Mayor laughed. I think at the big bucks remark. As I waited for his decision, I became aware of the slimmest hope on my part that he would take a chance on my being a straight up guy and let me in on this fight. As I said, I hate thugs who take advantage of those who work hard for a living day in and day out. This still came as something of a surprise to me as I labored acidulously during most of my early working life not to be one of those so-called blue collar types. Even more strange was the fact that once I became a corporate executive, I wanted to be one of those even less. I refused to decide where I belonged so I became a loner who wandered aimlessly around the country wondering how in the hell people kept living those groveling, 'somebody please give me a job so I can buy more stuff' dead-end lives.

"You're a strange bird, Mr. Will Clayton," said the Mayor returning from wherever his mind had taken him. "I don't know you from squat and yet, here I sit thinking about telling you things that could turn this small town upside down. If I go forward and tell you what I'm thinking, serious crap is going to happen, one way or the other. If I'm wrong, my life could be ruined. I have a family and a career to think about so I can't make any mistakes. Are you following me so far?"

I responded immediately. "No! No, I am not following you. This is cut and dried as far as I can see. Investigate the proposal to privatize the water system along with the company making the offer. If the proposed deal doesn't withstand scrutiny get the proof and show it to the community. Your fellow citizens seem to me to be of average intelligence so they will understand which decision makes the most sense. Most likely, the Bufords will be shot out of the saddle and will end up looking the worse for it. How is that going to get you in trouble either way? That's just doing your job."

The Mayor laughed again. "Mr. Clayton, there is more, much more. The privatization issue is important, but it's far from the most important matter weighing heavily on my mind in relation to the harm I suspect the Bufords have been causing this community for years. What I asked you to review earlier was not the real reason I wanted to get to know you. I mentioned to you earlier that I wished I knew you well enough to tell you everything that concerns me about the Buford bunch. Well, I'm afraid I don't have the luxury of unlimited time to get to know you better. As you said, I've got to make a big decision, which is, do I risk my political and economic life by going after the Bufords for the crimes I believe they are perpetrating on this community? And furthermore, is there anyone in this community who I can trust to help me, someone who is not afraid of the Bufords? Something tells me you're that man. Are you my Paladin, Mr. Clayton?"

All the while I'm listening I'm becoming aware of my toes tapping on the hard linoleum floor. I hate it when this happens because it usually means I'm going to get involved in something that is absolutely none of my business. All my instincts were yelling at me to get up and walk away. They were reminding me I'm a loner for a reason: I secretly suspect most humans are morons who are constantly getting into messes and often deserve what they get. In fact, they usually beg for it! 'Oh thank you Mr. Corporate Executive or Mr. Senator for sending my job overseas so some poor foreign slob can do the work for a tenth of the cost. You see, I believe what you say about how we have to have free markets so our economy will work the right way and distribute most of the wealth to the top five percent no matter that it will put my family on welfare without any health insurance. And besides, they tell me I got Jesus looking after me and my family so we can do as the minister says and, more importantly, concentrate on helping prevent sinners from getting legal abortions and convincing all those homosexuals that they were not born that way. Those fine gentlemen at corporate America surely only want what's best for the country.'

"Most are not like that!" I blurted out before I realized I sat in the presence of another human being. "Sorry about that," I said hurriedly to a now puzzled listener. "But I'll admit, I do talk to myself occasionally, especially, when I start getting excited about something. I hope that's not a problem."

The Mayor smiled, "Mr. Clayton, if that means you are going to try to help me protect this community from a couple of weasels, I don't care if you talk to my deceased crazy Uncle Lester who had conversations with a pet pig he called Lucifer. What do you say?"

"What I say is, you can call me Will, and I expect I better get busy looking over the new pile of documents you've got there."

## Chapter Ten

Well, okay then! Maybe next week you can join the 'Let's Brag On Jonesboro' committee that's forming to promote all the wonderful attributes of this obviously unique living, dining, and shopping experience hidden out here on the western edge of the world renown, Kansas Flint Hills.

This thought and several others occupied my mind as I finished locking the diner door so I could get to my personal lair and start on my newest civic project. _What is it you think you are doing? You don't even like people, so why are you continuing to open your big mouth every time one of these hayseeds comes begging? Ultimately, nothing is going to be accomplished here. There will always be another Big Bob or some other blow hard shyster posing as a spokesman of the average, dull-witted American workingman or woman. Why do you think archaeologists forever have been uncovering dead civilizations from beneath mountains of dirt? They are buried and dead because humans practically beg for tyrants, hucksters, politicians, and evangelists to repeatedly dump loads of detritus onto their mostly pathetic and, ultimately, meaningless lives_.

The Mayor had left the diner in good spirits and in short order after I opened my big mouth and gleefully accepted the opportunity to come to the rescue of the city of Jonesboro again. Having come to my senses, I spent the next several minutes following his departure attempting to find a hammer so I could beat at least one of my fingers into a bloody pulp for not having the good sense to reply, "Hell no! This is none of my business!"

Not having found said hammer, I commenced the lonely fifty-yard stroll across the gravel surfaced empty diner parking lot to get to my humble abode. There I would begin to review the newest and much larger pile of documents and personal notes presented to me by Mayor Jenkins. The Mayor, having thanked me profusely for offering to help, had immediately departed the diner on his way to sell a new auto insurance policy, as well as talk to a young couple thinking of selling their Jonesboro home. They could no longer afford it, they admitted to the Mayor, because the husband had lost his job at a distribution center in Salina. The Mayor hoped to talk the homeowners out of leaving the community. I agreed with him when he stated that things were much worse in larger cities. The small farm towns had benefited from the higher crop prices the past year. The local home values had held up better and farmland values increased significantly, while other investments tanked as city dwellers started dumping their surviving savings into anything not represented by mere promissory paper. In general, things looked to be better off down on the farm, for the time being that is.

With plenty of daylight left, I paid little attention to where I stepped whilst giving the new documents a cursory examination as I proceeded across the graveled surface. So, I got caught by surprise when a small vehicle slid to a stop a few yards from my feet. I recoiled from the intrusion into my walking space and had in mind a few choice words for whoever this reckless driver turned out to be. That is until the dust settled and I recognized the offending vehicle.

Sitting between my planned destination and me was none other than Mary June Jangle's 1964 VW bug, and in the driver's seat sat the owner. Only this time, she did not present me the bird. Rather, she presented a smile, which normally might be construed as an open invitation to polite conversation. _Like that's going to happen_ , I said to myself as I waited for her to put the car in gear so she could back up and come at me again. To my great surprise, something else happened. She turned off the engine, opened the VW door, exited the vehicle, and walked to within three feet of where I stood. Visions of my beaten and badly pummeled body lying in a heap upon the dusty gravel at the feet of a former peace-loving female hippie now turned Ninja man-hater flashed in my mind.

"Why hello there, Mr. Will Clayton. My name's Mary June, and I've heard some wonderful things about you. I hope you'll forgive me for that unfortunate incident of last weekend. You see, I was having a really bad day." She used one of her hands to keep her long blondish grey tresses from falling over her face while extending the other towards me in an offer of fellowship.

"You're not carrying a gun, are you lady?" were the only words I could get to come out of my mouth.

My offhanded question must have puzzled her as she scrunched her forehead in response to my, I felt, appropriate question.

"Hey, ass hole! Your showing up here caused me to have to close my business before it had a chance to get going. I'm being rather big about it, I think, by trying to open a dialog with the only other Democrat I know of in the whole damn town, so why don't you cut me some slack." Her initial smile had disappeared.

"So you aren't packing, is that correct?" I surprised myself with the fake show of misogynistic bravado.

Before her quivering lips could formulate a retort, my potential attacker closed her eyes for a second as if trying to regain control of her emotions. "Okay, now I'm going to try this once more. I'm sorry for my rude behavior the other day. It was uncalled for. I hope we can get past it. It's kind of lonely being the only admitted Democratic Party member in the whole town. But if you are not willing to forgive me, then yes, I do think there is a gun somewhere at home, and I may go and get it. So what do you say?"

She smiled, but I think it must have been her eyes that put me at ease. The eyes will always give a person away if one is up to mischief. Her eyes radiated warmth. They were blue with a twinge of green, and they were definitely not the eyes of mean person. The last time I recalled seeing eyes so warm was back during the peace, love, and rock and roll days of the late '60s— before I went to war and before I came to know what it felt like to be terrified and afraid of dying.

"I'd say I would like that. So what do we do now?" I tried to show what I hoped passed as a nonchalant smile and not the 'ga-huk' smile that all too often comes out when I'm happy. That's the one where the cartoon hound with the big ears always expresses his happiness by going 'ga-huk, ga-huk' whenever the tom cat offers him a bone before dropping the anvil on his head as the dopey hound bends over to retrieve it.

Not one to rely upon nature taking its course, the lady had an idea. "It looks like you're done for the day so why don't you take a ride with me. I promise I will get you back in one piece before dark. Okay?"

I found myself moving towards the passenger side of the VW without ever having heard myself say a word in reply. Still holding the batch of documents given to me recently by the Mayor, I opened the VW door and lowered myself down into the passenger seat. All I can say is that from that low of a vantage point everything else is up. My unexpected host wasted no time getting the bug back on the road and began heading west. Less than a minute later we were past the city limits heading back over the same road Sheriff Slaybaugh and I had traveled together that past July. _Surely she's not going to take me back to the rest stop and kick me out like the Sheriff did_? I asked myself as I sat quietly waiting for her to start the conversation.

"Late afternoon is my favorite time of day around here," she began. "I often take Lucy, my VW, out on the county roads to drive around and watch the sunset. It's so flat here in places it's almost as if I'm driving along side the ocean, especially, when the wheat is tall and waving gently in the breeze. It makes me think of all the wonderful days I spent on the beach in California. I could sit for hours watching my son and my husband frolicking in the waves. Those are just fond memories now, but once life was very good to me."

"I was told your husband passed away. I'm sorry to hear that. Where is your son living? Is he close by?" I had told Flo about the rigid digit incident, and she subsequently told me about the death of my new friend's husband.

My companion thought for a moment before answering. "No...he's still in the Bay area along with his wife and two children. He's very much into a communication technology industry career and lifestyle. He has a beautiful family. Unfortunately, his wife is not very fond of my lifestyle, my wardrobe, my attitude towards religion, and, especially, my politics. So we very rarely see one another. That's one of the reasons I moved back here instead of bringing mom out to the coast. I got tired of being told to conform to their rigid standards of dress and conduct if I wanted to be included in their family events. My son hasn't been back here to see his grandmother in almost twenty years. My mother hardly mentions him anymore. She may, in fact, be getting very close to not remembering him at all. Her dementia is becoming more apparent."

This story was not new to my ears. I've known other individuals, spouses, and children who tell the same story over and over. I personally can't imagine many things more horrific than losing one's memory or helplessly watching as a loved one slowly loses any recollection of their entire life. I somewhat identified with her offspring issue also. But it wasn't my politics, religion, or dress my daughter disliked so much about me, but rather, the hurt I had caused her mother. And frankly, I agreed with her. I did cause my ex-wife a lot of emotional pain by excluding her from the greater part of my waking hours. I hadn't physically harmed her or berated her. What I did was ignore her. I existed almost entirely within my own mind. I kept busy thinking about myself and how the world dealt with my personal wants, needs, and fears. I didn't have time for anything else. In a kind of sick way it felt nice to in the company of another individual admitting to being afflicted with the same disease of self.

"Did anyone come out of the '60s not screwed up?" I asked to my own surprise.

My companion scrunched her brow and considered my unexpected question. Finally, after a noticeable pause she glanced towards me and, in what sounded like a serious response, answered my question. "No. No, I don't believe I've ever met a single individual from that era who wasn't in need of some serious counseling. And unfortunately for the country, the ones who needed it the most and never got it are now running the whole mess."

Her unexpected response to my non-question struck me like a slap to the side of the head. I never thought of that. We are running the country. And we're all still nuttier than squirrel feces. "That explains why things are so screwed up! That's the answer! We've got to get all these boomer nuts that came of age in the '60s out of leadership positions in the government and corporations," I said aloud to myself.

"What did you say?" asked my driver.

"I said you're right. That's the problem. We've got to get all those post WWII kiddies, those Boomers, those draft dodging, dope smoking, anti-corporation, make love not war, take over the Dean's Office, draft card burning hypocrites who gave up and went over to the dark side and took over the top positions in business and government out of office. We are our own worst enemy. And not only that, now we're sucking the life out of the country with that non-existent Social Security Fund. There isn't any money. Our generation spent it in lieu of paying higher taxes to wage wars and to build a bloated government bureaucracy. And what about Medicare and the prescription drug benefits for the seniors? Why do only the old people get socialized medicine while leaving millions and millions of younger citizens to the mercy of unscrupulous health insurance corporations or having to go without any coverage? If you add up the cost of paying Social Security out of a fund that doesn't exist, Medicare, Medicaid, prescription drug benefits, interest on our astronomical and still growing national debt paid to mostly foreigners, and the total tax dollars allocated yearly to a defense industry also overused and abused by the former peace and love generation intent upon policing the entire world, we're broke! The younger generations don't have a chance. Their payments for taxes and Social Security are going into a black hole. This whole thing is nothing but a Boomer Generation Ponzi Scheme!"

"Easy there, cowboy!" interjected my escort. "I'm just looking for some partisan companionship here, maybe a sympathetic ear from time to time. Wait until we get to know each other a little better before you go and suggest we plan an attack on the major institutions of the United States!"

I grimaced as she read me the riot act. She was right. I did come on way too strong. "You're right, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone off like that. Hope I didn't scare you, and, don't worry, I'm not a violent person. It's just that I only met you five minutes ago and you've helped me to clarify some things in my mind that amazingly hadn't occurred to me before. Like the fact that we Boomers are likely to go down in history as the most incompetent, self-serving, dimwitted, hypocritical, and wasteful generation to ever exist in this country except maybe for those poor ignorant southern crackers who fought the Civil War on behalf of a disdainful, slave owning southern aristocracy."

Mary June now stared at me with something akin to a questioning look. "You got all that from that one sentence answer I gave to you just a couple minutes ago?" Before I could answer her look changed to one of I'm riding alone in the country with this nut?

"No! I must have known this all along. It's just that you said something that opened my mind to a deeper level." I watched her to see if she really bought my deeper level B.S.

She scrunched her forehead for a time trying to make some sense out of what I'd said.

"Hey, I tell you what," she said after more thought. "Let's just put this on the old shelf and mark it for future discussion. Coming up soon is one of my favorite spots in the whole area. I often come out here just before sundown to sit quietly and meditate. Here it is, right up ahead. See the big beautiful black oak tree standing there so majestically all by itself? I love this spot. Some of my best ideas come to me when I'm out here."

Naturally I held strong feelings about this place myself, but I had no intention of confiding those feelings to her at this early date. I stayed quiet as she turned the VW into the familiar gravel parking area and, just like the Sherriff, proceeded across the rocky expanse to a spot under the stately oak tree next to the familiar picnic table. There she stopped Lucy and turned off the motor creating an uneasy quietness that begged to be disturbed.

Before us to the north, south, east, and west lay that same vast nothingness, absent the harvested wheat that kept me company little more than one month earlier. I realized I no longer felt a stranger at the place where my life began to change. The notion occurred to me that, no matter what, I would recall my experiences here for the rest of my life. This spot, henceforth, provided me, I hoped, with a positive point of reference.

"I like to sit on the table and feel the breeze in my hair," were the last words I heard before my tour director exited Lucy and headed straight for the lone picnic table. I followed her in short order and took up my familiar position sitting atop the table with my feet resting on the attached bench. As far as feeling the wind in my hair, two things prevented that happening. First, I closely trimmed my hair every week. And secondly, my hair had thinned out on top to the extent that very little hair felt the breeze even if I chose to wear it longer. Fortunately, I long ago determined that a receding hairline caused the least of my worries. The way I figured it, I had it when I needed it. After thirty, if a man was stupid enough to get involved with a woman who judged men by their hairlines, he was screwed anyway.

Still caught up in the shock of being brought back to my now favorite rest area, I forgot about being in the company of a woman who probably expected me to respond to her comments or observations from time to time.

"You're awfully quiet," she said turning to look at me.

"I'm sorry. I was busy admiring the view. You're right about the comparison with the ocean. You mentioned you heard some 'wonderful things' about me. Would you enlighten me as to who is being so kind to my, I'm sure, undeserved reputation?"

Mary June scrunched her brow while, I suspected, trying to recall having made the comments I alluded to. I, in turn, determined that she attempted at that very moment to concoct a plausible lie to cover the fact she'd heard no such remarks. Feeling sure I'd caught her in a little fib, I restrained myself from gloating.

Suddenly she lost the look of puzzlement and replaced it with one of quiet confidence, followed immediately by an amused smile. "Not so fast, Sherlock! You're not suspecting that I go around pumping sunshine up a guy's rear just to get in his good graces, are you? You don't believe I heard any such thing, do you?"

"Well, there's one way to clear up any doubts." I, too, displayed my best _I got you_ grin.

"Well, okay then Mr. Doubting Thomas, how about this: Junior Junior told me you were a great guy just the other day."

"Junior Junior can't talk. How can you expect me to believe such a crazy statement?" I practically yelled my accusation of willful deceit in Mary June's direction.

She returned my quizzical stare and responded with what I suspected to be feigned indignation. "Maybe he's just particular as to whom he talks to?"

I was unconvinced still. "Are you trying to tell me you have heard the man utter more than two words at one time?"

"Yes, many, many times." Her defiance seemed to be stiffening.

I still had my doubts so I pushed her for proof. "What exactly did he say about me?"

She looked me straight in the face, raised her eyelids in a display of feigned disbelief, and responded, "I saw him at the liquor store the other evening as I searched in vain for a nice red dinner wine and asked him how the new diner manager was doing. At first I don't think he recognized me as he appeared kind of tipsy which is usual for Junior Junior after sundown. But right as he lifted two cases of beer and headed for the door I distinctly heard him say, 'Good job, he do.'"

"'Good job, he do.' You call that a sentence?"

"It is for Junior Junior."

"Well then, I, for sure, want to get this documented so I can use it to boost my employment résumé. What was that again? 'Good job, he do.' Do you have a pencil? I want to write that down."

"You know what? I'm beginning to think that you're a wise ass. Am I going to have to get you off this picnic table and give you a butt whipping in this dusty parking lot? If you don't believe I can ask any of the old guys in town. I just about whipped the whole bunch of them back in high school. That's the real reason most of them don't like me. It's not because of my politics it's because most of the old timers in town remember getting their butts whipped by a female. Now are you going to be civil or what?"

I had to admit I could not tell from looking how stout the lady might be. The loose fitting plain cotton dress hanging down almost to her feet gave me not a hint. She didn't have the appearance of an overweight person and her facial features appeared well proportioned and easy to look at, but at approximately five feet eight or nine inches tall, she wasn't a small woman either. Her arms were the only parts of her body displayed besides her head and they definitely were not the arms of a weakling, yet neither did they display the bulging sinews of the typical female body builder. Perhaps in this instance, discretion remained the better part of valor. Besides, I'd already determined I wanted to become better acquainted with this woman during the remainder of my hiatus in the land of tall wheat and, apparently, short tempers.

"I beg your pardon madam, I wasn't aware of your sensitive nature. You can rest assured I will remember my manners in the future. I would hope you could appreciate my hesitation in this instance." _There, that ought to calm her down_.

Mary June took her time deciding whether or not I was for real or just scamming her. "I'm very pleased to hear you say that, Will, because as I said, it's important for us Democrats to stick together. Don't you agree?"

"Why Mary June, I couldn't agree with you more."

My companion paused while making up her mind as to whether or not she should add me to the list of alpha males she'd beaten into submission during her off and on existence out here in the midst of a vast nothingness where just like in outer space no one could hear your scream.

"Excellent, then I better get you back before they start celebrating those two trouble making radical socialists leaving town for good. Except in your case, they seem to be making an exception for you since you seem to be so community spirited." Mary June made this remark as she arose from our rest stop bench heading for the car.

I'd picked up on the mild sarcasm wrapped around the words in her parting remark but held my tongue for the moment. I liked this lady, and I decided to restrain my reportedly acerbic wit for the time being.

Back in her bug heading home, I decided to let my host take the lead in offering polite conversation. I wanted a chance to show some of my innate charm. I suspected my earlier display of testosterone hadn't won me any points. Plus, I felt delighted not to have been left adrift at what began to look to me to be a lot of weird people's favorite rest stop.

"I forgot to congratulate you on having the nerve to stand up to Big Bob and put him in his place. I only wish there were more people around here who did that. You must know that the man will never forgive you for calling him out in front of his posse, don't you?" Mary June's unexpected reference to that small incident surprised me until I reminded myself that in a small town nothing goes unnoticed.

"I know. That was a stupid thing to do, and I swear I'm going to try to do better. I really don't want to be so confrontational all the time. Not everyone is out to get me." I'd begun to worry she was starting to think of me as a wise ass always looking for a fight.

"Actually, I'm glad you did it. More people need to do the same thing, even me. The guy's got me half scared. Every time he sees me, he gives me the creeps with that half-grin, half-leer he obviously enjoys showing off. Is that who the Mayor was talking to you about? The Mayor is a surprisingly decent sort once you get past his sale's pitch, don't you think? I don't believe he's that fond of Big Bob either. Do those papers you have there have anything to do with Big Bob? I've thought all along that the guy has his hand in everything that goes on at city hall."

As I sat there half-stupefied, I reminded myself again that it was foolish to imagine any real secrets existing in this small town. "I'm really not prepared to answer that question at this time." I told her in my most business like tone. I didn't expect my declaration of noncooperation to deter her, bur her next remark surprised me.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't pry. Just know that I very much appreciate everything you are doing. I know I come off kind of disrespectful at times, but I'm not. Just please remember that I am here to help you in anyway possible as you take on the problems of this small, but I suspect, corruption riddled town."

"Why, thank you. I'm very happy to hear that. I'll keep it in mind as I go forward. But, does everyone in this community know just about everything I do or am thinking about getting involved in, at all times?" I asked.

"Let me put it this way. When you're outside your little apartment above Junior Junior's garage everything you do or say is public knowledge. Please believe that. One other thing before I forget. There's an actual Democratic rally going on in Salina this next Wednesday evening. I'm going, and I would enjoy your company. How about it?" I once more saw the warm and disarming smile that greeted me in the parking lot.

My first thought was to tell this woman the truth about my real political affiliation since I sometime ago planted both my feet squarely in the middle of the road. Instead, I intentionally misspoke. "That sounds like an interesting idea. Can I get back to you tomorrow after I have a better chance of seeing how this next week is going to go?"

"Sure, just try to get back to me by Tuesday. My mom's number is in the book. The last name is Swenson." Her smile hid any misgivings she may have harbored relating to my wavering on the invitation.

Like the last time I rode into Jonesboro from the west late in the afternoon, I sensed events were in the process of dictating my future actions. And once again, I could only hope for the best.

## Chapter Eleven

The diner parking lot looked full the following Monday morning. Upon my arrival, I overheard the customary sounds of chatter coming from the busy dining area. All the usual faces looked to be present along with a few new ones. From her lookout spot behind the counter, I saw Flo holding a half empty coffee pot while observing every single movement made by each customer. Whether they came, went, needed a refill, or advice, Flo stayed on top of it. Junior Junior stood at the front register ready to take the money or, if needed, amble outside to fill up a gas tank. All credit card payments required him to come back inside, as he was too cheap install a pay-at-the-pump option. Junior Junior operated an independent station, and no one told him he had to bring his pumps into the twenty-first century.

Finding the diner firing on all cylinders and not requiring my immediate attention to any of a hundred potential problems gave me a sense of relief. Other matters clamored for my attention this morning. I'd spent most of the previous night reading, then rereading, and afterwards making notes on the new documents presented to me by the Mayor. What I now hid away in my second story redoubt amounted to nothing less than a huge pile of potentially incriminating evidence relating to, what I suspected to be, the illegal activities of the Buford brothers whom I noticed were not in attendance at the diner. Councilman Buford stopped in occasionally, but Big Bob came in daily. His unexpected absence brought to the surface my penchant for paranoid thinking. _Maybe he is on to us. Maybe he— Oh, shut up! How could he be on to us? The Mayor only gave me the documents a few days ago. But remember what Mary June said, "If it happens outside your small apartment, then the town knows about it_."I'd planned to call the Mayor's office as soon as it opened and set up a meeting after the diner closed that afternoon, preferably at a private location. In the future, I planned to meet with the Mayor somewhere other than the diner. I intended to take Mary June's lack of privacy warning to heart, and I knew I could use Junior Junior's truck since he always went home in the afternoon to drink beer and look at old photos of his long gone wife. Until that time, it was business as usual for me at the diner.

That notion lasted all of about five minutes. No sooner had I started busing tables than the first shift of customers started moving out to head to work at jobs located all over the county. That's when I overheard crude language coming from a table full of workers who drove daily over to Justice City to toil in the tractor rear attachment equipment manufacturing plant. One of the group members told his co-workers he had reliable information that their jobs were being off-shored. The co-workers argued he didn't know what the hell he was talking about. According to the doubters, the entire plant only recently received raises, including a cost of living adjustment. It didn't make any sense for a business to do something like that if they intended to close the plant. The disagreement continued as the group paid their checks and departed the diner for their, hopefully yet secure, place of employment.

I stood for a moment imagining what hearing information like this must feel like to a young family burdened with a mortgage, car payments, grocery bills, and medical bills. The lack of a universal comprehensive medical insurance plan for all was another point of contention with me. Our country stood alone as the only major industrialized country in the world to not provide health insurance as a right of citizenship. Another example of how corporate America controlled legislation.

Corporate America expended millions of dollars influencing elections and congressional members to ensure the useless existence of bloated, corporate-owned health insurance providers. Simply eliminating the middleman saved untold billions of dollars yearly. The great irony being that most of the outspoken opponents of government sponsored health care systems for all citizens were old people already benefiting from socialized medicine in the form of Medicare with a prescription drug benefit. They were all for denying adequate medical coverage for younger Americans including their own children along with their children's children.

I might have stood right there hyperventilating over what I perceived to be one of many insane activities perpetrated on the public by our incompetent government every single day, but fortunately, Flo's hefty vocal cords brought me back to the present and to my real job, bussing tables.

"Hey Will, are you going to just stand there holding that tub of dishes or are you going to take them to the kitchen and wash'em?"

I laughed at myself, realizing I may be the official manager of this eating establishment, but Flo didn't stand on rank or title. She only knew that more and more customers came in each morning and we damn sure better have some clean dishes when they did.

"I'm a comin` boss! I'm a comin`"! I said to her as I intentionally shuffled past her on my way to the kitchen. A couple of old regulars tried hard to restrain their laughter, as they knew well what I implied. Flo's stern look in their direction cut their merriment short.

"So you think that was kind of funny, do you Henry?" remarked Flo as she glared at the giggling oldsters. "Same with you, Mervin, huh?"

As I turned to watch through the swinging doors separating the dining room from the back kitchen area, both old timers hastily proclaimed their dear wives eagerly awaited their presence at home and abruptly left leaving five dollar bills on the counter without waiting for change. Flo glared at them all the way to the front entrance. Finished with those two, she turned back to the dining area to find the rest of the customers putting forth every effort to ensure they did not get caught looking towards where she stood defiantly as if daring someone to meet her steely glare. Not one person did.

For the rest of the morning, things went forward as usual. Not until around 10 a.m. did I stop to have a cup of coffee and enjoy one of the last blueberry muffins. I had to admit that working around all that great smelling food became difficult to deal with at times. If I gave in and loaded up a plate full of biscuits, gravy, sausage, and eggs, I might soon be in the market for a completely new and expanded wardrobe. Flo always gabbed about how I ate like a woman. I reminded her of the many adults in the community who dreamed of having a wiry figure like mine. She responded with some smart remark about my diminishing hairline or my crooked nose, the result of several lost fistfights and a bad car wreck during my younger days. I always retorted that if she thought my face looked bad, she ought to see the other guy's fist.

I felt relieved to be doing something other than getting more and more involved with the business of the city of Jonesboro. I planned to keep myself busy at the diner until I got with the Mayor and gave him my two cents worth relating to the proposal for privatization of the water department and the Buford brothers' possible kickback issues. I made copious notes and after explaining my thoughts to the Mayor, I intended to put the burden back into his lap until he decided to take action. My plan involved helping, not leading. The leadership needed to be local.

I eventually convinced myself that I needn't dwell on the matter any longer until the Mayor and I got together. Until that time, much work needed to be completed at the diner. At this point, I had prepared all the vegetables for the salad bar while Flo and Junior Junior got the pizzas, burgers, frankfurters, and side dishes ready for the hot food bar. Throw in a soft ice cream machine, cookies, and a variety of fresh fruit, and our always in a hurry lunch crowd usually headed back to work satisfied and with time to spare. I headed to the kitchen with all this in mind until I spotted the guy with the Vietnam vet baseball cap sitting alone in the farthest corner of the dining room. Recalling telling myself earlier I needed to introduce myself and acknowledge my own Big Red One Vietnam experience, I headed in his direction.

My arrival at his table went unnoticed as the unsuspecting vet perused his paper. When he did finally take notice of my presence he assumed I came to bring him a coffee refill, which he said he wanted. So I went back to the counter and hoisted one of Flo's always-fresh pots of brew and took care of most of the room's refill needs on my way back to the vet's table.

Arriving in due course, I announced my presence. "You know, I don't think I have ever introduced myself. I'm Will Clayton, the new manager here," I extended my hand in friendship along with the greeting. Diverting his attention away from his paper, he acknowledged my presence.

"Yeah, sure! Glad to meet you. My name's Jim Handley. Nice place you got going here. Hell of a lot better than it used to be." With that, he turned back around to pick up where he'd left off with his paper.

"I see you served in Nam in the Big Red One. That's my old unit. You were there in '69?" I stood across from him at the other side of the table while awaiting his response.

He looked up towards me from his paper and seemed to gather his thoughts before responding. "Yeah...I was there in '68 and '69, mostly '69. How about you?"

"Sixty-nine and '70. My rotation date back to Oakland was in August of '70. When my division rotated back to the states in April, 1969, I got transferred to the 199th Light Infantry to finish out my tour." Now it was his turn again.

"No shit! Where was your AO?" he asked.

"III Corps, Northwest of Saigon, mostly around Lai Khe. I was with a heavy artillery unit. We were general support, so we didn't move our big guns while I was there. And that was fine by me."

"Hey man, I must have rolled through that place in my APC a hundred times! I was with the 16th Infantry Mechanized. We were all over the place: along Highway 13, the Iron Triangle, up in the Michelin. Man, we were always out in the boonies looking for Victor Charley. Man, this is wild; sit down for a minute."

I looked over to the counter and caught Flo's eye. She flashed me the thumbs up so I decided to sit for a minute. "Thanks, I probably got a couple minutes before Flo comes over and jerks a knot in my ass and tells me to start getting ready for lunch."

"Tell me about it!" answered my new friend. "Man, she jumped me good last week when I forgot to leave a tip. I won't make that mistake again."

It surprised me to discover how much I enjoyed talking with another Vietnam vet. It had been a long time. This guy served in the infantry, and he knew better than I did what it felt like to be scared half out of your brain, and for what? Our government brain trust made a decision in '69 to bring the troops home. No one wanted to be the last person to die in a war the country had given up on and no longer supported. Yet many lifer officers, wanting to have their personnel files stuffed with combat command experience along with all the citations and medals that went along with it, opted to stay in the field looking for a fight. More than one ambitious officer lamented the fact that when the war ended it might be another twenty years before they got another opportunity to get combat experience on their records.

"So, you ever keep in touch with any of the guys you served with or ever go to any reunions?" I asked to keep the conversation going.

"Naw, I kept in touch with a couple of the guys for a while but that's about it. Nobody wanted to talk about it or hear about Vietnam. People just wanted the whole mess to just go away. I don't know how it happened but somehow it got decided we lost. Our kill ratio was about ten to one, and, still, we were called the losers. I know my unit took a lot of casualties, but we never lost any fights. At the end, we couldn't find anybody to fight. The _gooks_ knew we were leaving so they stayed in their holes until we were gone."

"Looks like the guys we're fighting now have learned that lesson also from what I can see going on in Iraq and Afghanistan. The rag head who is in charge of the fighting over there knows that one of these days we will get tired and leave. The majority of our citizens have forgotten we have troops fighting a war or are against it. About the only support the troops get is one of those little yellow ribbons you see stuck on the cars in all the mall parking lots. What really pisses me off is that after I finally got tired of being angry at my country because it was so eager to forget that fifty-five thousand plus good men lost their lives in that shit-hole Nam for nothing, I began to tell myself that, at least, this country would never do anything stupid like that again, and what did we do? We doubled down and started sending every young soldier, marine, and reservist we can find to the other side of the world to fight and die in more shit holes where we are not wanted, if not hated, for more of the same bullshit. Our government's lying to us again as to why we are there, and anyone who doesn't have their brains in their ass knows it."

My new friend took a break to sip his coffee. I could see that a nerve had been struck by the similarities he drew between the Nam fiasco and our nation's newest military disasters in the making. I agreed with everything the man said. Something said to me by one of my few old friends came back to me as I watched this aged Nam vet sip his coffee, 'Those who refuse to remember the past are destined to repeat it.'

"I hear you, brother. I get so angry at times over this newest mess I just want to puke. You probably get little sympathy from the folks around here regarding your ill feelings about our current military misadventures, I would imagine." He took another sip of his coffee before he answered.

"Actually, it's better now than it was back in '03. I know that a couple of young men from the county have been killed and a few others were badly wounded the last few years. Most were Reservist. They had, or have, families and jobs here. Some are on their second and third tours. Their lives are being destroyed while the country goes on with this insanity. It also gripes me that the politicians are too cowardly to use the draft so our self-imposed burden of policing the world can be distributed more fairly. They know if they have to use the draft, this war is over, tomorrow! A few more people from around here are starting to speak out more often about the bullshit reasons why we're over there. Hell, if I knew for sure that I could trust a Democrat to bring our troops home, I would strongly consider voting for one." He then stared into his coffee cup lost in his own thoughts.

This last bit of information about others in the community having second thoughts about our current military misadventures came as a surprise to me, and I wanted to talk to him more about this subject. But at the moment I knew Flo was staring a hole in the back of my head. I needed to get busy with my salad bar duties if I wanted to be ready for the early lunch folks at eleven-thirty.

"Hey Jim, I sure enjoyed talking with a fellow Nam vet. I'd like to visit with you more when I'm not running around here trying to live up to Flo's lofty food service standards. If you're not too busy maybe you can stop by sometime during the afternoon when I'm usually here by myself, and we could, without Flo's interrupting, swap some more of our war stories over a cup of coffee."

My new acquaintance heartily agreed and promised to do just that. So I left him to get back to his paper and I headed for the kitchen where all the salad bar fixin`s awaited my attention. As I crossed the room and neared the counter, I caught sight of Junior Junior squatting down behind the register. He seemed to be fixated on something going on out front and my curiosity caused me to look in the same direction. I caught sight of what I believed captured his interest. Jasper's pickup crept past on the street out front. In it, giving the diner a hard look, sat none other than Junior Junior's nemesis, Jasper himself. I slowed down to watch and felt a slight bit of disappointment when Jasper's pickup kept right on going down the street. Our brave diner owner promptly resumed his usual upright stance as if nothing happened. I stifled a couple of chuckles as I passed by Junior Junior heading for my important appointment at the vegetable crisper.

## Chapter Twelve

"Wow! Two o'clock already!" The sound of my own voice reminding me of the time of day brought me back to reality. Flo announced her hurried departure as she went flying through the front door heading for her weekly session at the local beauty parlor. Glancing around the dining room, I caught sight of two tables still occupied with customers not in a hurry to get anywhere fast. I had plenty of time before I left to meet with the Mayor who agreed with my suggestion that we best meet somewhere away from the diner. In my pocket were instructions on how to get to an equipment barn located on a quarter section of land the Mayor owned and farmed with the help of a neighbor. We planned to meet there at 6 p.m. Until then, several chores needed to be finished. I looked forward to getting the meeting over with and putting the responsibility back into his hands. This matter involved serious stuff. People could go to jail.

I looked at my watch again to make sure of the time. I then mentally reviewed the directions he'd given me without referring to the map I'd drawn and safely stuck into my back pocket. Typical Kansas directions: drive in a straight line until instructed to turn left, right, or stop, and if all you did was stop temporarily, repeat the first instruction. I figured the trip required no more than ten minutes travel time. I also made sure Junior Junior's truck stayed available. I'd expected it would be because by that time Junior Junior was usually deep into his favorite photo album of him and his ex-wife during happier times (which reportedly, according to her, was when she was asleep) along with a six-pack he always picked up on the way home.

Until the meeting time, I figured I may as well stay at the diner cleaning up, checking inventory, preparing the daily bank deposit, placing the frozen rolls into the proofer, going over the books including sales tax, payroll taxes, and Flo's time sheets, making sure the rest rooms were clean enough to pass a surprise inspection by the county health department, and a host of other daily and weekly activities that go along with operating a clean and profitable food service establishment.

I got so busy with my expanded to-do list that I didn't notice when the last customers left the building. Realizing the place sat empty, I headed towards the front door with every intention of rotating the Open/Closed sign hanging on the inside of the large plate glass window to the closed position. Before I got there a young couple with a small child carried in the mother's arms entered the diner and looked around until they spotted me. As I was headed in that direction anyway, we met not more than four or five paces into the dining room.

"Sorry folks, but we're closed," I informed them before they had a chance to find a table.

"Are you Mr. Clayton?" the young man asked.

"Why yes, I am," I responded somehow sensing they possessed reasons for being at the diner other than wanting something to eat in the middle of the afternoon.

"My name's Scott and my wife's name is Sarah, and this is Wendy, our baby girl. Preacher Roy said we should come here and talk to you about a situation that's about to cause some big problems in our life."

My confusion must have been obvious to the nervous young couple. I didn't understand. Why would the Preacher tell these two people to come to me with whatever problem they might have? I managed a restaurant. Did he expect that fresh rolls or biscuits and gravy might help them deal with personal issues? I didn't know what was going on, but it was easy to see they were both very nervous. I had no intention of being dismissive with them. There was a misunderstanding, and I decided to find out the facts and politely redirect them if possible.

"Sit down," I said to the couple as I motioned to one of the tables. As they obeyed my request, I went to the front door and rotated the sign to the closed position and then walked back to the table where the young couple and their infant child sat waiting and took a chair.

"Well, ok. Tell me why the Preacher thinks I can be of help to you folks."

They both looked to one another first before letting me in on what presently complicated their young lives. "We haven't filed tax returns for the last two years. I'm self-employed as a house framer, and I haven't had any work for over a year. The last real money I actually made framing was in 2006. But come time to pay taxes in 2007 and 2008, we didn't have it. We don't have insurance and had to pay the hospital for the delivery of our baby. Things are even worse now. We're two years behind, and there ain't no way we're going to be able to pay anything from the paltry sum we've made in 2008 come April of 2009. It's not that we don't want to. We can't because we don't have it. The housing industry has crashed, and we're getting in deeper. I can't see anyway out, and I don't want to go to jail. Can you help us? The Preacher said he thought you could. We really don't know what to do, and we're real scared."

I suspected the beginnings of a slight smile on my face might come off as insensitive to the two nervous young parents sitting across from me, so I hurried to explain myself. "Please pay no attention to my finding humor in this situation. It's just that the good Preacher apparently thinks I'm the cure all for whatever ails most of the folks in this area of the world. I assure you I don't—"

"Can you help us, Mr. Clayton? We're scared, and we don't have anywhere else to turn." The nervousness in the young woman's desperate plea caused me to forget what I had started to say. Instead, a new thought forced its way to the forefront of my brain. _Tell these frightened young people what they ought to do. It's not going to kill you to take five minutes to help them out_.

"Here's my advice to you," I started out. "First, no one is going to jail. Go to the IRS before they come to you. If they have to find you, you're going to have a much more difficult time cleaning things up. Go home and gather up every piece of paper that has anything to do with what you have earned during the periods in question, and also include documentation for every verifiable expense and deduction you can claim. Then, if it's at all possible, I suggest you three get in a vehicle tomorrow morning and drive to the nearest IRS office, which is either in Salina or, for sure, Topeka. Once there, all three of you should go into the office and ask to speak to the first available IRS representative. Wait however long it takes. When the three of you are sitting across the desk from a breathing agent tell them the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The agent will start the ball rolling and from that point on, do exactly as you are told. The IRS is not ignorant as to the worsening economic climate, and I would be very surprised if they won't try to work with you. And finally, I will tell you that in every instance where I have given this advice to folks like you, and they followed that advice and the IRS instructions to the letter, their problems eventually got solved. Any questions?"

They both looked at each other and then back to me. "That's it?" asked the young woman with no small amount of incredulity in her voice.

"That's it," I responded quickly. "Anything else?"

"No, nothing," said the obviously surprised young man.

"Well, I should get back to work. Please give Preacher Roy my best."

Seconds later, I found myself the lone diner occupant. I looked at my watch and saw 3:15 p.m. Over two hours still to go before I needed to leave to meet the Mayor. I made a mental note to speak to Preacher Roy about expecting me to be able to help every person or family bringing his or her troubles to his door. _Okay now, what was I going to do next?_ Barely did the thought cross my mind when my next unexpected guest came right through the doorway prominently displaying the CLOSED sign.

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" asked Mary June Jangles as she advanced into diner apparently oblivious of the prominently displayed CLOSED sign hanging on the door.

"No, of course not, nice to see you again. Come in and sit down. I was just going to get a cup of coffee and take a break. Could I get you a cup?" I surprised myself with my ability to switch from dutiful diner toiler to host in such short order.

"Don't bother. I'll get it myself. Go on and sit down. I'll join you in just a minute." Her confident and easygoing manner seemed to have a calming effect on me. I immediately forgot all about the ignored door sign as well as the awaiting chores.

She joined me at the nearby table I'd chosen simply because it sat closest to the checkout counter where the phone sat if the Mayor or anybody else called. _Once an efficiency expert, always an efficiency expert_ , I thought as I waited for her to start the conversation.

She started right in. "I'm sure I'm bothering you, but I had an idea, and I wanted to run it by you. Assuming you will be able to accompany me to Salina Wednesday night I was wondering if you might be interested in going to one of my favorite restaurants in Salina? Are you familiar with Mongolian food? There is a surprisingly good Mongolian restaurant there. It's located about a mile south of the interstate where we come in on the north side of town. What do you think?"

My initial thoughts revolved around hoping she could not tell from my facial expression I had absolutely no idea what Mongolian food tasted like. I could only guess that since China is its neighbor their diet may bare some resemblance. Otherwise, I had nothing. Far as I knew they ate frozen dirt. I didn't recall seeing a tree in any photo or film I ever took time to glance at so they couldn't have fruit there. I doubted you could grow vegetables either if the ground stayed frozen. I'd never seen a body of water either so there wasn't any chance of fish. That pretty much left the dirt and maybe some big woolly wild creatures considered holdovers from the ice ages.

"Oh sure, great idea. I love Mongolian food. I wondered if there was any chance of finding a good place here in north central Kansas run by real Mongolians. Good call. Just show me the way." All this time my tablemate sat looking at me as if she wanted to reach across the table to give me a poke in the eye and tell me to stop lying through my teeth.

"Really?" she said with a smile. "I have to admit I'm surprised. I didn't figure you to have such a well-refined palate. What's your favorite Mongolian dish, by the way?"

As she spoke, she sat back in her chair widening her smile. I knew immediately from the way she put the emphasis on the word 'really' that I was busted. "Oh, I don't know, I guess I like just about all of it." But that didn't mean I intended to admit it.

"Do you even know what kind of food is served in Mongolia? I'll bet you don't." She was smiling big time now. No longer could she conceal her doubts regarding my hearty approval of her proposed menu choice.

"I'll have to admit it's been awhile," I responded carrying on with my ruse, "but by my best recollection it's similar to Bolivian food. And, of course, we all know that Bolivia is located west of Arkansas so that would make it similar to Polynesian, wouldn't it?" I sat back attempting to display my most confident smile.

My suitor looked as if she thought I might be serious but only for a second until the same incredulous smile returned. "Okay, wise guy. Just for that I am going to take you to a Mongolian restaurant. As it's my treat, I'll do the ordering. And just to whet your appetite, I'll further inform you that the Mongolian people consider the reproductive organs of almost every living creature a pure delicacy. And best of all, you can't really tell what dish you are eating by merely looking at it. I'll pick you up at about 4:30 p.m. It's an hour's drive, and the rally starts at 7:00 p.m. That will give us plenty of time to enjoy our meal. Will that time work for you, Will? It will? Well great, Will. We will see you Wednesday, Will. Bye, now."

She got halfway to the door before she finished her parting sentence. I sat there trying to assimilate the extremely disturbing information regarding reproductive organs being on the menu as the door closed behind her.

I was glad she wasn't around to see the look on my face. I had to admit I felt more than a little bit intimidated by the distinct prospect of chewing on a plate full of pan-fried Yak nuts!

By the time I grew tired of torturing myself with thoughts of devouring copious amounts of varmint genitals another ten minutes had passed. Looking at my well-used watch, I determined the time to be right at 4:00 p.m., another hour and forty-five minutes before I needed to leave to meet the Mayor. All the extracurricular activity caused me to lose my rhythm relating to the diner chores I'd expected to tend to. I wanted to get it all over with and return to my loft apartment. I seemed to have become fond of the place. Usually my workdays were so hectic and energy draining that I looked forward to a hot shower and soft bed. This day looked to be no different. I felt drained. I hoped no other individuals introduced themselves to me today informing me so and so sent them to me to get help.

I roused myself from my seat and headed towards the front door one more time to lock it and ensure my privacy for the few short minutes I expected to be at the diner. Surely no one else waited outside to see me. The gas pumps were shut down, allowing Junior Junior to go home and mope over his lost love. Flo had departed earlier to get one of her weekly three hour, two cans of hairspray, Lady Bird Johnson knockoff beauty parlor specials. I couldn't think of another person who might possibly want to talk to me about anything at all for the rest of the day. Excepting...Big Bob Buford!

I only mention this because right as my fingers began to twist the deadbolt lock to the locked position on the front door, I noticed a four wheel drive pickup truck inching its way past the diner front door. Driving this ominous looking machine was none other than Big Bob Buford himself. It immediately reminded me of the huge great white shark in the movie _Jaws_ when it slowly glided by the small fishing boat for the first time. That's exactly how I felt when my eyes focused on Big Bob, who ultimately caught sight of me. Not for one second during the thirty seconds Big Bob sat idling in front of the diner door did he take his eyes off me. Likewise, I stared right back at him. Not a single word or gesture issued from either of us, but make no mistake about it, each party got the message: intense dislike.

With one last smirk, Big Bob turned his head and slowly drove away. No less than two vehicles slammed on their breaks to keep from broad siding Big Bob's truck as he casually pulled into the flowing traffic without any regard for the two skidding vehicles. I found it interesting, but not at all surprising, that neither of the offended drivers bothered to blow their horns. But then I realized this wasn't just any yahoo out cruising, this was Big Bob. Folks around here knew better than to show their displeasure to Big Bob Buford.

## Chapter Thirteen

Unlike the main east/west highway carrying vehicular traffic into or out of Jonesboro, the road heading north out of town was covered with gravel and topped with a slurry seal. The slurry seal kept the dust down, but the ride was still noisy. The big tires Junior Junior kept on his old pickup didn't help either. Loose rocks picked up by the wider tire tread bombarded the underside of the vehicle. I foolishly asked myself how Junior Junior could think as he traveled the county back roads in this clattering, gravel-throwing machine. Then I reminded myself that Junior Junior did not normally get any points for his thinking ability, which stood to reason in light of his less than fourteen word vocabulary.

I dismissed these and other thoughts to pay attention to the farm roads marking the beginning and end of the individual sections providing an alert traveler with accurate readings of distances traveled in one-mile increments. My instructions were to go three miles north from the city limits, then two miles west, and finally one half mile north again. At exactly one half-mile distance from the last turn I should see a forty-foot by sixty-foot white metal building with a green roof. Mayor Jennings would be waiting for me there.

Just as the Mayor said, a green roofed building appeared on the horizon. I instinctively looked for the Mayor's Honda sedan, but all I saw was an old pickup truck in front of the building. The truck looked not to have been washed or cleaned for many years. Beside the vehicle stood none other than his honor the Mayor, and accompanying him were two overly large, floppy-eared hounds. The closer I got, I noticed the dogs taking every advantage of their brief freedom to run loose in the open countryside.

I slowed to make the turn onto the site through a large swinging gate standing wide open which caused the dogs to take an immediate interest in my intrusion onto their private playground. I barely passed through the gate when the two romping critters flanked each side of Junior Junior's truck. Up close I could see the dogs were Labradors, one yellow and one black. Knowing something about Labs and the fact they are known as friendly and good-natured animals, I felt an immediate sense of relief. I proceeded up the gravel drive accompanied by the two braying hounds leading me to the place where the Mayor awaited my arrival. I parked the truck off to the side of the other vehicle, and after gathering up all the documents given to me earlier by the Mayor, I exited the truck.

"Afternoon Will, don't worry about the hounds; they don't bite. They might give you a good smell test though. Best just let them get it over with so they can get back to their romping and looking for varmints." The Mayor laughed as he finished this last bit of advice.

I did exactly as he suggested, and sure enough, the two critters soon turned their attention back to the more important matter of finding something live to chase. So far it looked as if every suitable prey had departed long ago. No matter, these dogs were optimists and kept looking.

"Why don't we go up to the front of the barn and take advantage of the late afternoon shade, Will. I have some old chairs and a card table there that I use from time to time. Sometimes I bring my work out here to get some time alone to figure out what to do." Not waiting for an answer, the Mayor led the way.

Following along behind, I carried with me the documents he'd previously given to me pertaining to both the water privatization scheme and the administrative malfeasance. Once out of the sun and partially undercover of the barn's roof, I felt glad the Mayor had made the suggestion. A slight breeze coming out of the north for a change gave us instant relief. I laid the pile of documents on the folding table and took a seat.

The Mayor seemed unhurried to join me at the table. He acted as if he dreaded hearing the information I intended to make available to him. I couldn't blame the guy. He had a real small town mess on his hands. As far as I could determine all kinds of laws were being broken, and this stood apart from the complete lack of ethics involved with the Bufords' attempt to market the town's water system to foreign capitalists for their own economic gain.

"Well, what's your thinking on all this, Will?" The tone in the Mayor's voice left no doubt he already knew my response.

"I think you know exactly what my response is, Mayor. These guys obviously think of the town of Jonesboro as their personal piggy bank. There looks to be a substantial sum of money involved, and the Bufords are getting as much of it as they can from any source they can. There are the kickbacks for awarding city construction projects, the receipts for gifts and services from contractors in the form of Vegas trips, free labor on projects at their farm, free building materials, free tickets to professional and college sporting events, padded expense accounts, outright over billing for goods and services provided by suppliers who then share the proceeds with the Bufords, and outright threats and intimidation of bidders for city business of every kind. These guys are acting with impunity. I can't believe they thought they could get away with this. How long have they been doing this kind of stuff?"

The Mayor rubbed his forehead with both hands while I cited the list of offenses. "There is evidence it's been going on for a long time, Will. I believe my predecessors were aware of this but were too afraid to say anything. Matter of fact, there has been a lot of turnover in the Mayor's job position in the last twenty years. Now I know why. No one wanted to buck heads with the Bufords. I also suspect one of the earlier city fathers secretly sent me the information that got me started investigating the whole matter. For the last year, I have spent a lot of time in my office after hours gathering the information you see here. During this period, I've received additional information and clues as to where to look for the proof of wrongdoing, but still, not a single individual has come forward to help me in person. People around here are scared, Will. Most likely for good reason, and that includes me."

What the Mayor said did not surprise me. I agreed with him about being scared, and I had to admit I too felt intimidated with the Bufords lurking nearby. Unfortunately, I didn't have enough sense to run away. All my life I'd stood up when more intelligent people sat down. That's why I displayed so many scars. It did not surprise me when I realized as the Mayor spoke, that if asked to help, I did not intend to sit down and shut up this time either. I empathized with many of these down-to-earth prairie denizens, and if they chose to stand up and do what's right, I would stand with them.

"Mayor, you would not have brought me into this if you intended to do nothing. Maybe you are intimidated, but surely, you don't intend to do nothing. These clowns can't be allowed to get away with this. Everywhere I look in this country I see people in positions of power and influence taking advantage of the little guy, the average Joe. We have to stand up! Otherwise, we will deserve what's going to happen to us. There have always been tyrants and thugs and phony messiahs taking advantage of the workingman and woman. Things are no different today. Hell, with the advent of government-sponsored free-market corporate style capitalism making theft easier, there are more crooks today then ever before. They don't even have to carry guns to get the cash. All they need is a white shirt and tie and a management position in a financial institution that is supposed to take care of the average guy's hard-earned money. Or better yet, get elected to public office. Present company excluded, of course." I stopped talking then knowing that any action against these criminals needed to be initiated by members of the community, not by some drifter. Maybe I didn't have the good sense to walk away from a fight that wasn't mine, but I, at least, did not intend to lead the charge to exact justice. As if he were reading my thoughts, the Mayor looked up shaking his head.

"Does this stuff happen everywhere you go, Will? Why is it people get excited and do things out of the ordinary when you come around? The Preacher thinks you've been sent by God. You've turned Junior Junior's diner into the hottest eatery in the county. Mary June is actually smiling and talking to people since she met you. Everybody is waiting to hear how your date with our hippie lady turns out Wednesday when you two go to the Democratic rally in Salina. And just this afternoon, you helped the young couple that was afraid that the IRS might put them in jail. Most importantly, you've stood up to Big Bob Buford! I've been told that Mr. Buford is not at all pleased with your presence in the community, which impresses the hell out of me. Otherwise, I doubt I would be sitting here making plans to raise a real ruckus in this small community. But I need someone I can trust, who won't cut and run when things get mean and nasty as I believe they will. Can I count on your help, Will? I realize I have no right to impose on you, but truthfully, I don't know if I have the nerve otherwise. These guys scare me."

Sitting there listening to the Mayor, I became aware of a weird sensation starting to spread from my chest into other parts of my body. One of those warm and tingly feelings occurring when you realize you are about to stand up and be counted. It actually surprised me. For a long while I'd considered myself too disinterested to care about such trivial community matters, but not this time. I wanted in this fight for some reason. This was pretty heavy stuff. These crooks, in all likelihood, were going to jail if the Mayor got the evidence into the right hands. And that begged the question, why hadn't he done that?

"Mayor, for what it's worth you can count on me, but why haven't you made contact with higher authorities before? What are you waiting for? Put these guys in jail! Obviously you are not alone in wanting them gone or you would not be getting help from those unknown sources. Don't you have a City Attorney or a County Attorney? What about the Police Chief or Sheriff Slaybaugh?"

The Mayor looked pleased when he heard me say I would help, but as to why he had not made contact with higher authorities yet, he seemed unsure.

"That's just it, Will, I don't know who to trust. The City Attorney is a part-time position, and I suspect he must be somewhat aware of what's going on. I don't know that he's in with them, but he is obviously reluctant to come forward. I don't know that he wouldn't turn everything over to the Bufords if I presented him with all my information. Same thing goes for the County Attorney. I haven't had an hour's worth of conversation with the man in my life. I have no reason to believe he is anything but honest, but as I said, I don't know whom to trust. Except for you and Preacher Roy, and my wife, that is. I even thought about contacting that crazy County Judge who comes off as a paranoid nut when he catches people looking at him at the diner. But that guy scares the crap out of me."

As the Mayor talked, an idea began to form in my suspicious brain. I agreed with him about not opening up to just anyone in this very tight knit community. Hell, all I had to do was step out onto the stairway landing that provided access to my little apartment and the whole town knew about it in a matter of minutes. The Mayor was right. This deal needed to be handled delicately. Maybe my idea might offer a solution.

"You know what? Maybe I have a solution. I know someone who lives in the Topeka area who could help us out. Are you interested in going _off shore_?" I asked the Mayor.

The Mayor's expression gave his answer away long before he opened his mouth to respond. "Hell yes, I'm interested! What's your idea?"

"Well, it's simple really. I have an old friend in Topeka who is an attorney or was the last time I talked to him several years ago. This guy is brilliant but a little unorthodox. He might have been a wealthy man many times over except he always had a soft place in his heart for those folks who were getting run over by the judicial system or big business for lack of money. Most of his clients paid little if anything for his help. He often ended up with old cars, golf clubs, antiques, and sometimes nothing more than his client's heartfelt thanks along with a promise to pay when he or she could. The guy wore the same suit daily until it practically fell off him. He had a well-deserved reputation for being honest and loyal to his clients. If he is still alive and living in eastern Kansas, he is the person to ask for help. The guy knows every attorney in the state, and more importantly, he knows if they are honest. I could contact him if you think it would help."

I'm not positive, but I suspected the Mayor mouthed a quick prayer of thanks before responding to my offer.

"If we could be assured that any and all contact," replied the Mayor in a tone of voice that implied both caution and relief, "would be conducted in complete privacy, I would very much like for you to contact this friend of yours. I have to tell you, Will, this whole mess is starting to weigh heavy on me, and this idea of yours has given me the first glimmer of hope I've experienced since I began the investigation. Regardless of how it turns out, I appreciate your help. I'm starting to wonder if the Preacher might be onto something about you?"

We dedicated ourselves to outlining a hurriedly contrived plan for me to contact my lawyer friend in Topeka. We also decided to initially keep the Mayor out of the loop. Only if we determined that my friend could be of help would we set up a face-to-face meeting somewhere outside of Jonesboro. Having agreed upon a plan, we said goodbye, and I headed back to town.

I went back over the entire meeting in my mind as I got Junior Junior's truck headed back to town, and strangely, about the only thing that stood out in my mind pertained to the Mayor's comment about the Preacher being "onto something." The last thing I needed was for a bunch of farmers to start thinking I ended up in Jonesboro because God willed it. This is not the thirteenth century! Even if a God exists, I hoped he would dedicate his time to more important things, like maybe stopping wars or even wiping out a few of the many plagues currently ravaging various parts of the world. And of course, there were always the old standbys: hunger, racial prejudice, homelessness, genocide, global warming, and cancer just to mention a few topics that one might hope would carry a little more weight on the big guy's cosmic to-do list.

Good sense prevailed, and I got back to the plan we agreed to. First, I needed to determine if one Carlton Prescott, Esq. yet lived and breathed in Topeka. If he did, I needed to go talk with him as soon as possible. The quickest that I saw this coming together, I decided, was the coming Wednesday. But that begged the question of what to do about Mary June and the trip to Salina. And what about the diner while I'm out of town for the day? The answer came so quickly it surprised me. I'd explain that I have emergency business back east and ask Mary June to sub for me at the diner. _Are you crazy?_ Was the next thought that occurred to me. _You propose to stand a lady up and then calmly ask her to work your shift at the diner with Flo? Why, they might kill each other!_

I went over all the possibilities I could imagine during the return trip to Jonesboro. As wild as the idea was to ask Mary June to sub for me after telling her I couldn't go to Salina, it still seemed the most logical solution. But first I needed to verify that my old friend Carlton still lived and breathed. I recalled seeing a Topeka phone book lying under the front counter in the diner. That's where I headed.

Our meeting hadn't taken more than an hour leaving me with a couple of hours of daylight to finalize my plan. Turning towards the west, I arrived at the town's main intersection, then proceeded down the main drag past the post office, past the volunteer fire station, plus all the other usual places of business and public activities. As I came abreast of the town hall, I was met with the glaring countenance of Big Bob Buford. I'll have to admit that the man's half-evil, half-stupid glare unsettled me. _Is that all the guy does all day long— drive around giving folks the evil eye?_ He wasn't alone this time. I saw him turn and say something to another passenger sitting shotgun in his truck. I had never actually seen Big Bob's brother, the one who sat on the city commission and most likely assisted Big Bob with his schemes, but I instantly detected a resemblance between them. Namely, both their faces displayed looks that could only be described as contemptuous, full of animosity, and displaying an air of arrogance borne of a sense of entitlement, fully supported by an obvious disregard for the well-being of their fellow humans. If someone asked me, I'd have to say from the looks I got, those guys didn't like me.

I watched closely in my rear view mirror to see if the Bufords followed me, and to my surprise, nothing happened. Still not convinced they wouldn't show up later, I turned into the diner parking lot and parked the truck close to the front entrance.

Exiting the truck, I hurried to unlock the diner door and get inside. I headed straight to the front checkout counter searching for the Topeka directory. Finding it where I expected, I flipped through the yellow pages until I came to the section listing attorneys. With my eyes following my forefinger down the pages, it surprised and excited me to find the name I searched for. Right there in bold letters was the name, Carlton Prescott, Attorney.

I looked at my watch and saw the time, 7:15 p.m. _Surely, the man wouldn't be at his office at this late hour._ Then recalling how my old friend rarely conformed to usual customs and often spent the entire night at his office, I dialed the number. I looked at my watch again while waiting for the phone to ring on the other end. I heard a ring, then another, then another, and right as I decided the whole idea amounted to a waste of time, I heard a rattling noise on the other end. An image came to mind of a receiver being drug across a rough, uneven surface. The dragging noise stopped and I heard nothing, but I also didn't hear the loud hum indicating a dead line. I waited for a voice. I had no idea what to do. Did someone answer the phone? I decided to take the initiative.

"Hello...Carlton? Carlton, are you there?" Still no answer, so I tried again. "Hello, Carlton. Carlton, are you there?" Hearing nothing again I decided to wait until the next morning and try again.

"Huuumph, Huuumph," came the unintelligible noise through the receiver.

Right then I knew I had my man. "Hello, Carlton. Can you hear me?"

"What? Who the hell is this? Of course I can hear you! I answered the damn phone, didn't I? Is this that chicken shit Burt Buggersmith or whatever the hell your name is? I told you to take that counter offer and shove it up your fat ass! That weasel little prick you represent is gonna pay for the grave injustice he's perpetrated against my poor client. I—"

I knew I had to interrupt before he told me way more than I wanted to know about one of his eccentric clients.

"Carlton! Carlton! Hold on a second! This is your old buddy, Will Clayton. You remember me, don't you? We used to play golf together at your club. I was riding with you the day you ran over Herb Wilson's clubs after he accused you of lying about your ball not being out of bounds after bouncing back into the short rough following you hitting the portable crapper behind the seventh hole at the club. You remember me, don't you?"

"Will Clayton? Bullshit! He's dead! Good man, too. Heard he got sideways with some Mexican fellows for showing his pecker to a pretty senorita down in South Texas. Good man, that Will Clayton."

I had to stifle myself as I tried unsuccessfully to block the images coming to my mind while I listened to my old friend Carlton's ranting. This was the same Carlton Prescott, outwardly appearing and sounding completely insane but, in practice, a tireless and talented champion of the average man and woman. I looked forward to meeting with my old friend again.

## Chapter Fourteen

The two-hour drive presented no difficulty the following Wednesday morning as I drove Junior Junior's truck straight down to I-70 and turned east for the 120-mile drive to the capitol city. I especially enjoyed the part of the trip that took me through the Flint Hills. These hills are a true geological anomaly. It reminded me of the faux hills of central and northern Missouri without the trees. I guessed someone must have discovered flint lying around somewhere to justify the name. It doesn't sound especially scenic, but I still recall my initial amazement the first time I rolled out of Topeka heading west late one spring afternoon back in the late '60s and first saw the sun drenched, treeless, rolling, prairie grass-covered landscape stretching out before me for what seemed forever. This is especially true when you get to the area between the Junction City and Manhattan turnoffs. It's there where tens of thousands of acres of natural prairie grass still exists as it did before civilization decided to bless the region with its destructive presence.

For most of the rest of the trip I spent my time recalling the many years I had lived and worked in the area. How I, for so long, tried to blame my discontent on what I considered the drabness of the region. To me it wasn't truly flat and it wasn't hilly, nor mostly hot nor mostly cold, rural or urban, the natives were neither country bumpkins nor city slickers. The whole thing sat right in the middle. I believed at the time that the place existed as a refuge for the undecided and uncommitted folks too afraid of taking a chance. They once called this place the frontier, a place where adventuresome individuals came to grab life by the ass and bend it into their will, but not anymore. The frontier left here a long time ago, headed for the coast.

Viewing life through the much wider lens acquired by most humans as a gift for having lived long enough, I now saw things differently. It's just a place. It can be whatever a person wants it to be. But don't expect it not to change. Everything changes. Rocks, trees, mountains, creatures, beliefs, they all change. It's happening every second, every minute, and every hour of the day. Often the change is imperceptible on a daily or even a yearly basis. Nevertheless, change is inevitable and constant.

"Let's hope that's true in this instance, also," I said aloud as recollection of my current mission crashed into my daydreaming. I approached the western part of the capitol city and needed to get my game plan together. I'd found out my old friend Carlton still maintained his office downtown in the same old four story, red brick building. Once the stately structure must have been looked upon as evidence of the city's prosperity, but now, a century later, it existed as an outdated architectural oddity lacking an elevator.

I arrived straight up at 9 a.m. as promised. Carlton told me his schedule was very tight, but he would tell Gloria, his longtime loyal and trusted secretary/bookkeeper to make room for me. I knew this was pure bullshit. Carlton never wore off the previous evenings libations until noon. I never saw the man drunk or even tipsy, but he usually required a few hours of daylight to get all the squirrels up and running in his brain. The good thing about it was they were very smart squirrels.

As I expected, Gloria, his secretary and one of the truly nicest people I've ever met, did not let me pass into the inner sanctum until she hugged me several times and solicited from me a complete accounting of my whereabouts for these last many years. Finally satisfied that she knew all she needed to know for the time being, she took me by the arm and led me towards my old friend's office.

"I hope you're not in a hurry," she warned me as we stood for a moment before knocking on the heavy wooden door allowing entrance to her longtime employer's office. "He's been inclined to get a bit long winded with his thoughts these last couple of years. The brain's still working, it's just that it takes a mite longer to get there. So please be patient. I know he will be glad to see you. He's mentioned on several occasions how much he missed playing golf with you at the club. By the way, I never believed his story about you getting your _Johnson_ shot off down in Argentina!"

Without further ado, my escort tapped on the door and proceeded to open it prior to receiving an acknowledgement from within. I stepped inside the expansive, high ceiling, knee-deep high piles of legal folders everywhere office I recalled from an earlier life. Sitting across the room from me behind a large wooden desk undoubtedly rescued from a late nineteenth century office furniture museum sat Carlton C. Prescott, Esq., Attorney at Law. My eyes labored to focus. Possibly because the morning sun pouring through the two floor-to-ceiling window openings in the wall located behind the huge desk partially blinded me. The white Panama suit Carlton sported added to my difficulty.

Carlton didn't wait for me to get my bearings before he started in. "Who the hell are you? You're not Wes Clayton! The Web Clayton I know is a great big fat, bald headed guy who got his _Johnson_ cut off down in Guatemala for messin' with somebody's senorita or maybe boyfriend. Hell, I can't remember. You got a lot of nerve coming around here impersonating my good friend Walt. I loved old Wade like a brother. Just who the hell are you?"

Carlton, as I expected, was the same old jokester. He'd rather bullshit with his friends than do most anything, including making money. He enjoyed the respect of many good friends and golfing companions at the club and the admiration of the better part of the community including the power elite who didn't ever want to get crossways with a guy who did not have a price and maintained an inclination to jump right dead into their underhanded corporate affairs, and more importantly, the brains to know money can't always buy a man the important things in life.

"I'll tell you who I am you prevaricating old hustler. I'm the guy you still owe the hundred bucks to from the last time we played golf. I beat you at that stupid bingo, bango, bongo bullshit golf scam you foisted on us the last time we played at your club. You said you would mail me a check the next day, but you never did. So I'm the guy who's come to collect an old bet, plus some interest. Or do I have to let the local golfing community know about your stiffing me on a golf wager?"

"I hope you got that in writing," he responded, "because most of the guys I played with back when you were still around are in jail, have run off to South America with their eighteen year old secretaries and their client's trust fund, or are dead. So now what are you gonna do, smart guy? There ain't nothing left around here anymore except a bunch of greedy young estate planners, alimony lawyers, and would-be politicians. Why you couldn't get one of those pampered little pricks to wager on a round of golf if you gave them twenty strokes and tickets to see two naked Democrat politicians mud wrestle a pig."

"Okay, I know when I'm licked. I'm never going to win out over an evil old SOB like you. Maybe you can use it to buy a new suit. The one you got on looks like the one Peter Lorry wore in one of those really bad movies made back in the '40s."

"You're a mean, mean person, Will Clayton! Why I wore this very suit today because I knew you'd probably be taking me out for a real nice lunch during which I might be inclined to help you find a way to deterge the small community you are presently residing in of the evil individuals whose propensities for various forms of graft and outright theft from the public coffers are presently having such a dilatory effect on the local town folks fiscal viability."

We continued to bullshit there in his office for the next hour and a half about the old days, about golfing buddies most of who were no longer alive, and anything else that helps to dull the inevitability of growing old and dying. Eventually, we went to Carlton's same old country club, the one he'd been a member of for over fifty years.

Although I am happy to report that I did not confront a single individual there that I ever had any business or personal associations with in the past, Carlton knew everyone. It took not one second less than thirty minutes for us to work our way through the lobby, then the bar area, and finally the large dining room where we settled in for a long lunch. Everyone wanted to say hello to Carlton. We both ordered steak, medium rare, at Carlton's insistence no matter that all I wanted was a summer salad. He said he couldn't be seen associating with a guy that ate that vegetarian swill. Real men ate stuff that bled, my old friend insisted. Although I could have argued about the nutritional value of the menu choice, I certainly couldn't argue about the real men assertion. Carlton's WWII record was well known to the community. He commanded a company of infantry and led men ashore on Omaha Beach on D Day for which the Army awarded him several medals for valor as well as a Purple Heart. The man was an honest-to-god war hero.

Later on the way back to Jonesboro, my mind kept spinning trying to recall all the different topics we covered during the almost six hours we spent together. We talked about old friends, local sports teams, the old days when we played golf together, people and politicians who left town or office in disgrace, the pathetic state of the nation, and the general absence of politicians with the balls to tell the truth, and finally, my little problem in Jonesboro.

Amazingly, we spent the least amount of time discussing the latter. Carlton had thought the matter over earlier and came to the conclusion someone needed to come over to Jonesboro and clean out that nest of varmints. I agreed heartily. My only question to Carlton was whom could we get to come all the way to Jonesboro to do the job? I, of course, being new to the town couldn't recommend anyone. The same thing went for the Mayor who also had no idea of whom to trust. That's why I had called Carlton. Did he know anyone who could help us at the state level? Surprisingly, he said no. That puzzled me, as I felt sure he had someone in mind, and I told him this. He had laughed at me then and asked me if I was one of those guys who routinely stood on the bank and threw the hook all the way to the other side of the pond? I thought about this for a minute and finally admitted to him that, "Yes, I am one of those guys. So what?"

"What I mean," he said, "is why don't you drop your hook four feet from the bank on the side where you are standing instead of throwing it four feet from a bank twenty yards away?"

"Who gives a crap why," I said to him. "Besides you just said the town needs to bring someone in. If that someone is coming in, it's from someplace away from Jonesboro, isn't it?"

"That someone doesn't have to come all the way from the other side of the pond," he countered with his patented I must be talking to an imbecile expression.

"Are you saying you know of someone locally? Who? It can't be someone from Jonesboro. Everyone there is too scared of the Bufords."

"Maybe not, but I bet the person is closer than you think."

This admission surprised me until I reminded myself I'd only resided in the community for a short time, and not everybody in that part of the county came into the diner. "Well, okay, who is it? How can we get in touch with that someone?"

"Unfortunately, I haven't gotten the individual's permission to pass their name along yet. So I'll have to get back to you."

That's when a smile covered my face without the least bit of prompting. We had not talked about the small matter of the referral fee for Carlton. Jonesboro could not be classified as indigent so it stood to reason a consulting fee would be expected for my friend.

"I know what you're thinking. You think I'm looking for a referral fee," Carlton said with his patented I know what you're thinking look. "Well, you're right in a way. I do want something, and it's only something you can give me. I want your promise to come to Topeka and play golf with me as my guest at my club once a month weather permitting for the next year. That's my deal, take it or leave it. Almost all my old golfing companions are now dead or no longer in control of their bowel movements or are otherwise incapacitated. And these smart ass little know-it-alls that play golf today make my butt want to pucker. I truly get tired of taking their money. Why I've pissed away more common sense at a Saturday afternoon keg party then most of them will probably ever have in their dull, butt kissing lives."

Carlton's demand upon my free time both surprised and gratified me. Spending time on a golf course with this old friend would be a pleasure. I hurriedly said yes even before I remembered I didn't have a set golf clubs with me in Jonesboro. Mine were stored away in my RV trailer in Texas but that problem could be cured quickly enough by dropping by one of the area's large discount stores with a sports department. The sad state of my golf game, I felt, would not suffer if I played with a set of cheap discount store knockoffs made in some grass- roofed factory in the Orient.

Having resolved the issue by happily agreeing to his terms, only one last thing needed to be passed along to Carlton before we parted. His inquiries must be made as discretely as possible. Under no circumstances could he mention any name but mine. I really didn't give a crap anymore about what the Bufords thought or what they might try to do to me. I'd realized while talking with Carlton that the greater part of my existence laid strewn alongside the long curving road leading to the ruins of my past, and I had no intentions of living the rest of my days, or years, in fear of the Buford clan.

## Chapter Fifteen

Driving west on I-70 in Kansas late in the day on a hot August afternoon is ill advised. The hot sun, well into its afternoon westerly descent, bore directly down upon Junior Junior's truck windshield. A situation made even worse by an air-conditioner having seen its best days. A hint of cool air is all it offered and that came with the price of putting up with an incessant whining noise. I attributed the suffering device's screaming to the lack of periodic maintenance. I now understood the distinction between gas stations and service stations. The owner of this maintenance-deprived vehicle operated a gas station, not a service station. A service station operator performed periodic maintenance on vehicles, including his own. Gas station operators merely filled up the tanks of the maintenance challenged contraptions that were driven until something quit or fell off.

I partially solved my heat problem by stripping off my short sleeve, Oxford cloth, buttoned down collar shirt leaving only my damp undershirt to cover my torso. Using the shirt as a towel, I kept most of the sweat now leaking profusely from my upper body at bay. I opened the passenger side window for relief but what I got in return was a constant blast of hot air radiating from the near melting road surface.

"Okay, make a note," I said as I rode along sweating as if I were sitting in a sauna, "remember to bring along plenty of liquids, towels, and a change of clothing the next time you take a trip in this vehicle on a hot day." I played with the idea of telling the truck's owner that the A/C barely functioned in hopes he might rectify the problem, but I knew better. Junior Junior did not fix things. He merely added the newest broken object to the large pile of broken objects located behind the station and bought a new one. Fixing, to Junior Junior, meant hitting it once very hard with a big hammer, and if that didn't correct the problem, he tossed it on the pile.

Pushing aside thoughts of my personal discomfort, I went back over the plan set forth by Carlton to get the community of Jonesboro the much-needed help. Basically, all I needed to do entailed going back to Jonesboro, reporting to the Mayor, and waiting to be contacted by the person Carlton hoped to get to help us. Carlton had assured me the person he intended to contact came well qualified and lacked any allegiance to the local players. He chuckled when I pressed him on the need for this individual to be rigorously honest. He maintained absolute faith in the individual's integrity. Their personal relationship stretched over forty years as adversaries and good friends. I couldn't begin to imagine who this person might be. But again, I'd been in town all of two months, so what the heck did I know? Hell, maybe it was Flo!

Having assured myself I knew what was expected of me to secure help for the Mayor, I turned my attention to the more mundane matter of Mary June and Flo working together at the diner for a whole day. Mary June seemed surprisingly understanding about my mysterious need to leave town in such a hurry. She immediately inquired as to whether she could be of any assistance giving me the impression she anticipated being asked to sub for me at the diner. She couldn't have known this, but it did come to mind that the town knew everything else I did or intended to do. When I did broach the idea, she readily agreed telling me not to worry because she, Flo, and Junior Junior would get along famously. When I asked her about missing the Salina rally, she commented that one has to establish priorities. Helping out at the diner while I had to go out of town took priority. I almost asked her if she knew where I was going and for what reason. No matter that the Mayor and I secretly decided on the plan and swore not to tell another living soul, I wondered if she didn't already know. Instead, I kept my suspicions to myself and asked her to drop by the diner the next afternoon before Flo left to go over the things that I regularly did to help Flo keep the customers well-fed, and more importantly to Flo, in line. Mary June said she would be happy to.

That following day right at 1:30 p.m., Mary June arrived, and I'll swear you would have thought she and Flo were long lost relatives. Afterwards I did not recall having to say more than a few words the whole time. The two of them basically ignored me and walked around the place talking about the myriad of activities involved in operating the diner. Later I admitted I felt somewhat disappointed they so easily figured out how to get along without me, without my help. They kept the questions and answers to a minimum. I had no idea operating a diner could be explained so easily. I instinctively knew neither of these ladies would ever be considered professionals because professionals always used lots more words in their explanations. Not only more words but big ones. Words like conceptualization or conglomeration, two of my all time favorites. Now those are professional type words. These ladies might be good, but if they kept thinking in such simplistic terms they could forget about being considered real professionals.

By the time I rolled into Jonesboro the sun shining on the driver's side since I made the right turn from I-70 to head north for the final leg to Jonesboro had burned the side of my face. I'm sure the glass pane shielding me from the ultra-violet rays saved me. I added another note to my list relating to operating Junior Junior's truck on hot days: Bring along something to cover the side window. I felt relieved the day neared an end. Don't get me wrong, I considered it a good day. I thoroughly enjoyed my time with Carlton. I also felt much better knowing he would make contact with someone capable of sorting out the Buford brothers' mess.

As I drove along the street allowing access to the city from the south, I found myself keeping a close eye out for the Bufords. That made sense since they seemed to be lurking around every corner I turned lately. I felt relief once I'd made the turn to the west at the main intersection in the middle of town heading for the diner. Although I felt a bit weary, I wanted to check out the place to make sure everything looked okay. The thought occurred to me that Flo and Mary June, after all the pretense of liking each other wore off after a few hectic hours of working together, may have gone at each other with frying pans. A vision of both ladies lying unconscious and bleeding profusely in the diner kitchen while outside a swat team made up of specially trained officers from the neighboring counties formed a perimeter to contain the mayhem, came to mind.

What I found instead was a deserted parking lot and a closed diner showing no signs of life or structural damage. My worst fears were realized. Everything apparently went along fine without me. Not exactly the best news for a closeted control-freak. A quick inspection of the building verified my fears so I hastily departed the diner and headed for my small apartment. There awaited a shower and a good night's sleep. Then tomorrow, first thing, I would call the Mayor and set up a time and place for a private meeting. The thought occurred to me that with the Bufords cruising the streets such a task might not be easily pulled off.

I stepped out of the shower feeling like a different person. Standing under the cool shower took much of the day's tension out of me. Soon afterwards the soft bed felt good as I lay upon it thinking about the important things to be done before retiring for the night. I soon gave up and slipped into a peaceful slumber. Sometime later I awoke with a start to the constant yelping of J3, Junior Junior's incorrigible hound. More than a minute passed before I came to my senses and figured out where I was, and most importantly, what noisy beast dared disturb my slumber. Groping my way to the door wearing only the bottom part of my pajamas, I opened it and stepped outside onto the porch. There below me at the bottom of the steps stood J3 blocking the path of an equally agitated Mary June Jangles. I stood there not having the presence of mind to intervene. That's when Mary June, having glanced up to catch site of me standing gawking down from the landing, made an observation. "Are you going to call off this guard moose or not?"

The tone of her voice brought me to my senses. "J3 stop." That's all it took. J3 immediately ceased his braying and trotted off looking for some other creature to pester.

"I'm sorry. I hope he didn't frighten you. He's fairly harmless, so—"

"Yeah right. Maybe we should dig up some earlier trespassers he's undoubtedly buried in Junior Junior's back yard and ask their opinion on that subject." Mary June mumbled this last statement as she started up the stairs carrying a package.

I held the door open figuring out that my unexpected guest had no intention of standing on ceremony. Sure enough, she went past me into the apartment without saying a word. I followed and after hurriedly pulling on an old sweatshirt watched her place the package on the kitchen counter before turning to face me.

"Listen," she began as her eyes locked on to mine, "I'm not one to beat around the bush. I know something is going on between you and the Mayor and the Bufords and maybe the whole damn town. I believe whatever it is, it's important. I'm not going to pry, but don't think I'm completely unaware. Okay?"

Although somewhat surprised at both her insights and her admission to them, I decided not to insult her intelligence.

"Okay, I won't. Now what?"

She thought about it before commenting. "Now nothing. Just don't think I'm unaware. When you need my help, simply ask and you will get it without having to contrive some bogus excuse. Okay?"

"Okay, anything else?"

"Yes, I brought you a pie, and I'd like for you to try it. Most people like my pies even if they don't like most of the other stuff I make."

Having located a dish and a fork, Mary June brought me a large slice from what looked like a pecan pie. As I took the plate from her, a most pleasant aroma greeted my nostrils. The warmth of the dish told me instantly the pie had just come out of the oven. I took a seat at the room's only small sitting table and promptly lifted a hefty forkful to my lips. Instantaneously, the warm light crust melted in my mouth leaving a filling not too sweet or cloying, as most pecan pie fillings are wont to be. A long time pecan pie connoisseur, I realized only quality nuts with the correct balance of sugar and light and dark syrups were present in this delicious offering.

"Maybe the best piece of pecan pie I've ever tasted."

"Good," said an obviously pleased Mary June. "Maybe you might consider serving my pies at the diner? All you have now are the rolls and muffins, and a few pies of the manufactured variety. My pies are about the only thing folks liked at my restaurant. I still can't understand why they didn't give my whole menu a chance. But...anyway, how about it? I can have them for you fresh daily.

"I'll have to taste test them all first, you understand?" I said to her attempting to feign sincerity.

"Great! I'll get several of my best recipes ready for you to do a taste test in the next few days. Okay?"

I could see her relief with my decision. "You might want to leave me another piece of this one just so I can test it one more time to make sure."

"It's all yours. You might want to share a piece with Flo and Junior Junior, though. It was Flo's idea I run this taste test by you. We worked well together, by the way, in case you ever need help again. We knew one another from our school days. She graduated a year ahead of me. I still can't believe she has never left town, for even a week."

This was very good news indeed. I had a hunch things might get somewhat crazy around town as things progressed. Knowing reliable help stood by reassured me.

"Thanks again, you never know when something might come up—" I began to say before being interrupted.

"Flo told me to tell you that you may need help tomorrow if Junior Junior isn't sober before morning. It started to become noticeable by this afternoon. There wasn't much gas business, thankfully, so Flo talked him into leaving early. We didn't want him giving the wrong change to our customers. He must be pretty down because he went straight to his house, and we haven't seen him since."

Then it came to me why J3 was still roaming around. Junior Junior always brought the dog in before getting boozed up. I immediately got up and went to the door to call for J3, and within seconds, he came bounding up the steps to the apartment wagging his tail.

"Guess you are going to spend the night with me, big guy. That okay with you?" I said to the joyful hound as he displayed his happiness at being let inside. "You remember Mary June, don't you?"

As if the dog understood every word I said, he crossed over to Mary June expecting to get his ears scratched from her as well. "Yeah, okay, that's good. You can stop slobbering all over me. I forgive you for threatening my life earlier. I'm sure it won't happen again. That's it. Go back to your Uncle Will while I wash the slobber off my arms."

Again, as if the dog fully understood, he came right back to me. This time J3 plopped down on the carpet ready for a snooze. I took the cue and restarted my conversation with Mary June.

"Maybe you could help us out again tomorrow if Junior Junior doesn't show up?" I asked the question fully believing I knew the answer.

"You got it. I'll plan to show up at 6 a.m. unless I hear from you before."

I'm sure my expression gave away my relief when she made herself available. "Thanks, you're a great help to us."

Mary June headed for the door. "Oh, by the way," she said in an offhanded manner right as she reached the door, "since we didn't get to go to Salina, I've taken the liberty of suggesting to the local Republican Party chairperson that we set up a date and time for a local political debate right after the Republican convention. Both parties' candidates will be known by then. The guy laughed and blew the idea off until I told him I had a heavy weight ready to do battle."

"Oh, really? Are you bringing someone in?" The idea intrigued me. I could not imagine a Democrat stupid enough to come here to this 99.9% Republican town to argue politics with a bunch of die hard partisans.

"I don't have to. Like I told him, we've already got a person here."

"Who is it? The third unknown Democrat?"

"No."

"Then who is it?"

"Actually, it's you. See you tomorrow," she said disappearing into the night leaving me standing alone and speechless.

## Chapter Sixteen

The following morning came much too early if my baggy red eyes were an indication of sleep deprivation. J3 needed to go outside and take care of his business at least three times. The thought occurred to me that maybe Junior Junior drank to help him sleep. A hound's sloppy tongue washing your face after having licked his crotch for twenty minutes is not how the normal person wants to be awakened.

These pleasant notions occupied my clouded brain as I descended the stairs from the apartment on my way to the diner. I left J3 in the apartment happily chewing on an old shoe I'd found in the closet. If Junior Junior manned his regular post, I intended to watch the counter until he took his hound home and incarcerated it.

Business appeared brisk as I pushed open the diner door. Mary June worked the front counter with no Junior Junior in sight. She barely noticed my arrival as she chatted with a couple of regular customers paying their checks before heading to work.

"Why thank you, Jimmy. I'm glad you enjoyed it, and it was nice to see you, too. And don't worry we'll talk to the boss about making sure we have more pies available tomorrow. Tell Lacy hello for me," said Mary June to the obviously pleased customer standing before her at the counter.

_Well, I guess that answers the question about the pies_ , I thought as I stopped beside the counter to get a situation report.

Mary June beat me to the punch. "Junior Junior isn't here. Flo has yesterday's deposit ready for you to take to the bank. I brought two pies in for you to taste, a coconut cream and a Dutch apple, but Flo said she knew you would like them so she went ahead and started selling them to the customers. They went fast, too. I'll make some more tonight so you can taste them yourself to see if you agree."

As Mary June waited for me to respond to her succinct report, I tried to organize my sleep-deprived brain in light of all the information presented to me. Before I could rustle up an intelligent response, I heard Flo's voice.

"Hey Will, we could use some help with the tables when you get time." I looked around and saw four recently vacated tables that needed bussing. The thought, _first things first_ came to mind, so that's what I did. Although I wanted to check on Junior Junior, he would have to wait because I knew instinctively he was either passed out drunk or dead. In either case, my taking off in the middle of the morning rush would not change anything. And as far as J3, he was safely locked up in my apartment.

Having gotten fairly adept at clearing tables by this time, it required no more than ten minutes to clear all the dirty dishes. All the while, I cleared the tables in preparation for the new customers sure to arrive momentarily, I thought about how well the diner worked without my presence. This thought both pleased and troubled me. This was not the first time in my life something like this had happened. In fact, it had happened many times before. That defined my previous profession: Take ideas and make them real by organizing various resources including capital, labor, materials, marketing, and administration personnel in such a way as to cause a profitable enterprise to come into existence. The very fact that a going concern existed where once there were only individual parts and pieces indicated a sign of success on my part. Yet, I never felt comfortable when the managers and operators came in and took over as they were supposed to do and were trained to do. It was their job, after all, to run the business. My job involved organizing and creating. Afterwards, I got the hell out of the way and let them do their job, and I did, but it still pissed me off.

Resigning myself to assisting the ladies until the morning rush subsided, I got busy helping Flo with the food bar, bussing tables, washing dishes and pots and pans, talking to the customers, and whatever else came up. All in all, I was in fairly good spirits considering my crowded dance schedule. A lot went on within as well as outside the diner, but I felt in control of things. And for me, having a sense of being in control was vital.

"Hey, Will," the familiar wheezing voice of Herbert Crackenthaler called from cross the dining room.

I looked around to locate the man Flo called "Oxygen Tank Geezer." I found him setting at a crowded table with his usual morning coffee group. Everyone at the table smiled as if they knew something I didn't. This didn't worry me as these guys were always fun to kid with. Like so many of the people I met since coming to town, they were basically good-hearted. A few surly individuals who came by regularly never failed to let the world know how badly put upon they felt having to put up with the liberals, foreigners, welfare bums, hijackers, terrorists, and of course, high taxes only to list a few of their complaints. These guys were not those guys.

"Morning gentlemen. Good to see all of you here this morning. What can I do for you, Mr. Crackenthaler?"

After taking a hit from his oxygen tank, the gentleman began to speak, "We're all real excited you're going to be part of the big debate, Will. Last year it was not much more than Mary June calling Cecil Wonkers an 'ignorant little prick,' and him calling her one of those 'heathen socialists.' That went on for quite a while until Mary June dared him to go outside so she could kick his 'lying ass.' That's when Cecil got scared and went home. Hopefully this year, we'll get to hear why you socialists want all the working folks to give you all their hard earned money. I hear most of them don't even believe in Jesus. Anyway, we're all glad you're gonna do it. I'm sure the whole town's going to be there."

_Oh my god!_ I remembered. _She did say that. How could I have forgotten that? I must have been exhausted. I am not a Democrat. I can't waste my time debating one of those political Neanderthals about politics. They aren't politically adept; they're just brainwashed. They don't have ideas. They have prejudices_.

I excused myself and practically ran to where Mary June stood behind the counter sorting a big platter of rolls for the food bar. "You've got to go over there and fix this right now. I am not going to participate in any stupid debate. Do you hear me? Go and fix it now." My voice went from its normal baritone to a falsetto range as I pleaded with a now puzzled looking Mary June to make this nightmare go away.

Mary June's look of innocence belied her complicity in this badly written melodrama that I suspected she concocted to destroy what modest amount of sanity I had left.

"I did not agree to participate in any debate. Go over there and fix this. Do you hear me?" As I concluded my demands, I let her know the degree of my irritation by placing my hands on my hips and leaning in towards her with eyelids raised, nostrils flaring, and possibly even with smoke coming out of my ears.

"My, my, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning, didn't they?" came the unworried response from Mary June.

The sudden realization that she chose not to respond to my obvious fit of great displeasure at her for involving me in more local nonsense caused my hopefully serious countenance to morph into something more sinister. Mary June stepped back away from the register with a look of concern, turned, and called for Flo. "Flo, will you explain to Will why he has to participate in the debate?"

Flo didn't bother to look up from her present chore of resupplying the food bar with rolls and muffins. "Cause we already ordered the posters. I gave all the info to Burt Hofferheifer when he stopped by this morning on his way to work over at the Gazette in Justice City. He's also going to give the information to the local radio station. Everybody in town is talking about it so we can't up and change everything."

I immediately knew it was useless to go any further with my pleadings. I experienced a sensation of being trapped within a very bad silent movie where the actors moved their lips and the dialog appeared at the bottom of the screen. No one could hear the words passing beyond my moving lips. Perhaps if I gesticulated as the old time actors did in their pantomime performances, then someone in this seemingly never ending tragic-comedy might understand me. Right then another crazy idea bulldozed it's way to the forefront of my barely functioning brain. _Maybe there is a God after all. And there is a hell, and I'm in it. That's it! I'm being punished. I'm in hell, and this will go on forever_.

As far as Mary June, Flo, Burt, and all the others were concerned, it was a done deal. I, a non-Democrat, a transient, a most unwilling participant, and the one individual in town who didn't have a dog in the coming fight, must stand up before an entire community of God fearing, Liberal and Democrat loathing Republicans and try to persuade them that their slavish devotion to a political party controlled by elitist corporate big wigs who desired nothing less than complete control of all the country's wealth, including the means of production, did not advance their best interest. Not yesterday, not today, and, certainly, not tomorrow.

All of a sudden it came to me, I'm not in control. Not exactly the most reassuring thought to come to a control freak. Yet, at least, a modicum of relief came from knowing the truth. The truth certainly didn't set me free, but it saved me from expending a lot of angst and energy attempting to influence matters beyond my control. The truth screamed at me to yield to the inevitable. I was not in control.

I immediately received a dividend from my newly contrived attitude of nonresistance. As my inner demons gradually relinquished control of my emotions, my composure and facial features returned to nearly normal. Even Mary June seemed taken aback by my quick return to sanity.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You don't have a gun or a grenade on you, do you? Cause you look really scary right now with that creepy peaceful expression."

I merely nodded and informed her I thought it time for someone to check on Junior Junior. Then without saying another word, I turned and calmly headed for the door.

"See you, Will," yelled Burt as I approached the door. "And thanks again for participating in the debate. We're all looking forward to it."

I turned and waved at the group as I headed out the door. I became the willow tree bending with the force of the wind. Bending, but not breaking. But just in case, I figured I should go and find that grenade.

After stopping by my apartment to retrieve J3 who busied himself during this time by destroying a very old and sturdy looking leather shoe, I headed for Junior Junior's back porch. Arriving there with J3 in tow, I observed the back door standing open with only the glass storm door barring entrance. J3 beat me to announcing our presence by scratching the glass with his paw and barking loudly. Deciding I could scarcely do better, I awaited a response. Some time passed and I began to get concerned when a heavy thumping began to emanate from within. I could make out a mass moving from the innards of the residence in our direction. I wasn't sure, but it did seem as if the mover banged into the hallway wall a couple of times before arriving blurry eyed and half awake at the back door.

"Wha...wha...ah crap!" said a thoroughly disheveled Junior Junior as he looked through the glass door towards the diner's full parking lot. Mumbling to himself, he abruptly turned and headed back down the hallway knocking over a small table along the way.

_The guy's still drunk_ , I told myself as I watched him stumble away. This man needed to not show up to work in such a condition. I had to do something, but recalling a few sad experiences during my younger life where I refused to heed the advice of friends after having too much to drink, I doubted the likelihood of him listening to me. I started to turn away to head back to the diner to get some advice from Flo when I saw Chief Barley's hub cap barren cruiser pull up to the backyard gate and stop. While I stood in place watching and wondering why the Chief would be showing up at this time, he calmly exited the vehicle and came through the gate and walked towards the porch.

"Morning, Will. Looks like it's going to be a hot one."

By the time he finished his greeting, he stood on the porch only a few feet away from the back door.

"Yeah, I guess it might be a hot one at that," I replied to the Chief unsure whether to explain my presence on Junior Junior's back porch or wait to see what transpired. The Chief made it easy for me.

"Will, I expect I know why you're here, and if you don't mind I'd like to ask you to go on back to the diner and let me take care of this matter. Would you do that for me, Will?" The Chief then took his Stetson off and wiped his brow with a large handkerchief and awaited my reply.

I experienced a sense of relief from the Chief's offer. "Certainly Chief, I'll be available at the diner if I can be of any help."

"Thank you, Will. That's very kind of you."

Without saying another word, the Chief calmly opened the storm door and walked inside the house leaving me alone on the porch. Sensing things were now in the proper hands, I turned and headed back to the diner. On the way it occurred to me that this was not the first time this had happened. The only question was who alerted the Chief? My gut instincts told me Flo.

On the way back to the diner I tried to clear my mind of the Junior Junior affair. I knew instinctively the Chief had previous experience with whatever went on in the house behind me. And if worse came to worse, I'd go outside to pump gas and take the customers' money. There were other important things to think about. I still needed to contact the Mayor. My friend, Carlton, may have someone on the way to contact me at this very moment, and in all sense of fairness, I needed to figure out someway to get back at Mary June and Flo. Maybe I was the willow tree bending with the wind, but that didn't mean all the birds sitting on my limbs had the right to crap all over my little world!

Preoccupied with my thoughts, I almost did not notice the individual holding the door open for me as I arrived at the diner entrance.

"Why good morning, Will. How are you today?"

I looked up in time to keep myself with colliding with my door greeter. I expect my startled expression gave away my surprise at being confronted by none other than Big Bob Buford. He stood there smirking like a hyena as he held the diner door open for me. As best I could, I attempted to convey an attitude of calm disinterest towards my secret antagonist's presence.

"I'm very well, thank you," I said calmly as I passed through the opened door heading directly for the privacy of the kitchen where I intended to gather my composure and figure out a new plan. My schedule got more crowded by the minute. I expected to hear from Carlton's contact at any time, fill in for Junior Junior's absence, find the time to contact the Mayor, help Flo and Mary June get through the morning rush, get back at Flo and Mary June for involving me in the town's annual 'let's waste our time arguing with blind political partisans' contest, and lastly, I needed to watch every move Big Bob made.

Once safely out of sight in the diner kitchen, I busied myself with cleaning pans, dishes, cups, and doing anything else providing me reason to stay out of sight until I had figured out a plan. I knew not to try contacting the Mayor until 8 a.m. Also, Carlton's contact might not show up for days. As long as Junior Junior stayed away while drunk, he became a non-issue; the man was hardly needed. Finally, I decided to try to forget about Big Bob and get on with my business. I felt confident nothing would happen at the diner.

Exiting the kitchen with a tray of freshly washed coffee cups, I observed business going on as usual. Every table was occupied and most everyone looked to be in good spirits. The geezers, including newly arrived Big Bob, occupied three tables pulled together to make one long table. The group drank coffee, ate muffins and rolls, laughed, and otherwise conducted themselves as they did every workday morning.

Seeing that Mary June busied herself giving the customers free refills, I saw my chance to jump in and help. Several of the younger guys employed at the farm implement plant over at Justice City moved towards the register to pay their bills. I headed that way so Mary June would not have to interrupt her coffee refill run.

"Good morning. How are you gentlemen this fine day?" I said to the three young regulars approaching the register.

"Not good, Will," replied one of the troubled young men. "We're all pretty worried some really bad news is waiting for us at the plant. In case you haven't heard, there's lots of talk about the plant closing down. We're afraid our jobs are heading to China or to some other _chink_ country. Don't know what we are supposed to do for a living then. Nobody is hiring anywhere in this area. One of these mornings when we come in we may not have to drive to Justice City to go to work. We don't know what the hell we're expected to do. Are they going to send every dang busted job to Mexico or to China?"

I obviously struck a nerve. I was not unfamiliar with what the young man talked about. I worked in corporate America, and I knew well their almost total lack of concern for the welfare of their employees. The corporate America I knew paid strict attention to the bottom line. Whatever added to the bottom line also added to the salaries and bonuses paid yearly to corporate management. Employees were considered expendable— simply another means of production, and if they could be replaced by a machine or by a third world labor force working for less than subsistence wages, the leadership of corporate America with the blessings of the stockholders and the nation's lawmakers always on the prowl for political contributions thought nothing of destroying the lives of dedicated, hardworking American families.

I'm sure the worried customer standing before me had no idea he struck a nerve. I truly felt for the young man. I made myself a pest many times during my corporate career by bringing up the annoying fact that we were systematically destroying the same manufacturing base responsible for the greater part of our country's success. "What were future generations supposed to do?" I asked. The only responses I ever received were, "We are destined to evolve from a nation of factory laborers to a nation of technology specialists," or in some cases, I was summarily informed that corporate America's only responsibility was to the stockholders and the bottom line. Essentially, workers were not important in any capacity outside of being tools of production.

I pondered the young man's comments while taking several of what might be the last of their few dollars to settle their tabs. It was a noticeably less gregarious diner manager who admonished the young workers to be sure to have a nice day. How do you have a nice day when some pencil-headed accountant working for one of the many corporate CEOs, enthralled with the idea of inflating the bottom line at any cost, sat somewhere trying to figure out how to eliminate the need for your job or at least find someone offshore to do it for a much lower wage?

I looked out over the crowd of customers made up of mostly seniors with little or nothing to do who sat laughing and talking. Most of these guys worked hard for years and retired with pensions, Social Security, and medical plans. Most owned their homes and had little or no debt. For most of them life, except for the getting old part, looked pretty darn good. That wouldn't be the case for the young men departing the diner wondering if they still had jobs. For them, company pensions, possibly even Social Security, and maybe their jobs stood to be lost. How much longer before some of them saw the futility of their predicament and got real mad?

I looked at the clock. It was time for me to call the Mayor.

## Chapter Seventeen

By the time I hung up the kitchen extension phone after talking with the Mayor, both Flo and Mary June had geared up for the lunch crowd that usually started coming in after 11:00 a.m. Their extra efforts did not go unnoticed on my part as I carried on a much longer than expected conversation with the Mayor. I'd tried to give him an update while explaining how plans were still in the works. I would call him again as soon as the individual, vouched safe by Carlton, contacted me. Still, the Mayor kept asking questions I could not answer. Obviously, he was nervous, possibly even scared. I wanted to help him, but I couldn't. I could only reassure him that my old friend was an individual to be trusted, and if Carlton said to expect someone to contact me, then they would.

After a time, I'd said to him, "Mr. Mayor, I have to get back to work. I'll call you as soon as I have new information." Possibly the tone of my voice got through to the man, and we said our goodbyes. Before I exited the kitchen to take inventory of my two associates' lunch preparation efforts, I took a long peek through the kitchen/dining room window to see if Big Bob and his buddies still hung around. They did not, so I quickly figured out what still needed to be done to get ready for lunch and jumped in to help. It sort of surprised me that neither Flo nor Mary June made any comments about me spending so much time on the phone when so much work needed to be completed before lunch. It should not have surprised me as I now had little doubt both ladies somehow knew the better part of what went on between the Mayor and myself. How they knew I could not fathom, but they did know.

With the diner ready and waiting for the next rush, I expected Mary June might want to call it a day, and I felt pleasantly surprised when she told me she could stay as long as I wanted. What's more, Flo seemed pleased with the idea. Of course, this did nothing but stoke my childish resentments at the notion they might think I was no longer needed. Things were up and running now, so thanks for coming, and we'll take it from here.

My paranoia moment came to an abrupt halt moments later as Flo's matter-of-fact voice echoed in my ears. "Are you going to check on Junior Junior, Will? It would be nice to know his status so we can let Mary June know about tomorrow before the day's over."

Without hesitation, I answered in the affirmative. I agreed that we did need to know his status, and I immediately set forth to find out the answer. The first thing I did was to check and see if the Chief's car still sat behind Junior Junior's house. It did not. I next looked to see if Junior Junior's old truck sat in its usual spot, and it did. That left me with two choices: simply knock on Junior Junior's back door and wait to see if he answered or call the Chief's office to get an update. I decided upon the latter.

Retreating again to the kitchen phone extension, I called the Chief's number and waited no more than one ring before I heard the Chief's voice, "Chief Barley here, how can I help you?"

"Chief, Will Clayton here. I'm curious about the status of Junior Junior. I can see his truck is still there. Will he make it to the diner tomorrow?" I awaited his response.

"Will, I've got a call in to Doc Sayah whom I expect to hear from at any moment. I don't believe Junior Junior is in any condition to do anything, drunk or sober. I think this thing about his wife has set him back more than any of us expected. I removed all the booze I could find as well as his shotguns, just to be safe. I also told him to stay in the house until the Doc gets there. My advice is not to expect to see Junior Junior around for a few days at least. I will keep you updated, and if per chance he does come around the diner, immediately, and I mean immediately, give me a call. Okay?"

I hung up the phone and called my two associates together to give them the complete update, word for word. Neither acted surprised and said they were prepared to do whatever was necessary to cover the absence of our employer. For a moment I could not tell if they were serious or joking because we all knew Junior Junior didn't do much of anything anyway. About all I could recall was him standing up front watching for the infrequent opportunity to sell gas, rereading one of his worn out fishing and hunting magazines, or checking to see if Jasper lurked outside with a gun. I was pretty sure we could somehow manage to handle those chores. All kidding aside though, we felt sympathy for the man's grief. All of us, I felt sure, had been dumped at some point in our lives, and the memories of those painful events were all too vivid. The fear of outright rejection from people we care for is one of humankind's greatest fears. It certainly was for me and possibly became the primary reason why I now avoided close relationships.

The rest of the day went as usual. Mary June and Flo worked great together. After a while, I decided to pretty much to stay out of the way and wait for one of them to let me know when something needed to be done

By the time they prepared to leave, the diner was ready for the next day's renewed activities. About the only important thing I needed to do was get the rolls and muffins ready for Flo the next morning. After that, only inventory review, cash reconciliations, and making the deposits remained. This unexpected event with Junior Junior looked to be working out better than expected. Mary June's presence allowed us to function in a much higher gear. And if, in fact, Mary June and Flo felt they could handle the place just as well without me, just so much the better, and the sooner I could say goodbye.

The sight of a lone individual clad in a badly rumpled light tan colored suit approaching the diner entrance caught my attention. Immediately, my mind speculated as to whether this might be my Carlton contact. The individual did not look like a local. I wasn't sure, but my best guess told me he, or his ancestors, hailed from the subcontinent, very possibly India or Pakistan. Fearing one of the ladies might spot him first I headed for the entrance. Glancing over my shoulder to ensure I arrived at the door alone, I felt relief at seeing the ladies still busy and unaware of my suspected contact's impending presence.

"Afternoon," I hurriedly said to the man as soon as he stood inside the diner entrance. "My name is Will, and I'm the manager. Are you here to see me?" I stood in place intentionally blocking the individual from gaining further entrance to the diner.

Without bothering to look at me, my suspected contact set his well-used valise, satchel, or whatever, on a small table to the right of the entrance. Then, still not having responded, he withdrew a large, wadded up handkerchief from his side coat pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow.

"I have been told to contact the manager of this establishment, would that be you?" asked the rather tired looking man after stuffing his handkerchief back into his coat pocket.

"If you're here because Carlton sent you to see me, then I'm your man."

A look of complete puzzlement covered the man's face. "I'm sorry, I thought his name was Barley?"

"No, no, his name is Carlton. Barley is the name of the Police Chief." Now I was puzzled.

"I know Barley is the name of the Police Chief, who is this Carlton? I know no one named Carlton." His puzzlement plainly showed.

"Carlton is the name of an attorney in Topeka who is sending someone to see me. Isn't that why you are here?"

The weary individual looked completely flustered by this time. "But I am not from Topeka, and I do not know any attorney named Carlton. I am a doctor directed to stop by this diner and give the Will person an update on the Juniors."

I felt like a complete idiot after I realized this whole mess with the Mayor and the Bufords, as well as the whole damn town had made me paranoid. I needed to get a grip. Carlton's contact would make his presence known to me in due course. Until then, I needed to stop evaluating the likelihood of every unknown individual coming in the door of being the anointed one.

"I'm very sorry. I mistook you for someone else. Please come in and sit down. Can I offer you a cold drink?" My hurried segue from conspirator to diner manager eager to receive medical information related to the owner's health went well, I hoped.

Still cautious, the slight, disheveled looking individual allowed me to escort him to a table. By this time, both the ladies knew he was not a regular customer. Again, I asked our surprised visitor if he desired something to drink. With visible trepidation, he agreed to accept a glass of ice water. Waving to the ladies to join me, I hurriedly secured a cold glass of water filled with crushed ice for our visitor.

"I'm sorry Doctor, I didn't get your name," were the first words out of my mouth as soon as I returned to the table where Flo and Mary June stood waiting. Placing the glass on the table in front of the doctor, I motioned for the ladies to have a seat. Not until at least half of the glass of water disappeared down the throat of our thirsty visitor did he respond.

"I am Doctor Sayah. I visit this community once a week to offer services for those individuals who cannot arrange travel to the Justice City, and I believe I recognize this young lady," he said pointing to Mary June. "You, I believe, have on a number of occasions brought elderly patients to see me. Am I correct?"

Mary June nodded in agreement but offered no further comments.

"As I mentioned before, I am instructed to bring you up-to-date relating to the present medical condition of the Juniors. I will assume you are aware of the circumstances surrounding the Juniors' present condition, yes? The man is severely depressed and abusing his body with the alcohol. I do not know if he will respond to medication or my warnings against consuming the evil alcohol. I can tell you that he will destroy his mind and his body if he continues. I'm sorry, but this is the way it is. I have seen this many times before. Sometimes they recover, and sometimes they drink until they die. I can prescribe medication that will calm him down, but whether he lives or dies will depend upon his not using the drugs and alcohol."

I caught only the gist of what the doctor said before I suddenly recalled Chief Barley earlier telling me the name of the doctor. I distinctly recalled thinking a doctor with a name pronounced Say-Ah sounded sort of funny. It irritated me to no end to simply forget things like that. To me, it indicated a lack of organization or attention. When it came to being organized or paying attention, I drifted into the downright anal category. I considered this recent lapse another clear sign of not being in control. I felt somewhat like the guy who needed to transport two thousand pounds of parakeets to market in a truck with a cage on the rear capable of hauling one only thousand pounds. His solution was to have someone drive the truck to town while he sat in the back with a stick attempting to keep no less than one thousand pounds of parakeets in the air at all times. Essentially, that's how I described my life in Jonesboro. I was the crazy guy in the back of the truck with the stick.

The doctor's concise analysis of the situation left little need of clarification among his listeners. Most people these days were more aware of the dangers and the damage addiction to drugs and alcohol caused. Professionals reminded the friends and families of abusers that unless the addict wanted help it served little purpose in offering it. Help cannot be forced upon an abuser. The best action usually amounted to letting them know you cared and that help was always available, and then try to stay the hell out of their path of destruction. Often this guidance fell upon deaf ears as families and friends were loath to sit around waiting for a miracle or for the addict to get to the point where incarceration or hospitalization was required.

I offered my summation of his comments. "Basically, we need to keep him out of vehicles, keep him away from weapons of all sorts, and don't provide him with liquor or other mind altering stimulants. Tell him that we care and are here to help if he wants it, and then, basically, stay out of his way and hope for the best?"

The doctor, displaying a weary look that shouted he'd witnessed sad scenes like this one many times before, simply nodded his head in agreement. "Unfortunately, you are correct. I am sorry. I hope your employer is one of the lucky ones who recovers. I must be going now. I'll leave you my card. I have more patients to see before the day is finished."

The doctor promptly walked out the door while the three of us sat at the table silently considering this abrupt turn of events. I personally harbored no doubts about us all being on the same page. I saw no need for me to go into a long-winded speech about how we were going to have to "blah, blah, blah." We all knew what needed to be done.

"Well...okay then. Enough said. Let's—"

"Will," interrupted Flo before I finished my brief observation on 'knowing what needs to be done so let's simply do it' speech.

"Yes?" I replied cautiously.

"Will, both Mary June and I have something we want to say to you, and right now might be as good a time as any, I expect."

I halted my thinking and awaited Flo's response with no small amount of trepidation on my part.

Flo looked over to Mary June who looked back to her while nodding her head in what I interpreted as an affirmation. Now I did have reason to be worried.

"Will, the two of us have something to say to you that we believe needs to be said," she said repeating her initial statement.

Oh no! They are going to mutiny. I knew they would turn on me sooner or later.

"Will, I... we feel, you need to know how grateful a lot of folks around here are for what you have done or are trying to do. Not that we know about what you are trying to do, of course. Oh, Mary June, you tell him."

Stunned by her remark, I turned my attention to her fellow conspirator.

"Will, a lot of people whom you will never hear from are grateful for you helping out our little community. Flo and I are at the top of that list. We want you to know that." With that Mary June smiled and looked to Flo for approval. Flo gave her a wink and smiled back.

To say I was shocked would be the supreme understatement. This was much, much worse than a mutiny. I could put up with doubt, rejection, and outright hostility. But as for acceptance and approval, how dare they! I was a nomad, a drifter, and I sought no man or woman's approval. Moments like this lulled a person into thinking it would be safe to open up and become a part of something. Then later on, you let down your guard and then wham! Before you know it you are smacked upside the head with a dose of reality. People don't really give a crap about you. It's nothing but an aberrant moment where normally selfish people get caught up in the glow of a rewarding event and say things they do not mean or even remember in the days, months, or years ahead. Maybe at an earlier time in my life I may have fallen into such traps, but not anymore. I was a nomad. I did my job, and I moved on. No need to thank me. I did not expect it or need it.

Not knowing what to say or do, I nodded my head to acknowledge having heard their comments then got up from the table, walked to the counter, and began fumbling through papers trying to look busy. Seconds later, I heard the noise of chairs being shoved under the table as the ladies headed back to the kitchen to get their personal items before leaving for the day.

In response to their statement, I inventoried the expanding list of other people's problems I willingly had allowed myself to get involved with. I started with operating a diner burdened with a drunk and, possibly, suicidal owner. Then, of course, there was the Mayor and the developing criminal investigation I now spearheaded. Being stalked by Big Bob made the list. Then, in no particular order of importance, came: Preacher Roy's dependence and constant referrals; the completely insane political debate I'd gotten snookered into; living among a bunch of evangelical Christians some of whom were eagerly awaiting the rapture; consorting with political haters of everything and everybody who didn't slavishly drool over every mangled word and phrase uttered by possibly the most incompetent human to ever occupy the White House deserved to be on the list; and last, but certainly not least, the frightening realization I'd started to care about some of these strange people and what was happening in their lives.

## Chapter Eighteen

The whole thing was becoming surreal. It was really starting to happen. The town was coming undone. The country was coming undone. These notions represented a mere smattering of the more restrained observations loitering at the forefront of my thinking muscle as I sat alone looking out the diner's front window. By 2 p.m. on Saturdays, customers were usually in short supply. Myself, and three thirtyish looking men were the only people in the diner. More than once I wondered why these guys weren't in a tavern getting hammered. That's where I would have been back in the day. _What the heck is wrong with this younger generation?_

I glanced at my watch and saw barely ten minutes had passed since I last glanced at my uncooperative timepiece. I wanted to get out of the diner and back to my apartment so I could take off my shoes and kick back. A nagging weariness hovered over my existence of late. Everywhere I looked, things looked messed up. I tired of going over the list of local issues messing with my brain. My subconscious had also started to focus on national and world issues as well. Needless to say, when approaching those subjects you gazed into a bottomless pit.

For starters, I was surprised the country had lasted so long. Looking down at the note pad before me on the table, I saw listed several areas of concern in no particular order of importance. My list included: a contrived housing bubble melt down; extreme political partisanship on both sides; gas nearing $4.00 a gallon; the country's increasing dependence on unfriendly foreign countries for diminishing oil supplies; corporations outsourcing manufacturing jobs to slave labor countries; wholesale redistribution of the nation's wealth to the upper one percent via ridiculous tax laws; the destruction of the nation's middle class; more saber rattling as Russia invaded the small country of Georgia in spite of the our empty threats; major financial institutions failing because of their insane lending practice of providing home loans to people with no jobs, no money, and bad credit; ignoring the growing evidence of global warming; wars in Iraq and Afghanistan looking as if they will continue in perpetuity; federal deficits increasing beyond sustainable levels; the dollar's pending loss of reserve currency status; unsustainable world population growth; agricultural-corporations' intentions of destroying the family farms; evangelical Christianity rising as a counter productive political force; and lastly, failure to maintain or upgrade our national transportation infrastructure. At that point, I got depressed and stopped.

_See, this is what happens when you let yourself get involved in a bunch of people's silly affairs._ Long ago I determined the world existed as a very scary place. I believe at some point everything fails. Bridges fail, relationships fail, our health fails, peace treaties fail, governments fail, religions fail, economic and monetary systems fail, judicial systems fail, atomic power plants fail, tooth fillings fail, our brain cells fail, super glue fails, lifetime warranties fail— everything fails! It's only a matter of time.

If there is one thing a citizen can depend upon it is a continued downward trajectory for the United States financial future. Taking a short position towards our nation's present and long term economic viability would, I believe, pay dividends. I adhered to the old saw averring, "Things that can't go on forever, don't." You can't be that stupid as an individual, or a nation, and expect to survive. Evolution is not, as the religious zealots avow, an untested theory. It's working as we live and speak. And it's beginning to scream louder and clearer that we must get our act together or it's going to be ashes and dust for us as our privileged way of life is ultimately relegated to the status of a historical footnote.

_When is Carlton's contact going to get in touch with me, damn it?_ The question came out of nowhere. That's what was really bothering me. Why in the hell hadn't I heard something? That's what I wanted to know. Right then I made up my mind to give Carlton a call Monday morning, first thing. The Mayor kept bugging the crap out of me with his inquiries, while I became more paranoid by the hour. It seemed like I saw Big Bob everywhere, even in my sleep. I had no patience for this stuff. A long time ago I conspired with the best of them but not anymore. Now I needed things as straight up as possible.

Looking at my watch, I saw fifty-five minutes until the 3 p.m. closing time would mercifully arrive. Basically everything stood ready to go for Monday except for the frozen rolls that I would take out of the freezer on Sunday night. Once my three customers left, I could close out the register, lock the doors, deposit the receipts at the bank night deposit box, and head for my apartment. I figured I'd do the cash reconciliation sheets and record the sales break down later. Peeking in the direction of my malingering customers, I saw they still carried on their conversation at the same pace. My impatience with the slowness of the men may have been somewhat tempered by my suspicion that these guys probably discussed the developing story relating to the possible plant closing in Justice City. The local paper picked up on the story and reported the plant owner refused to comment on any aspect of the rampant rumors going around. I didn't know these guys names, but I knew they were local, and more than likely, they had families, mortgages, medical expenses, and all the other obligations that go along with raising a family. As I thought about their predicament, I genuinely hoped things turned out well for them. I concluded my commiserations by lamenting the foolishness of our legislature for creating tax laws that rewarded large corporations with huge tax breaks for moving manufacturing jobs off shore.

It seemed as if someone ought to tell our legislature one more time that for a sovereign country to exist it needed to be able to support itself financially. Our country could not do that any longer, especially, if we sent every decent paying manufacturing job overseas. Our country no longer depended upon a large and productive manufacturing base. Instead, we had morphed into a consumer-based society. That's kind of like putting the cart before the horse. We want to sell our citizens new homes, new cars (mostly made abroad), and vacations to the Bahamas without having an economic base that originates the funds to provide for this consumer spending. We exist, for the most part, upon borrowed money. We borrow from foreigners, from our children, from ourselves, from banks, from pawnshops, and sometimes I've been told when our government gets real needy, it simply prints the extra money. Our trade deficits were growing obscenely larger every single day.

Once the country stood proudly as the largest exporter of manufactured products in the world, but now our national brain trust thought it better to export the manufacturing know-how to low wage countries and ship the usually inferior and much cheaper products back to us so our former manufacturing workers, now unemployed, or underemployed, can hopefully save enough money from their lawn cutting, burger flipping, or house painting jobs to purchase all those now imported refrigerators, televisions, and golf clubs from the discount big box stores along the highways that replaced the local retailers who went out of business because they couldn't compete against third world labor costs.

I reminded myself to forget about all the craziness trying to occupy my brain, as nothing would be done to stop an entire nation from going nuts. I truly felt sorry for the young folks, but unless they tried to better understand what was happening, come together as a unified group forsaking affiliations with the traditional political groups that were populated and directed by the elderly that claimed ownership to the greater part of all the tax revenues collected and spent by this failing former beacon of individual opportunity and egalitarian economic prosperity, then forget about it.

Feeling helpless and agitated, I determined to concern myself with matters closer to home— like how Junior Junior was coming along. No one had seen him except for Chief Barley who stopped by the house a couple times a day to check. The Chief usually called with updates each afternoon, and according to the latest report, Junior Junior was still out of commission. No one knew when to expect to see him again. It may very well be that our employer's presence at the diner mattered little in a business sense, but to a person, I believed every employee and customer looked forward to the man's return to health and duty. We were all pulling for him to get well.

The only other matter occupying space in my brain not dealing with Junior Junior's health or my eagerly awaiting the arrival of my contact, related to the reduction of chatter between the two ladies and myself these last couple of days. As best I could figure, we exchanged but few words not relating to the operation of the diner. Otherwise, we kept quiet and concentrated on our work. Since each of us knew exactly what to do and when to do it, there was little need for conversation. Nevertheless, things were sure different. As I somehow knew it must have been something I did or didn't do, I expected it needed to be me who got things back to our usual noisy status— one more thing to add to my Monday morning to-do list.

Turning my attention to the present and my abiding desire to get out of the diner as soon as possible, I decided to prevent any late customers from coming in by going to the door and turning the Open/Closed sign around to the closed position. When my last three customers departed, I only needed to lock the door behind them. As I sauntered towards the door, I noticed movement out in the parking lot. A strange individual looked to be heading for the diner door. I did not recognize this character, and I say character because I could not tell if the human advancing towards the door wearing a dark hooded jacket was a local or a hitchhiker stopping by on the way through town. The hood was pulled up over the wearer's head so I couldn't tell if the person was male or female. _This person does not look local_.

My infatuation with this unexpected event froze me in place, and I neglected to get the open sign turned around. When the hooded figure advanced through the door and looked around until spotting me standing like a stump, he or she advanced in my direction until we stood toe-to-toe. The mysterious individual gazing directly into my eyes looked to be a slightly built male, wearing dark sunglasses. I couldn't be sure of anything else because the hood allowed me only a partial view of his face. After more scrutiny, I suspected my reticent visitor to be an older white male. The last thing I noticed, before I took note of chairs being noisily pushed away from the table by my previously semi-somnolent customers as they scrambled for the door as if the diner had caught fire, was the wrapped package carried by the stranger. That's when I knew. The strange looking person standing before me must be our mysterious local version of the Unabomber— Mr. UB2 himself.

We stood there facing one another for a long time. I could not even fathom what thoughts occupied my potential assailant's cranium regarding my own person, but there was little doubt over where my thoughts resided. I must have glanced down towards the package he held securely to his side a dozen times. My earlier humorous thoughts regarding the local residents always worrying about the possibility of UB2's ubiquitous package actually containing a bomb now seemed less preposterous.

My visitor made the first move. "I'm looking for a man by the name of Will Clayton." That was it. No because or I'm from or anything else— just your average potential psychopathic mass murderer asking for information from a very nervous guy trying hard to stay calm.

"Will Clayton, did you say?" I responded somewhat tentatively, not nearly ready to admit ownership of a name to a person carrying a package suspected by many suddenly not so foolish people of containing a homemade device that might go booooom!

The hooded legend spoke again, "That's correct, Will Clayton."

My response time became noticeably tardy and my voice wavering, "And who may I say is seeking Mr. Clayton's attention?" I surprised myself with my presence of mind to politely inquire just why a reputed assassin wanted to speak with such a soon to be very busy individual.

My slight, but determined, verbal sparing partner responded in due course with a question that may have put my delaying game in check. "Are you Will Clayton?" he asked in a quiet and inquisitive manner.

Nothing will kick malingering off line brain cells into gear like the immediate and completely unexpected prospect of sudden death. Every molecule in my body having anything to do with keeping me alive sprang into action. My home guard, oxygen carrying blood cells, may have been on holiday down in the lower extremities or wherever, but they all hustled back to the brain's survival center. I mean ideas came rushing forward which surely at calmer moments would not have passed even basic muster. Like, for instance, the idea of screaming fire while running for the door or falling to my knees begging while proclaiming the Mayor made me do it or offering the guy Junior Junior's money from the register. Anything just so he wouldn't blow me up, too.

What I ended up doing lacked the spontaneity of my initial thoughts, but in the end probably made the most sense if I survived. "Yes, I am," I said meekly casting my fate to the winds of fortune. As I said earlier, I have little stomach for scheming. The ongoing Byzantine affair with the Mayor had earlier consumed all my stored up duplicitous energies.

The next words out of my imagined assailant's mouth floored me. "A mutual friend of ours called and requested I come and talk to you. Is now a good time for you?"

My brain told my lips to say something. "You...You...You," my mouth mumbled until I regrouped to try again. "You are my Carlton contact?" I blurted out. Shocked came nowhere close to describing my state of mind. Before me stood absolutely the last human being in the world I might have expected to show up and inform me that he was sent by my old friend Carlton. "You are a lawyer?" I asked, immediately regretting it.

I detected a hint of a smile beginning to form around the edges of the mouth of my self-proclaimed contact right before he answered my part question, part unintended insult.

"May we sit down? I'm afraid my old legs are not as strong as they use to be," asked the hooded figure.

This time I did detect a smile. _Oh joy, I wasn't going to die after all_. "Of course, let's sit over here," I said pointing to a table far away from the windows. My visitor with his tightly clutched box followed me to the chosen table. Once there and in much better control of my faculties, I displayed better manners. "May I offer you a beverage? Coffee or ice tea?"

My visitor thought for a moment before requesting a glass of ice water. I retrieved the water while also swinging by to lock the front door. Finally settled in with one of the biggest surprises of my life, I found myself lacking the words to begin a conversation. Maybe it had something to do with Mr. UB2 still wearing his sunglasses with his hood still up. My puzzlement must have become apparent.

"Will, if I may call you Will?"

"Please do," I hastily replied.

"Will, I hope you will not be put off by my attire nor uncovering myself even though we are safely inside. You see I have chosen to live my life as a private person and the mysterious persona I present to the ogling local public works very well for that purpose. I expect as soon as the word gets out that I'm in town all sorts of folks will be trying to get a better look. I would not be surprised to find people with high powered cameras trying to get shots from great distances at this very second."

I glanced past my guest through the front windows and to the street out front, and sure enough, I could make out one individual climbing a tree a block over. It also seemed like more vehicles than normal cruised the main street, and not a single driver of a vehicle passing by failed to take a long look towards the diner.

"I can see you are surprised that the local mystery character is being referred to you by our mutual friend in Topeka. But again, let me assure you, it's nothing more than a ruse to protect my privacy. I came to this area to enjoy the last years of my life in peace and solitude. I am pleased to be able to report that for the greater part I have been successful in doing that. Now I need to ask you to respect my desire for privacy and not reveal my secrets. Can I count on you, Will? My very old friend, Carlton, assures me I can, but I would like to hear it from you."

I did not hesitate, "You can depend on me to keep your secret, but, I have to admit, I'm sitting here wondering what it is you can do to help? I expect you must have had something to do with the law during your earlier career, but how can that help this community today? If even a small part of what these individuals are doing is criminal, how can a retired lawyer or judge help?"

My hooded guest observed me quietly before he answered, "A valid question, and I will have to ask you to place some faith in our friend who chose me as your contact in the first place. I can't stay here long or our meeting will come under suspicion. But what I will do is review the files and information you have available, contact you by no later than midweek, and tell you if I concur with your belief that criminal behavior is provable regarding these individuals' activities. If I discover evidence of criminal activity, I will, by then, have a plan in place, and I will instruct you as to how and where we can meet to make arrangements to have these persons prosecuted. This empty and loosely wrapped package, I carry around for no purpose beyond my desiring to live up to the locals' self-created image of myself, as a reclusive mad bomber, will hold any information you have available for me. Please give it to me now so I can get back on the street to give the local folks something to talk about. By the way, my first name is Dom, and no one else knows that locally. So if you're told someone on the phone named Dom wants to talk to you, please take the call."

My surprise visitor soon went out the door toting his much maligned suspected bomb package containing all the documents previously provided to me by the Mayor. He also carried an additional sack containing two cinnamon rolls as a decoy to justify his stopping by the diner in the first place. Now all I had to do was wait patiently for Mr. Dom whatever to contact me by no later than midweek. When I no longer saw my fellow conspirator walking away from the diner towards the main highway leading to the middle of the town where he turned south heading towards his home, I fetched a glass of crushed ice and sat down in the same chair I'd occupied only minutes before, placing the cool glass to my forehead.

With the soothing coolness penetrating my overheated cranium, I began to relax and allow my thoughts to drift back in time to a place where I sat alone atop a picnic table resigned to going back to my hide out, an RV parked at the Texas coast, to escape from life— a place where my greatest concern dealt with the heat and humidity sucking the will to live out of all those not strong enough to endure south Texas summers without air conditioning. How easy that simple task seemed now!

## Chapter Nineteen

"Hey Will," yelled one of the friendly geezers, "what did you and your new buddy, UB2, talk about Saturday? How to make an atom bomb look like a muffin? Ha! Ha!"

The entire group erupted in laughter. The geezers had carried on the entire morning starting when I came through the door and came face to face with the largest gathering of humans I'd encountered in one place since arriving in town. I knew I needed to play along to deflect any suspicion regarding my surprise visitor. I looked over the crowd and caught sight of Flo and Mary June both looking in my direction with their eyebrows raised as if asking me how long I intended to put up with this unrelenting harassment.

Accordingly, I decided to have some fun, plus I wanted to further impress upon the citizens of the community my being no less surprised than they were regarding the unexpected visit.

"Actually, we did have a nice conversation during the short time he stopped here," I responded. "I suspect he felt to be in the presence of a kindred spirit, if you know what I mean." Not a man in the entire group had the slightest notion of what I meant, nor did I expect them to.

"Huh?" replied the obviously confused originator of the conversation.

"What I'm saying, gentlemen, and I first want to compliment you on raising the level of the discussion to a more civil and learned plane, is that we can all learn from the lessons taught to us by Mr. T. Kaczynski when he speaks to us through his seminal treatise, "Industrial Society and Its Failure." He eloquently addresses the ongoing degradation of human rights and freedoms brought about by our slavish adherence to the dictates of an unforgiving modern technological society."

I halted momentarily to take inventory of the number of old people's skulls that had exploded. They displayed not the slightest idea about the subject of which I spoke. Most of them merely scrunched their brows in a display of complete incomprehension. At least one old fellow's eyes crossed while three more acted as if sharp objects suddenly penetrated into their brains.

"Huh?" responded several of the geezers not yet displaying cranial damage as they joined with the original questioner in expressing their complete lack of understanding of what I said.

"So in conclusion," I continued, "I would suggest that we all embrace the redeeming inner spirit which urges us to deterge our denigrated souls of their profligate propensities immediately, lest we hasten the complete and inevitable collapse of this now all consuming technological morass we call our modern society."

Looking out upon my audience, I realized I'd said enough. Possibly too much if the pained grimaces displayed by many of the geezer group were taken into consideration. More important duties awaited my presence anyway. The pots and pans piled up in back required my expert attention. I made a quick mental note to continue my attempt to enlighten or if the pained looks of several of the diner's senescent clientele could be trusted, torture them with my ontological musings at a later date.

"Hey Will, who's this Kaczynski fellow?" asked one of the few geezers not yet displaying brain damage. "Is he gonna show up around here and try to tell us how we ought to _terge_ our souls before we fall into a _more's ass?_ " Almost the entire group quickly recovered and joined in the ensuing laughter. The conversation sank down to their level. They understood this line of thinking.

I halted my short journey back to the kitchen washbasins where stacks of dirty platters, dishes, and trays awaited my attention. "I doubt very much that you need concern yourself with Mr. Theodore Kaczynski showing up in town," I responded before turning to start for the kitchen.

"Why not?" came the immediate reply from an individual I did not recognize as a regular member of the geezer crowd. "Maybe UB2 is looking for another socialist to help him make this evil industrial society share its hard earned pay?"

I tried hard not to reflect the justifiable air of condescension I knew lay just below the surface of my forced smile. These individuals possessed little, if any, knowledge of the history of their country. Like so many of the true adherents of partisan politics and religious dogma, they did not burden themselves with historical precedent or inconvenient scientific facts. "Because gentlemen," I said with a palpable weariness present in my voice, "Mr. Kaczynski is the original Unabomber. And he has displayed his great displeasure towards his fellow citizens' distain for any attempts to preserve our fragile environment for future generations. And as for causing this society to fail, the present administration in Washington, D.C., is doing just fine all by themselves."

Mary June followed me into the kitchen with a smile on her face. "That may have made my day. I know most of them have no idea of what you were talking about, but I'm positive they, at least, suspect they have been insulted."

I thought about what she said as I filled the large washbasin with hot soapy water and commenced to place the stacked platters and the dirty utensils into the steaming liquid. I had mixed emotions about my almost daily smack downs of the local _lumpenproles_. Mostly I did nothing more than shoot fish in a barrel. It wasn't as if they were bad people or mean people or that their intellectual malaise was reserved solely for voters whose politics skewed to the right. Both major political parties failed miserably, as far as I was concerned. Right now, the conservative right held center stage in the ongoing battle to populate the leadership positions of our country with the largest number of diehard party ideologues and corporate shills. My best guess was that soon the nation's voters would send the Republican Party back to the sidelines in favor of the candidate of the almost equally inept Democratic Party. Then, most probably, after all the election noise abated, the new leadership would continue with business as usual which consisted mainly of chasing the pork, and who owned and distributed the pork? _Corporate America, that's who_ , I thought as I suddenly became aware of a deep and abiding weariness enveloping my entire existence. I looked around to where Mary June awaited a response to her analysis of my most recent geriatric flogging.

I started to say something when she saw the tired expression on my face and cut me off. "I know what you are going to say, and you are right. I should not gloat over their constant display of ignorance, nor of the necessity of your having to continually make fools of them. I'm going to try to do better— I swear I am. I'm actually beginning to see things more your way, if you can believe it. Like you said, 'We either all win, or we all lose. We will either hang together, or we will hang separately. Because one way or another, we will all hang.' Or something like that." A very welcomed smile encompassed her face. "I better get back out front," were her last words before turning and heading back to the dining room.

I stood alone at what now substituted as my desk. Instead of piles of important looking legal documents and personal knickknacks, dirty pots and pans were piled high awaiting a bath in the soon to be greasy dish water. Contrasting the executive lifestyle I'd fled many years ago with the pile of greasy pots, pans, and utensils piled before me, the beginning of a smile came to my face. I easily knew which one I least wanted to be doing. The smile turned into a chuckle as I grabbed a hard bristle brush and submerged a large baking pan into the hot soapy water.

By early afternoon I felt worn out. Not from the hard work at the diner, but from having to come up with a contrived version of UB2's visit over and over again. After the morning rush, both Flo and Mary June trapped me in a corner of the kitchen and pressed hard for information regarding UB2's visit. I could not tell them the truth, so I tried to be evasive not wanting to outright lie to them. I think after a while they came to understand that, for the time being, I'd told them all I could. They seemed content to wait. How long their patience lasted remained to be seen. A fleeting image of two agitated ladies holding me upside down by my ankles and repeatedly dunking me into a dirty tub of dish water until I came clean with the real story flashed before my eyes.

I also received visits from the Mayor and Chief Barley. Both wanted a complete accounting of the local mad man's surprise visit. I was evasive in my responses to the Chief, but the Mayor, after learning the truth, was even more shocked than me at finding out UB2 served as our Carlton contact. After I told him, he sat immobile with eyes crossed mumbling incoherently. Summing it all up, UB2 and I spending time together, alone, became the talk of the town.

Possibly the UB2 affair would have dominated local conversations for days or weeks, except that steady rumors started to arrive by lunch time reporting the likelihood of the plant in Justice City closing. No one knew for sure, but if true, it amounted to a disaster for local workers. If the plant no longer existed, hundreds of local bread winners stood to lose everything. Absolutely nothing else was available for the workers to do locally to earn a similar wage. Homes would be lost and families left without health insurance, as well as many local businesses, barely hanging on, would also go under. This represented a potential catastrophic event for the local economy. To me, this looked to be nothing less than another complete sell out of the American way of life by corporate America looking for a chance to exchange reasonable earnings for obscene profits by transferring all production to third world countries where destitute people worked for near slave wages, countries where there are no environmental regulations, and where child labor laws do not exist while the tax breaks further increase bottom line profits by over fifty percent for these companies. All this made possible by corporate America's well-paid professional lobbying pimps who funnel corporate dollars in never-ending boat load amounts to practically every member of Congress in exchange for a Senator's or Representative's abandoning their now nearly destitute constituents' interest.

By the time Flo and Mary June left the building to begin the rest of their day's planned events, I felt more than ready for some quiet time. It started to look and sound to me as if things in and around Jonesboro were about to get a lot more exciting. I looked forward to having some time alone to organize my own thoughts and go over how I managed to get myself into the middle of this outwardly bucolic, small farm community's sordid affairs.

_Good job there, Will. You know, it's a good thing you were not alive in 1912 or, for sure, you would somehow have managed to land a consulting gig on the Titanic. Yeah. Or even better, you could be washing dishes on the Hindenburg! One day, long into the future, some nosey archeologists will be digging through the rubble around here and come upon a large stone bearing the inscription, 'It was that crazy socialist's fault!_ '

I heard a voice on the radio I usually turned on only when I wanted to punish myself further by listening to the talking heads go on and on about practically every issue presently endangering modern day humanity's very existence. I'm definitely a big picture person. No focusing on only those issues threatening to destroy the city of Jonesboro's ability to exist. That's why the monotonous voices on the radio, talking on and on about the Democratic Convention being held that same week in Denver, Colorado, barely six hours drive to the west claimed my attention. I apparently wanted to add more to my plate. Like who would lead our country into the future as we continued the never-ending wars we had committed our children and their inheritance to? Or who would assume responsibility for preventing the pending collapse of the dollar as the world's reserve currency as well as determine whom to hold responsible for the failure of our financial institutions. All being important issues surely vital to diner managers and dishwashers everywhere.

As the monotonous radio voices in the background went on and on about any of a hundred issues threatening our country's way of life, my mind drifted back to the matter of the loss of jobs if the local plant closed down. I knew the entire matter could be avoided if only our elected representatives took the time to pass a few sensible laws prohibiting large corporations from sending jobs along with formerly taxable profits off shore. So absorbed in the radio noise did I become that I forgot to lock the front door and was reminded of that fact when the two individuals in the community who I could count on most to try to solicit my brain and bodily energies for all sorts of extracurricular activities burst into the room.

"Hey Will, glad you're still here!" The Mayor offered this greeting as he, with Preacher Roy in tow, moved across the room to where I stood.

"Afternoon Mayor, Preacher Roy. I hope you guys aren't looking to have lunch because I've already put the food away." I don't know why I said this because I could tell right off these guys had other matters on their collective minds. I had no idea what they wanted, but I started to get another bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"No time for that, Will, We've got something else we need to talk to you about. Can you take a break and sit with us a minute while we tell you what's happened?" The Mayor, followed by his still silent companion, started pulling chairs away from a table before I had time to answer.

I realized it served no purpose to try to beg off, so I nodded my approval and headed to the front door to lock it in hopes of staving off further intrusions. I arrived back at the appointed meeting table and promptly took a chair. No sooner did I get situated than the Mayor started in.

"Will, we've got a real problem that's just come up. The farm implement manufacturing plant over in Justice City has announced they are presently entering into discussions with outsiders to sell the plant. They haven't come out and said it but the gossip is the work here will be transferred either off shore or down to Texas where corporations don't have to pay any state income taxes. Will, the loss of that plant will just about destroy this county. If that plant leaves, hundreds of families from around here are going to have a real hard time surviving. We can't let that happen, Will. We need to do something quick. We need your help again, Will. I'm sorry, but the Preacher and I have talked about it, and we don't have anywhere else to turn, except to you."

I'm sure they could not help but notice the look of pained disbelief on my face. Not more than five minutes earlier I sat lamenting the fact I allowed myself to get lassoed into all the other local issues occupying more and more of my time. Now they expected me to pull another miracle out of my rear in hopes of averting another local crisis. I simply did not know what to say. Deciding to move complex production operations involving equipment, inventory, management personnel, suppliers, and much more to another state or country involved a lot of planning. These decisions did not get made without extensive deliberations. And once decided upon, the planned course of action usually required an act of God to halt.

A full half-minute went by without any further discussion. My two plaintive visitors sat quietly awaiting my response.

I didn't know where to start. "Guys—"

"Will," the Preacher said, interrupting me before I could get started, "before you answer, I, we, need for you to know that we came here to see you for one reason. That's because you're a knowledgeable person who knows what's going on in the world. You know how things fit together where we don't. You have special skills and information about things we can only imagine. I believe to the bottom of my heart you were sent here for a reason. You may not agree with me on that, and you may feel as if you are being put upon, but we can't worry about that. If you want to get angry or irritated at our coming to you with our problems, well so be it. I only know I cannot be deterred in my efforts to serve my brothers and sisters. You know something about this situation, Will, I'm positive that you do. What you know may not be enough for us to change anything, but we still have to do what we can. We can't simply stand by and watch all these folks have their lives destroyed by a bunch of greedy money changers."

Talk about taking all the wind out of the sails of the good ship USS Whiner. The Preacher had both chastised and complimented me in the same breath. The guy made a good point in that I did know something about the subject. The weasels I previously worked for in my earlier life were all over this scam. We also investigated a number of potential deals similar to this. The only reason my former corporate bosses had not made a similar deal was because the state listed as our present domicile imposed no income taxes for corporations, and the local labor pool consisted mostly of farmers moonlighting for the puny hourly wages sans benefits. My company paid for unskilled laborers to assemble the various parts and components into a functioning piece of equipment. Many of the components were purchased and shipped in from various oriental sweatshops located off shore. Now though, corporations went a step further by setting up shell corporations in countries such as Ireland where tax laws are much more forgiving. The end result ensured more bucks going to the fat cat corporate honchos and fewer jobs for the increasingly desperate American workers scratching and clawing to salvage a disappearing lower middle class lifestyle.

"Well, you're mostly right Preacher, but still, what ideas I might have would need to be considered a long shot. I mean a really, really long shot."

I'm not sure, but I thought the Preacher mouthed a thank you prayer before he looked up with his tired, weather beaten face.

"Give us anything you've got, Will, and we'll run with it. Anything that holds the slightest possibility of helping these workers out," said the Mayor with a renewed sense of hope having replaced his previously grim countenance.

"What I'll do is not burden you with a lot of detail right now and simply ask you to find out if the workers at the plant in Justice City have a company sponsored savings plan. That's all I need to know. If they do, and if they are serious about wanting to keep their current jobs, well, then maybe, and I stress the maybe, something can be done. Otherwise, I've got nothing. Okay?"

Moments later, I found myself alone at the table. I've never seen the Preacher move so fast. Both he and the Mayor headed towards the door so fast they wedged themselves together in the doorway for a split second before exploding out into the parking lot filled with a new hope they were so desperately lacking minutes before.

While I sat there, surprised and pleased I helped lift their spirits, I wondered if maybe I hadn't simply raised their hopes for nothing. The idea I had in mind represented the longest of long shots. It is next to impossible to stop one of these off-shoring trains once it gets up to speed. So many things must come together for my idea to succeed. But if they did, well, then I knew I would do whatever I could to help. And if the Preacher wanted to believe God made me do it, so what? Maybe I hadn't bought into the old idea of it's either heaven or hell way of thinking since I had learned to tie my own shoes, but that didn't keep me from acknowledging the valuable contributions most of the Christian denominations regularly made to our society. In my simple way of thinking, there were basically two types of Christians: those who believed they were here to help and those who thought they were put here to judge. Preacher Roy and his struggling parishioners represented the former. No matter that they struggled to make ends meet, they still made time to help others. They left the judging to their creator. As to those so-called believers who ignored the Bible's admonition to not judge, lest you be judged yourself, and who devoted most of their time and energies calling down God's wrath upon all those who did not believe and live the same as they said others should, I tried hard to keep my distance, lest I found a big stick and got into the judging business myself.

## Chapter Twenty

As I enjoyed my second cup of coffee while watching one of the cable news shows from within the somewhat safer confines of my small second floor apartment the following Tuesday morning, I marveled at the hoopla going on at the Democratic Convention getting ready to start three hundred miles to the west in Denver. I couldn't figure out what all the fuss was about. The Democrats already knew who their nominee would be— a black man.

Finally, the Democratic Party conceded to the fact the South indeed was lost forever following President Johnson's mid-sixties civil right's legislation passing into law. Millions of fine, patriotic, white Americans from Dixie immediately switched allegiances, and now blessed the Republican Party with their enlightened charm and wit. The Republican Party, although outwardly expressing an abiding appreciation for these valued supporters of all things godly and white, now were faced with the task of keeping these political refugees from turning the coming Republican Convention planned for September in St. Paul, Minnesota, into a bon voyage party celebrating the coming of the rapture.

Considering the Democratic Party's historic tear down of another of the country's racial barriers, I attempted to make sense out of our society's rules used to determine one's whiteness or blackness. I've looked into the mirror enough to be able to determine that I, a certified at birth Caucasian, am not white. I'm more of a pale color, which the dictionary defines as having little color or being lighter than normal. If pushed to choose a color, I'm, at best, a weak tan. Also, so-called black people are not black. I have never seen an actual black person. And to further complicate the matter when a person who is not really white gets together with a person who is not really black and they conceive a child, the child is automatically considered black. Witness the current male Democratic presidential candidate born of a not white, white woman and a not black, black man automatically being considered a black candidate. Why? If I mix black paint fifty/fifty with white paint, I'm pretty sure I'm going to get grey, not black. I decided I needed to clarify this whole matter in my mind before I further acquiesced to our country's long established flawed method of color profiling every member of the human race.

I began by looking into the Subtractive Color Theory, which asks the question: Are black and white actually colors when they exist as pigments? The textbook answer states that black is a color. If you combine all three of the primary colors, red, blue, and yellow (colors that can't be made by mixing other colors together), you'll get black. According to the same theory, white is not a color; but rather, it is the absence of color. In other words, you can't mix other colors to create white. Therefore, if we humans insist upon living in a world where one's place is defined by skin color, then so-called white people need to understand that they are a very weak shade of tan resulting from an unequal mixture of the three primary colors that ultimately make up the color black. Or technically, we are at the lower end of the black color spectrum. It is the so-called white race that is a diluted variation of their original black ancestors who evolved millions of years ago on the African plains.

_Try explaining that to our nation's enlightened southern denizens or to the Jonesboro geezer crowd_ , I mused as I rose from my comfortable chair and prepared to head over to the diner. This last thought caused me to chuckle as I pictured myself explaining my reasoning to Big Bob and his aging cronies. I had no doubt they would commence to hoop and holler, so I decided to save this jewel for a later date when I needed something to get their juices flowing.

No sooner did I exit my second floor apartment but I again espied a parking lot overflowing with vehicles. Based on my previous experiences with similar very bad omens, I knew something troublesome awaited me in that nondescript cement block building located across the gravel lot. My mind raced. _Did they know about UB2? Did they know about the Mayor's and my efforts to fry Big Bob's butt? Is Junior Junior dead? Did they find out I wasn't a Democrat? What in the heck was going on?_ I thought about going back inside the apartment and locking the door and waiting it out, whatever it was. But I knew that would not work. My only real option was to go find out what new disaster threatened to destroy either the town or me. My thoughts drifted to the notion that maybe some misanthropic force had it in for this town. _Then what in the heck am I doing hanging around this modern day version of Sodom and Gomorrah waiting for God's wrath to be delivered?_ I asked myself, jokingly.

"Just get it over with," I said as I started down the stairs to begin the short walk across the parking lot. Whatever awaited me at the diner could hardly be worse than imagining all sorts of insane scenarios.

Before I got to the entrance, I saw that it was standing room only. I didn't kid myself by thinking all those people standing around waiting came by for the hot rolls or muffins. Something had happened and a very bad feeling told me I somehow played a part in it.

Proceeding to open the front door, I became aware of the constant chatter emanating from the scores of individuals either seated at the tables or standing idly by waiting for I knew not what. The next thing I became aware of was the sudden deafening quiet, as my presence became known. Talk about becoming self-conscious. I halted a couple of steps beyond the door hoping to receive some indication as to what the heck was going on. For a brief moment, I wondered if I should I take advantage of the four or five steps still separating me from the docile appearing group and run like hell. They didn't appear angry, and I saw no weapons in their hands. I obviously was the guest of honor. Whatever this involved, it included me. _Well, what else is new?_ I asked myself as I gathered the courage to advance further into the room. My co-workers, standing behind the counter looked as puzzled as I must have. Still, if I had any friends in the room, they were it. So that's where I headed.

As I made my way across the room, passing mostly among faces that were completely new to me, I took comfort from the few friendly faces I recognized. Still ignorant of what had happened, I spotted the Mayor and Preacher Roy sitting together at one of the back tables. That's when I put all the clues together. The Mayor, the Preacher, and all the new faces— this was about the plant closing! But I had told them just to get me some preliminary information. I turned to look directly at the table where my not so confidential confidants looked as guilty as one of those not so bright, big hair evangelical television preachers caught coming out of a sleaze bag motel room accompanied by a disheveled buxom blonde, twenty-two year old seeker of spiritual wisdom who acquiesced to his kind offer to personally probe the inner depths of her flagging spiritual core.

I walked directly to their table. "Preacher Roy, Mayor, how very nice to see you both this morning. Seems you brought a few friends along with you," I said to my supposed coconspirators. Both hesitated at first, and when they did respond, they talked over one another. Regrouping, Preacher Roy nodded to the Mayor to go first.

"Sorry Will, but these guys are worried, and we couldn't keep it quiet about there possibly being a way to save their jobs. We couldn't get the information you asked for without telling them why we wanted to know if they had any kind of retirement plans. We sure didn't know a crowd this big would show up." The Mayor looked to his co-conspirator for support.

"He's right, Will. You can't keep something this important quiet," said Preacher Roy.

Now everyone's attention turned in my direction. There might have been sixty or maybe even seventy people in the room, and there was little doubt as to who was the center of attention.

Taking a deep breath, I reconciled myself to the inevitability of the situation. I stood amongst a desperate group of men about to be set adrift on a vast ocean of financial devastation offering only the slightest glimmer of hope for them and their families. I'd opened my big mouth without fully thinking through the difficulty of the problem. First, the chances of so many things falling into place to allow even a chance for their jobs to be saved were at best microscopically thin. Second, if I agreed to insert my person as well as my plan between the workers and the company, I stood to be blamed if I failed to save their jobs. That's just the way it was. Frightened, mad, and desperate people often cut a wide swath when looking for culprits to blame for all manner of injustices burdening the average working man or woman on a regular a basis. My choices were clear: I could either fall on my knees right then and beg them not to harm me for giving them false hope or do the only other thing that made sense, to take control of the situation and go forward. I chose the latter.

"Well, okay," I said directly to the room full of dejected plant workers. "I can only surmise that you men are here because the Mayor and Preacher Roy found out that the answer to my one basic question, 'Do the employees have any kind of retirement plan in place?' is yes. Am I correct?"

The entire group responded in the affirmative.

"Very well. Then as I promised the Mayor and Preacher Roy, I will look into the matter. But, as I told them, the chances of our being successful are slim to none. You need to know that going in. If I find there is even the slightest chance of coming up with a viable plan that will keep this plant and your jobs here, I will let you know as soon as possible. Now, other than you selecting those from amongst your group who can best assist me and my two associates here in gathering the data necessary for us to make a decision, I suggest we all get to the regular business of the day. Any questions?"

Not surprisingly, one person did have a question, and it came from the one and only, Big Bob Buford. "What's in it for you? Why do you care about what happens to people you don't even know?" The contempt on the man's face and in his voice was palpable.

I looked at Preacher Roy and the Mayor, and I suspected that both would take great joy in imagining Big Bob being taken out immediately and staked on a giant hill of red ants. I knew what might happen when Preacher Roy's face started to turn red as it did right then. I needed to say something fast.

No longer, I decided, would I hide my outright contempt for Big Bob's entire self-serving existence by deflecting his moronic and insulting remarks. "You are so wrong, Big Bob," I began. "Maybe I don't know most of these men by name, but I know they are the same men who have been getting abused by lying politicians and greedy capitalists for too long. It used to be that our country's enemies threatened our very way of life from afar, but now our real enemies work from within. They are the capitalist financiers and corporate whores who bribe our political representatives to pass laws that make it more profitable to ship the very manufacturing base that helped make this country's workers the most productive the world has ever seen to third world nations where the work is done for mere pennies on the dollar, and the finished products are then sent back to the USA and sold in big box stores at prices much lower than what the local merchants can offer, thereby putting those same local merchants out of business. I don't like people who use their privileged positions for their own personal gain at the ultimate expense of the workingman or woman whose lives are being destroyed for the sole benefit of the fortunate few. That's why I care, Big Bob. You got a problem with that?"

Big Bob responded to my, oh so enjoyable, smack down by doing what bullies usually do when confronted head on. He got up and left the diner in a huff with the entire room's hearty approval of my personal motivation ringing in his ears. _Screw him if he can't take a joke_. Immediately, I could feel a warm feeling starting to infuse my whole body. I felt good! _Damn these professional crooks and thugs to hell! Let's just get it on, right now!_ I watched the door close behind Big Bob.

"Easy there, Tex. It's over. Don't pop a blood vessel or something."

I turned to find Flo standing beside me, and right behind her stood Mary June who obviously shared Flo's approval of my sudden fit of exuberance.

"Too much, do you think? Did I lay it on a little heavy?" I asked my co-workers in a more subdued tone of voice.

"I think it was wonderful!" said Mary June. "I'm so proud, I could just kiss you!"

My face must have shown my embarrassment at Mary June's compliment as well as her threat to plant a big one on me. I knew I felt like a tired old mule happily watching the farmer cuss up a storm at the big rock that broke his only plow.

"Oh, God!" said Flo as she observed my reaction to Mary June's unexpected compliment. "Now don't get your hopes up, honey," she said to her partner with a look of sadness covering her face. "Will, I guess your going to have to tell your new groupie here that sad little story about your personal situation, if you know what I mean."

As both Mary June and I watched Flo abruptly turn and walk away to her usual position behind the counter, Mary June looked to me for an answer. "What's she talking about?" she asked.

I, too, had been momentarily puzzled by Flo's statement until I recalled with horror the desperate moment sometime back when I lied to Flo about having lost my maleness in the war.

"Beats the heck out of me! Who knows what Flo's talking about most of the time. Gosh, look at the time. I better get to work so we can be ready for lunch." I then turned and started to walk towards the kitchen, but I did not get more than two steps before the Mayor took me by the arm leading me towards a corner where Preacher Roy, along with two other men, stood waiting while the other factory workers noisily headed for the door to begin the short trip to Justice City and jobs now for sale to the highest bidder.

Upon our arrival at the table, the older of the two men standing with Preacher Roy held out his hand and introduced himself as Jack Fletcher, the plant superintendent. The other younger man introduced himself as a foreman. Their eagerness to help impressed me. About all the information they offered at the moment related to the aging surviving brother of the original three brothers who started the company from scratch forty years earlier wanting to retire. None of the founders' siblings wanted anything to do with operating the business. Selling the company, building, machinery, inventory and all, seemed the most sensible thing to do. To that purpose, the surviving owner now discussed that possibility with a large company located in Texas that produced similar lines of equipment. The plant superintendent reported hearing that the main obstacle standing in the way of a sale going through fast dealt with the buyer having no real need for the real estate. They only wanted the product lines, the inventory, and the distributor outlets. The buyers proposed to absorb part of the additional manufacturing capacity into their huge modern plant in Texas. What assembly work they could not or did not want to absorb, they intended to off shore taking advantage of the near slave labor working conditions existing abroad. The surviving owner previously expressed his interest in finding new ownership to come in and take over operations as they stood, but so far, nothing had turned up. The Texas offer was the only one on the table. The superintendent also stated that if any chance of coming up with an alternative existed, we needed to move soon because the owner was not known as a patient man.

When I asked Mr. Fletcher about an employee retirement plan being in place, he answered in the affirmative. In short order, he informed me the owners established a 401k plan for the employees benefit back in 1985. Every employee on the job after one year earned the opportunity to participate, and practically everyone did as the owners matched each employee's contributions. After five years, the employer's portion of the contribution vested. Currently, millions of dollars in the fund was being administered to by a large financial firm in Denver, acting in the capacity of trustee.

This was excellent news. I realized there was the slightest amount of hope for the local workers. First, a potential source for financing existed, the 401k fund with its millions of dollars. Second, the owner went on record saying he hoped to keep the plant going in its current location. Third, the employees definitely wanted to keep the plant operating right there in Justice City. The next all important question to ask, assuming the business operated in the black, dealt with the current employees willingness to put their money, literally, where their mouths were. If they were, a possibility existed. But with a deal already in the works, things needed to get organized fast. Who really knew how desperate the owner's family might be.

"Mr. Fletcher," I said, "needless to say, we need to move with deliberation. The first and most important questions to ask the plant employees are: Are they willing to invest in their own future? Are they willing to use their own retirement funds to finance the purchase of the company to keep their jobs in Kansas? With another deal in the works, that needs to be done yesterday. I suggest you form a committee today representative of the entire employee population and discuss this matter immediately. If the answer is yes, I can put you in contact with professionals who will walk you through the entire process. Prior to doing anything else, inform the owner of what you are doing. Let him know you are as serious as a heart attack about this. Ask him if he will give you time to look into this possibility before he makes his decision on the Texas offer. I will not go into the details with you right now, but you can tell him that if you are successful in rallying the employees to buy the business, there are significant tax advantages that will accrue to him and his family that will reduce their tax obligations by millions of dollars. This should get him interested, and if there are any questions, you can call me here at my office," I smiled as I finished the comment about this being my office. The plant superintendent caught my attempt at humor and did likewise.

"Thank you, Will," said Mr. Fletcher. "I will make this my priority today, and I will get back to you as soon as I possibly can. This is the first good news we've heard in some time. Regardless of what happens, I want you to know how much we all appreciate your help."

A short time later, only Preacher Roy, the Mayor, and myself stood together wondering what the heck to do next. Observing Flo and Mary June trying to get things cleaned up following the sudden exit of the overflow crowd, I easily saw where my priorities lay.

"I got to get to work, guys. You know where to find me if anything comes up." I then turned and headed to my regularly assigned battle station in front of the two washbasins now stacked with dirty pots and pans. My office awaited me.

## Chapter Twenty-One

"Hi, Will. Nice to see you, Will. Have a nice day, Will." Time and again during the rest of the morning similar remarks greeted me when I came into contact with the townsfolk. Every single person stopping by for gas or food suddenly knew my name and went out of their way to make sure I remembered to have a nice day, a good day, or even better, a great day. I'd come up with one little idea and, all of a sudden, people treated me like a local rock star.

One young mother with a small child riding in her half-filled supermarket shopping cart placed a bag of homemade cookies into my cart as we passed by in the condiment isle. I'd taken a break from the backslapping going on at the diner and drove Junior Junior's truck to the local supermarket to stock up on supplies not available in bulk from the wholesalers. Usually Flo took care of this chore, but that day I used it as an excuse to get away. The number of local issues I'd allowed myself to get involved with expanded weekly. The fact that more than a few locals now depended upon me for ideas to save their economic lives weighed heavier upon my normally weak sense of civic responsibility each day. These people did not drift around like me— they were dug in. Practically everything they owned, knew about, cared for, or dreamed of stood to be lost. The big ideas I tossed out so casually meant something in Jonesboro. If the plant disappeared into the giant corporate off-shoring vortex presently consuming the country's manufacturing jobs, all those nice people's economic lives went along with it. They became castaways, forced to move from place to place looking for the decent jobs needed to be able to afford a home and raise a family. Visions of the 'Okie' migration of the 1930's came to mind.

Exiting the market pushing a shopping cart loaded with supplies, I decided I needed some air. I loaded the bags in the truck cab and headed out of town. I doubt my sudden idea to drive around the surrounding countryside, airing out my brain, would have appealed to me if a couple days of unseasonably pleasant weather had not descended upon our area of the state. I cared little about which way I headed, as it didn't matter at the time. I simply wanted some fresh air to have a chance to blow through the few hairs on the top of my head. After half a dozen miles, I found myself headed for my most very special roadside rest area. _Are karmic forces at work here?_ This thinking lasted until I reminded myself that we, meaning my usually dominant right brain with, hopefully, only minimal help from its sometimes very scary and eclectically inclined left brain relative, officially did not believe in all that eastern religion stuff. Nevertheless, the idea of spending a few minutes meditating atop my favorite roadside picnic table appealed to me. So far, mostly positive things came from my earlier visits. Maybe my luck would hold up and I would enjoy one of those epiphanies where people who sit quietly for hours, legs crossed, breathing deeply, being at one with the universe, or at least with that corner of the basement where their spoiled rotten kids had a hard time finding them, dreamed about.

As usual, the rest area was empty. I felt relieved, although I determined earlier that the general dearth of traffic in the area practically guaranteed it being vacant of humans. I allowed the truck to slowly glide to a stop a few feet from the weatherworn, yet still sturdy picnic table. Whatever conflicting thoughts banged around in my brain would now surely be put into some semblance of order. Optimism prevailed as I exited the truck to assume my usual position sitting atop the lone table. A familiar view, absent the oceans of wheat, greeted me. I breathed in the fresh air to clear my mind of all the turmoil hoping somewhere deep within my cranium, hiding out amidst the reportedly millions and possibly billions of brain cells standing by to provide guidance, I located those elusive cells possessing the key to my finding some much desired peace of mind. Then, after having been infused with a modicum of sanity, I expected to jump down off the roadside table and start running for my life as fast as possible into the next county and beyond. Never mind Junior Junior's old truck. It would either be found and returned or at least hauled off to the scrap yard where it belonged. I would be free again! Free to head back to the Texas coast with no more responsibility for the lives of people I barely knew whose faces, unfortunately, had affected a change in the neuronal synapses of my brain. I didn't want that because if there are changes in the neural connections, there are memories. And if there are memories, there existed the possibility for concern or, more importantly, guilt. I had experienced enough guilt in my life. I kept a mile long mental list of things I'd screwed up, so I sure didn't need more.

A full thirty minutes later I halted the imagined team of nearly exhausted draft animals toiling so mightily to pull the heavily loaded self pity wagon around inside the vast waste land sometimes referred to as my brain. I'd waited too long. I realized that I actually cared for some of the local citizens I'd gotten to know. Better that I'd left early on if I had wanted to leave. I also realized that even if I didn't care a lick about the people, I absolutely loathed the scumbag corporate elitist and dirty politicians screwing the local people out of what little they still possessed. _The only place I'm going is back to town_ , I thought as I vacated my spot on the sturdy roadside table. I expected that someday soon I would leave this place, but not yet. Some good people needed help.

Making my way from the, by now, friendly environs of my favorite rest area to the truck, I inherently knew this would not be my last visit. For some reason, my mind seemed to work better sitting atop a lonely roadside picnic table. Perhaps this was one of those places where different dimensions of existence, or reality, overlapped. I had read something earlier about various scientists promoting the idea of the existence of parallel universes— places that existed as mirror images of this universe. _Wow! Does that mean I've been screwing up mine and other people's lives in other places as well?_ I dismissed this unpleasant thought as I hit the ignition switch of Junior Junior's eight-cylinder engine bringing the six or seven cylinders still working to life. Time for me to get back to tending to some of those many irons I had in the fire.

No sooner did I start backing the truck away from the bench to allow room for turning around and heading back to town, then the sight of another vehicle pulling along side jolted me to my senses. I had not checked the rear view mirror before putting the truck in gear. I felt lucky not to have caused a wreck. That lucky feeling left abruptly when I recognized the vehicle beside me belonged to Sheriff Slaybaugh. His original words of warning, spoken at this very place, came rushing to the forefront of my brain. "It goes without saying I don't expect to ever see you back in my county again." Like the famous New York Yankee baseball player and philosopher, Yogi Berra, once said, it was "déjà vu all over again."

I resolved to accept my fate by putting the truck into park and turning off the engine. If someone made a move, I determined I would not be me.

"Afternoon, Will. Somebody told me I might find you out this way," said the Sheriff as he exited his cruiser and walked around to the driver's side of the truck.

"Afternoon, Sheriff, fancy seeing you way out here." I immediately rued having uttered this flippant sounding remark.

"I figured I might find you here. A couple of folks in town mentioned they saw you heading out this way. Seems you are becoming something of a local celebrity. Lots of folks are paying attention to what you're doing." By the time the Sheriff finished speaking he stood right beside my truck's driver side window.

"I've become more aware of that myself, Sheriff." There existed no reason, as far as I could determine, for me to deny that fact.

The Sheriff hesitated as if uncertain about what to do or say. "Yeah, well...actually, I just wanted to come by and tell you a lot of folks in this county are very appreciative of your efforts to help out,...and I'm one of them. It's sure gettin' to look like my first impression of you was wrong. I wanted you to know that, Will. That's all. Hope I didn't frighten you by showin' up here unexpected like I did."

My eyeballs must have looked as if they were ready to pop out of my eye sockets. Talk about being shocked. Wow! Maybe all this community mindedness had an upside to it after all.

"I appreciate your saying that, Sheriff," I responded knowing relief must have been apparent in my voice. "I'll do what I can to help, although, I sure can't guarantee anything. Times are rough, and I expect it's going to get even rougher in the future anyway it goes. But hopefully, if we can keep some jobs here, it will help out some."

The Sheriff smiled, "I've also been hearing things about your being something of a deep thinker, Will. I'm looking forward to the coming debate, although, I personally never felt Cecil Wonkers was all that knowledgeable when it came to anything other than tellin' folks how he was sure Jesus must have been a Republican. Plus, I'm glad I don't have to worry about that crazy hippie lady giving Cecil a regular old butt kicking!"

I actually laughed at the Sheriff's humorous take on the upcoming debate. This whole unplanned event looked to be turning out as something of a blessing. I felt much better now than I did when I first arrived at the roadside stop. Partly because of my subsequent decision not to cut and run, but also for the Sheriff having the decency to come by and raise my flagging spirits by simply expressing his personal gratitude for my efforts to help his fellow Jones County citizens.

"Oh by the way, Will," said the Sheriff just as he prepared to return to his cruiser, "I been picking up on some chatter about Big Bob Buford not being too pleased with your presence in the community. I want you to let me know if the man gives you any cause for concern, in any way. Will you remember to do that for me, Will?"

_This is freaking great!_ The Sheriff, by his tone of voice, obviously did not have any warm and fuzzy feelings for the Bufords either. As we got deeper and deeper into all the potential legal issues surrounding the Bufords' activities, it helped to know the chief law enforcement officer in the county backed you. When I returned to my apartment I intended to put a big red mark around today's date on the calendar to signify a red-letter day.

"I'll sure do that, Sheriff, and thanks for stopping by. I appreciate it."

"My pleasure, Will," responded the Sheriff with a nod before he turned to get back in his cruiser and drive away.

I drove halfway to town before realizing I was singing to myself. That surprised me, as I don't sing. I can't sing. Not a lick. _So what the heck has gotten into you all of a sudden_? All I did was take a ride out in the country, and the Sheriff came by and told me I no longer resided on his crap list. _Was I that impressionable_? I wondered. Had I become merely another one of those millions of laboring trolls groveling at the feet of the Boss Man? More importantly, why was I singing a song recorded by a now defunct British rock group complaining incessantly about having had a 'Hard Day's Night and I've Been Working Like a Dog?' I never worked nights. And I've never worked like a dog either. Rather, I preferred to describe my work habits as more resembling those of a narrow-minded badger. Badgers are well known for their tenacity, and I kind of liked thinking of myself as being tenacious. But on the downside, badgers were also closely related to skunks. I didn't like that part so much.

In typical fashion, I reveled in my recent good fortune for the time it took to get back to town. When I pulled out of the rest stop I soared with the eagles, but by the time I passed the sign telling strangers Jonesboro lay a mere five miles ahead, I sank back into the unresolved Buford mess. I still hadn't heard back from UB2. The issue with the plant deserved a person's concern and consideration, yet no one affected by it followed me around giving me the old evil eye. No doubt if I, we, failed, people would be upset, but I expect few of them would subsequently hope to see me get run over by a cattle truck. But again, by the looks I kept getting from Big Bob lately, I might do well to be on the look out for a fleet of cattle trucks coming my way. I made up my mind to try my best not to antagonize the guy any further. The man may very well be destined for some bad times ahead if only a few of all the potential charges stick. From what I witnessed and heard, all the guy had going for himself intellectually amounted to his years of experience with the town's water and sewage department which taught him that crap, and water, flow down hill— not exactly the résumé of a scholar. I thought it not too far fetched to wonder if the man might not rustle up his gang and try to bushwhack me somewhere.

The diner sign appeared as a welcomed sight as I approached the city limits. Flo and Mary June probably wondered where I went since I'd been away for more than an hour and a half. If I delayed Flo from a hair appointment, I expected to be welcomed back with her trademark dagger look. It didn't work that well on me, but many of the patrons acted as if they'd rather have a fingernail ripped off than find themselves in Flo's cross hairs.

Sure enough, Flo stood waiting for me— glare and all. She never said a word, but she never took her eyes off me the whole time she gathered up her personal things to leave. Even after she exited through the front door and headed for her car, her steely gaze was cast in my general direction.

"I think she had a hair appointment," said Mary June gathering her personal things in preparation for departure. "I don't think she's really mad though. I expect she's just trying to protect her image, if you know what I mean."

I turned to face Mary June feeling more than a little relieved to see the smile I'd become accustomed to seeing.

"Then why is she writing vulgar graffiti on Junior Junior's truck window again?" I asked Mary June who by this time also became aware of her error in judgment.

"I think she does it because she likes you so much. She usually reserves graffiti for special people," she commented still smiling.

I smiled back and walked over to the front windows to get a closer look at the newest graffiti to show up on Junior Junior's windshield. Moments later, I turned back around to Mary June and asked her a simple question. "Butt wipe? Butt wipe, written on a windshield for all to see is an expression of fondness?"

Mary June never wavered. "Of course it is. You don't see any four-letter words do you? If she didn't like you she would use only four letter words. These are merely different words for expressing her love and admiration."

I looked back towards the windshield. "One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four," I counted. "Ah, excuse me, but I believe those are four letter words."

Mary June frowned. "Okay, technically they are, but they are not _the_ four letter words. Are they?"

"I see. Then what phrases might I expect when she does get mad at me?"

"You know, I really don't think we want to go there. Even my own barely surviving sensitivity receptors recoil at the thought."

I'd appreciated her humorous assessment of the situation. She knew I did not get bothered by much of anything Flo did. Flo was one of a small number of people in town who, in the language of the younger generation, had my back. Whatever happened I had little doubt whose side Flo supported. Actually, my small support group was growing. There was Flo; the Mayor; Preacher Roy, for sure; Sheriff Slaybaugh starting today; hopefully, Mary June; plus a couple more who might turn out to be candidates.

"You're right," I responded. "What about you? Is your schedule as full as Flo's?" I'm not sure why I asked the question since it was certainly none of my business. I think I kind of surprised her because she took a moment before answering.

"No, I'd planned to take mom with me to the store to get supplies for making more pies. She really needs to get out more. The older she gets, the more afraid she becomes, and she's becoming more forgetful. I'm just glad to be able to help her live in her own home during this later part of her life. I never figured I would end up back here doing what I am, but, in many ways, I'm beginning to be grateful for the opportunity. It's easy to get lost in all the big city turmoil, don't you think?"

I hadn't been expecting to be quizzed on my geographical living preferences. "You know," I responded with noticeable hesitation, "I fully expect I can find or create turmoil wherever I am. That seems to be the case lately. My actual home is an aging RV with a broken air conditioner located at the cheapest RV park on the south Texas coast. I doubt that our very dissimilar living arrangements are comparable in any meaningful way."

"Wow, you live on the Texas coast without air conditioning? I visited there once in the summer, and I almost died of a heatstroke. Maybe that's the reason? Well, I got to get going. You know where to find me if anything comes up. See you tomorrow." With that, she headed for the door.

I stood motionless, pondering what she meant by the 'Maybe that's the reason?' remark. The reason for what? "Hey! What do you mean, 'Maybe that's the reason?'" I yelled after her. But my inquiry arrived too late. The door had closed behind her.

_This is not fair_. You can't just walk away from borderline paranoid delusional types and leave such statements hanging.

Alone again, I took a quick inventory of my list of daily chores and realized many still required my attention before leaving for the day. This time, I locked the front door before I headed back to the kitchen. I'd learned enough by now to know that, most often, nothing good came through the front door during the late afternoons. If I did happen to hear someone pounding on the door, I could peek out the kitchen door window to see if the caller was anyone I wanted to talk to. I certainly did not need for another local do-gooder to show up with another civic problem for me to solve.

I looked at my watch to determine the day of the week. _Really? You have to look at a watch to find out the time, and the day? Are the brain cells bailing out that fast?_ Glancing one last time at the vacant lot in front of the diner, I headed for the kitchen. Only one individual was on record as intending to contact me— UB2 had mentioned mid-week and this was only Tuesday. I suddenly liked my chances of being left alone for the rest of the day. As for tomorrow though, I knew I best count on even more sphincter tightening opportunities being presented.

## Chapter Twenty-Two

I sat alone at one of the rear tables the following afternoon watching Dr. Sayah and Chief Barley leave the diner following a short meeting during which they gave me another negative update on Junior Junior's progress. I experienced a sudden feeling of futility. _There is no way in hell I'm going to be able to keep on juggling all these balls I have in the air_. I felt besieged from all sides. Common sense told me I still stood to win or lose less than any other living person within fifty miles. I could get up from where I sat and walk out the door never looking back and not legally be held accountable for anything. Nothing! The insane thing, though, was it did not stand a chance of happening. I chuckled at this well-recognized bit of insanity. For reasons differing from day to day, I intended to stay.

Having resigned myself to my self-appointed fate, I looked around to get an idea of where I needed to go so I could once more become a working part of the diner's small, but now efficient work force. A late arriving lunch crowd occupied only a few tables. Both Flo and Mary June busied themselves tending to matters relating to the counter area: collecting money, stocking the food bar, and so forth. My efforts looked to be most needed, as usual, for busing tables, so that's where I decided to start.

I didn't mind the table busing because it required practically zero brain cells to complete the job satisfactorily. I could use the time to make plans, evaluate ongoing strategies, and, in general, lose myself for brief periods amidst the minutia of my existence. In short, people who get paid to go around picking up and washing piles of dirty dishes didn't generally worry about other people asking for their opinions or expertise. Except perhaps in Jonesboro, Kansas.

I started busing a table full of plates displaying the remnants of Swiss steak with gravy blue-plate specials when two gentlemen entered the diner and violated the general rule by heading straight to where I stood holding a nearly full tub of dirty dishes. I recognized one of the two as the plant superintendent, Jack Fletcher. The grey haired, late sixtyish, slump shouldered, wrinkled suit clad gentleman with him, I did not. Not put off by the tub of messy dishes I now held in anticipation of delivering them to the kitchen sinks, they both walked directly to where I stood.

"Afternoon, Will. This is Mr. Olson. He's the President and majority stockholder of Olson Brothers' Manufacturing, Inc. I told him as much about your idea as I could, and he suggested we come over so he could meet you and find out about your idea first hand. Do you have a few minutes?" Mr. Olson's semi-condescending facial expression gave me the impression he most probably came to get a look at the local fry cook/financial consultant first hand. So far, he didn't look impressed.

_I might as well get this over with_. "Yeah. Sure. Just give me a minute to take this stuff to the kitchen." I turned and headed for the sinks without waiting for a reply.

Still carrying a hand towel I'd used to dry the dishwater from my hands, I motioned towards a table farthest away from the customers, "Okay! Why don't we sit over here?"

Soon as we sat down, the plant owner started in. "Okay, Will. What's all this nonsense about a fry cook in Jonesboro having some smart ideas about how I should sell my business? Sorry to be so forward, but that's the way I operate."

The plant superintendent kept his mouth shut, but rolled his eyes following the owner's rude remark. I wasn't at all put off by the owner's abrupt manner. I would have been disappointed if he hadn't said something. Fry cooks as a rule _don't_ get involved in multi-million dollar financial transactions.

I had to smile as I responded, "Mr. Olson, I hope you will believe me when I tell you I asked myself that very same question and not because I lack the expertise, mind you. I once managed production facilities a hell of a lot larger than yours. A long time ago I got tired of having to deal mostly with a bunch of self-absorbed ass holes. I told myself I never wanted to deal with those people again. Most of them knew very little about production methods or managing employees. What they did know was how to derive short-term profits at the expense of the long-term viability of the entire manufacturing enterprise. I tired of helping a bunch of takeover specialists destroy the livelihoods of dedicated American workers. From what I hear about your proposed deal so far, it looks as if you might be thinking of selling out to some of the same kind of people. Anything else you want to know about me?"

The owner looked dead at me before responding. "Okay," he began, having ignored my intended insult, "you know something about business or maybe you've read a few headlines— tell me what kind of accounting system you employed within those manufacturing environments?"

He asked a good question. If a person claimed to be proficient in manufacturing processes, they should know the answer. I smiled, kind of like the guy who sat with a hand full of aces after having his bet raised. "I'm not sure what they are using now, but back when I ran the show, we employed what is generally referred to as a Full Absorption Accounting System. Are you familiar with it?"

The owner's face softened somewhat, "Well, it looks as if you do have some manufacturing background, but how does that translate to being an expert regarding the sale of a manufacturing corporation's assets?"

Another very appropriate question and I answered him by putting forward questions of my own.

"Perhaps," I began, "I can best answer this by stating to you that I am not a real estate expert, but I am intimately aware of various methods of transferring ownership in manufacturing businesses which can result in maximum benefit to all parties involved. For instance, as opposed to simply selling the company ownership or stock to the highest bidder, and then immediately dealing with the very serious tax implications of having received your selling price straight out, you might consider an alternative. Are you familiar with the term Employee Stock Ownership Plan?"

The owner did not answer outright, but merely moved his head side-to-side indicating he wasn't aware of such plans. His furrowed brow obviated his sudden change of attitude. The man now gave me his full attention.

"No? Well, that's not unusual. You may want to look into it because, assuming your business is profitable, there is a distinct possibility both you and your employees can benefit by working together to keep the plant functioning right where it is. An ESOP, as they are generally called, can benefit both the current owners as well as the employees who would otherwise lose their jobs. Are you interested in hearing more?"

My listeners nodded their heads in the affirmative.

"Okay, then without getting too technical about it, I will describe a potential transaction. If the employees are serious about keeping their jobs, they can use part of the considerable dollars in their existing 401k funds to purchase shares in a newly formed ESOP. The ESOP would then purchase the company lock, stock, and barrel. ESOP stock certificates are then issued in the individual names of each employee making an investment. An established financial consulting firm would act as trustee and custodian for the future benefit of the new employee/stockholder owners of the company. The tax consequence relating to employees using the cash from their 401k's is nil. Plus, the usually onerous tax consequences incurred by the sellers are deferred, and ultimately, generally reduced by somewhere in the range of fifty percent."

I sat back to observe my listeners' reaction to my down and dirty description of a very involved financial stratagem. The plant superintendent's eyes opened wider than silver dollars. The owner's eyes did just the opposite. What started out as a half opened glare now looked to be barely a squint. I wasn't at all sure what this indicated. Did the owner give any credence to my idea, or did he intend to jump up and run out the door in hopes of escaping more of what he considered nonsense from a deranged local diner manager/dishwasher/financial consultant?

I looked at my watch and saw that I needed to get back to work. "Sorry guys, but I got to get to work. If you have any interest in pursuing this idea further give me a call. I can put you in touch with professionals who can give you more details. Or, you personally might consult one of the more established financial consulting firms in Topeka or Wichita to get more information. This is a commonly used and successful stratagem which I'm surprised you're not familiar with, Mr. Olson."

I got up from the table and my two guests did likewise. Only when they started to move towards the front door did the plant owner respond. "You're an interesting individual, Mr. Clayton. Maybe we'll be meeting again. Good day."

I soon stood before the altar of dirty pots, pans, and dishes preparing to do penance for my sins. I suspected a lifetime of mostly selfish and self-centered behavior brought me to this most exalted position of chief dishwasher at the _Going Down Fast Café_ , located in _Where In The Hell Is That, Kansas_! But I didn't really believe in all that ultimate retribution crap. The only reason I was here is because I'd gotten slow of foot and mind. The solution to my problem came to me from out of the blue. If I ever got out of this mess, I would immediately go deep into a forest and live high in the top of a very tall tree where no one could find me. It was that was simple. Now, all I had to do was survive this temporary crisis of conscience blip presently interfering with my customary _I don't give a big rat's ass_ state of mind, and things would return to normal. I would once more become Lonesome Will, the invisible man.

But right at the present time, there were several loose threads dangling. I intended to get them tied off as soon as possible, beginning with returning the Mayor's two previous phone calls. I knew what he wanted. He wanted to know everything. What about UB2? Has anyone at the plant contacted me? If so, what happened? Has Big Bob been around? If so, did he say anything or do anything threatening? I dare say I would hate to witness the man's actions if something like a tornado ever came close to his town. I fully expected the surviving locals might end up having to use a net on him.

All of this serious business and government work needed, of course, to await my required attention to the dirty dishes at hand. Once the dishwashing and other management chores were finished, I then could take the time to save the world. Also, my two associates for some reason maintained a respectful distance for most of the day, and this started to concern me. If they weren't noisy, then I naturally figured they were up to something. Call me misogynistic if you insist. Although, I didn't loose my testicles in the war, my ex-wife had temporarily confiscated them once we settled into our neat, upper middle class lifestyle. That's when she started displaying more attitude and initiative. Like: when and what color to paint the house, whether we got a dog or a cat, when it would be appropriate for me to play golf with the guys. Little things like that. So it wasn't far fetched for me to wonder if a mutiny was in the offing. Now that the diner operated like a finely tuned engine was there a need for the Alpha male? The answer was no. Most of the stuff I dealt with now had nothing to do with the diner. What they may be surprised to learn, though, was that a number of times throughout my average, chaotic day, they would be more than welcomed to it.

Not long after I'd finished with the dishwashing and stifling my paranoia, I walked out to the front register and espied a pickup truck at the gas pumps. The odd thing was the driver just sat in place, when usually only the old and frail waited for assistance. I decided to take a stroll out front to check things out. Whether it was an oldster or a younger person waiting, it made no difference to me. If they wanted someone else to do the gas pumping that presented no problem.

Arriving at the driver side window, I asked the occupant how I could be of service. The driver looked up to acknowledge my presence. I recoiled at finding myself staring into the cold, hard eyes of the _you looking at me_ Judge. I'd overheard a few of the regulars make mention that he had not stopped by in the last several days. Now I could report to them their nemesis still roamed at large.

"Yes, you can," he responded. "You can fill up my tank with regular, and while the tank is filling, I have something to say to you."

I must have hesitated, wondering what in the heck he could possibly have to say to me about anything. I hadn't broken any laws, nor had I ever been caught looking in his direction for more than the usually allowed two seconds after which the offender got the dreaded _you looking at me_ response.

So it was with much trepidation that I returned to the driver's window after placing the gas nozzle into the tank opening. As soon as I arrived back at the window, he began to talk, "My brother, Dom, asked me to relay a message. He's requesting that you meet with us at his home south of town this evening at 9 p.m. I believe you know the reason. Can I relay to him that you will be available?"

Dazed. Shocked. Stunned. Mortified. These words might best be used to express my sorely abused brain's reaction to another unexpected revelation. I stood speechless, lacking the ability to make my lips move. The Judge waited for my response. Still, nothing came out of my mouth.

"Do you not understand what I am saying to you? Is something wrong?" he finally asked. By the time the Judge finished his questions, his menacing little eyes, the result, undoubtedly, of having to impart the fear of societal retribution into a multitude of hardened criminals, had me on the verge of pleading to the court for a lighter sentence.

"Yes! No! I mean, yes, I understand. And, no, nothing is wrong. I'll be there. Nine tonight."

The Judge merely nodded his head in agreement, and asked me how much he owed for the gas.

"Twenty-one even," I told him after having secured the gas tank lid and replacing the nozzle to its rightful place.

"Thanks," was his terse comment to me as he handed me the twenty-one dollars in cash and calmly drove away in the direction of the county seat.

"Probably has a private hanging to attend," I said aloud as I dejectedly walked back inside the diner where I stood dumbfounded before the register. My thoughts focused on the sheer number of odd characters I'd come into contact with of late. There was: the love'em or beat'em up Preacher Roy; the paranoid Mayor/realtor/insurance salesman; UB2; Big Bob (apparently dumb as a stick) Buford; Flo, the man hunter/waitress; the arrogant and possibly uncaring plant owner; the heartbroken Junior Junior; Jasper, the forgetful gunslinger; and now, the most frighteningly self-conscious judge I had ever met. In essence, I somehow managed to drift into an American version of a Fellini movie where absurdist humor, eccentric characters, and surreal dream imagery coalesced to form a mind blowing idiosyncratic vision of society.

"Holy crap. Boy, am I screwed. I am living in Nutville central."

"What's that you're saying?" asked Flo as she quietly came up behind me. "Did I hear you mumble something about somebody getting screwed?"

The sound of the avowed man hunter's voice brought me back to reality. "Merely a figure of speech madam, I assure you," I said to my workmate who by the time I looked around stood right next to me.

"Really?" replied Flo in an incredulous voice. "Well, let me straighten you out real quick buster. If it's done right, it ain't never about talking, and it's never about figuring out a speech either. Boy, you have been out of the saddle a long time."

As she moved on past me towards the front door, I experienced an almost profound sense of relief. The last thing I wanted to do was engage Flo in any conversation dealing with reproductive organs. Not monkeys, not cows, and, especially, not human reproductive organs. I'd rather talk to her about psoriasis, phlegm, photosynthesis, or any of those ugly P words that are so hard to work into conversations.

"See you guys tomorrow," announced Flo as she exited the diner heading for her car.

"Close one, huh?" said Mary June suddenly announcing her presence.

I turned to greet the one single individual in the entire town whom I considered even partially sane. That simple acknowledgement regarding her sanity spawned an idea. I realized I needed help. I needed a sounding board. Someone not nearly so, how can I best say it, nuts! I stood up to my eyeballs in the criminally humorous, yet sad, affairs of a community straight out of the pages of a Mark Twain novel, or better yet, George Orwell's, "Animal Farm," where, ultimately, the leader of the revolting farm animals is purged by those who succumb to the temptation of power, and change the "all animals are equal" commandment to "all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others." If we succeeded in wresting control over the jobs and finances from the crooked politicians and job outsourcers in Jones County would that eventually happen to me? Will Flo and Mary June end up throwing me out of the diner after all that I have done? And the Mayor, along with the plant employees, will they simply push me aside after I figure out a way to save their potentially ungrateful asses? _Who cares? I'm leaving anyway_ , I reminded myself.

"Do you have a minute?" I asked Mary June in the most supplicating tone of voice I could have ever imagined.

She looked at me as if she were in total agreement with my own unflattering assessment regarding my sudden extreme deference towards the use of her personal time.

"Well...sure, what's going on?" Her demeanor was one you'd more often expect from a person anticipating being hit up for a loan.

I had no idea how best to proceed, so I decided to wing it. "I'd like to talk to you about something. I promise it won't take more than a few minutes." As I finished my opening statement, I gestured towards the closest table. She acquiesced and took a seat without asking any further questions. I took a seat across from her.

"Boy, is Flo something, or what? Ha! Ha! I mean she is some crazy lady! Ha! Ha!" I blathered on like a teenager asking a girl out on a first date.

"Will, is something wrong? What's going on? You're acting very strange today. I think there is something you want to tell me. So what is it?"

Actually, I was relieved she put an end to my stalling. I needed help, and she existed as the only marginally sane person around.

"I think I need some help, but I'm reluctant to ask for it because there might be some danger involved. I mean real danger." I sat back, relieved to have revealed my fears to someone else.

Mary June's frown obviated her confusion. "You mean somebody is opposed to your helping to keep the plant here?" she asked.

"This doesn't involve the plant. It's something else entirely."

"Does it have anything to do with all those secret meetings you're having with the Mayor?" This question surprised me although it shouldn't have. I knew down deep there were few secrets in this town.

I decided to go all in. "Yes, it does, and I would like to think there is another sane human being available to use as a sounding board, but I'm reluctant to involve anyone else because, eventually, there could be real danger. So before I go on, I would ask you to think about it. If it makes you uncomfortable, you should get up immediately, and I won't ever bother you again with issues that are beginning to dominate so much of my time."

She looked puzzled. I expected she had long ago grown accustomed to the community's eccentricities, but I doubt she ever imagined real danger lurking nearby. I decided to do as most successful salesmen do after having made their pitch, which is to shut completely up. The rule was, who ever spoke first conceded the contest. Mary June apparently understood this tactic because for the longest time she sat quietly, pondering the opportunity to get involved with what I had so unexpectedly laid on the table.

Time passed as we looked at one another. She was a smart lady. She understood the definition of the word danger. If she wisely chose to get up and walk away, I would not hold it against her. Actually, saying no was the smart move. Only I suspected she and I labored with the same affliction: detestation for those scoundrels who regularly took advantage of the average workingman or woman. Like me, she withdrew only so far into her stoutly woven protective cocoon before coming out fighting. I decided not to torture her any longer.

"I'm in," is the response I heard before I could say anything. "Tell me the whole story and leave nothing, and I mean nothing, out," she said to me, absent any pretense at politeness.

And that's what I did, eventually ending up back where we sat at that moment trying to plan a way to get to UB2's property and back without being spotted or followed by one of the Buford cartel.

"I think it's time you and I went on a date," were the first words out of her mouth after learning the whole story. "I'll pick you up at 8:30 p.m., and we'll head towards Justice City. About halfway there, we can turn back south and use the back roads to get you to your nine p.m. meeting. I'll wait in the car, and then we will retrace our route back to town. Okay?"

"Okay," I responded with a genuine tone of gratitude in my voice.

"Good. Then I'll pick you up later," she said as she headed for the door.

Following Mary June's departure, I sat quietly for a long period going over in my mind all of the opportunities in front of me to either help or seriously hurt other people's lives. After another lengthy period, a single thought forced all others to the side. _I hope I don't mess this thing up_. With that sobering thought at the forefront of my mind, I figured I'd better get busy with my diner chores so I would have plenty of time to prepare for the meeting. My ride planned to pick me up at 8:30 sharp, and I needed to be ready.

## Chapter Twenty-Three

I felt nervous as I caught sight of Mary June's VW bug pulling up along side the stairs to my apartment. I'd had more than five hours to think about the scheduled meeting with the eccentric UB2 and his surprise accomplice, _you looking at me_ Judge. And to say I felt a bit nervous stated it mildly. Either one of the two scared the pants off most of the local citizenry. Now here I was heading out to meet with both of them, out of sight of any other human excepting Mary June. My initial gratitude for her assistance grew exponentially during the last few hours, and I intended to thank her again for coming with me.

She must have seen me waiting because she did not turn the engine off but rather left it idling while I hurried down the stairs and got into the car. Consistent with the clandestine nature of our outing, she immediately pulled out of the diner parking lot as if heading east to Justice City. As far as I could tell not a soul took notice of our departure or tried to follow. I know that because I rode the first ten miles with my torso turned around a full one hundred eighty degrees looking out the back window.

"Well, okay," I said, "I think this date is going very well so far, don't you?"

Mary June looked hard at the rear view mirror before answering, "Maybe, but don't get cocky just yet. Every back road we travel will have eyes watching the comings and goings of any vehicle that passes by. That's just the way it is. People around here want to know who's driving up and down their roads. They may not know where we end up, but, for sure, people will know this car has been on their road, and they will mention it to their neighbors. If things work out as I hope they will, we should be pulling into UB2's place right about dark."

I did not doubt what she said, and as long as we weren't seen coming and going from UB2 or Dom's, if my recollection of his real first name was correct, I cared little for what others thought or said.

My escort became silent after our initial observations, so I took the opportunity to express my sincere appreciation to her for helping out. Without her, I ran the real risk of being followed. She continued driving after I finished speaking as if I'd said nothing of consequence. I took no offense as I expected more important matters took precedence. Therefore, I decided to respect her pensiveness and use the quiet time to organize my own thoughts relating to the coming meeting.

The quiet didn't last long until Mary June broke the silence. "Will, you have it completely backwards. It's the other way around. The citizens of Jonesboro owe you a huge debt of gratitude. I shudder to think what might be happening right now if you had not been here to help. So I want you to stop thanking people around here for anything, especially me. Before you showed up and started to help, I had just about given up. Really! I was just about ready to concede that the whole world was irretrievably screwed up, and it made no sense to waste time trying to change anything. You've given us reason for hope. And I'm talking about local folks on both sides of the political spectrum. So don't be thanking anyone around here for anything."

Her stern look impressed upon me the sincerity of her remark. I felt on the verge of blushing like a teenager listening to grandparents trying to convince the neighbors that their grandchild is so much more special than all those other young truants roaming around the community. I didn't know what to say, not being accustomed to such high praise, so I sat quietly savoring the moment. A guy needed to be careful or he might find himself getting to like being appreciated.

"Don't you go and get all full of yourself just because we're all so grateful. I'll tell Flo, and she will jerk a big knot in your you know what. Got it?"

_Wow! That was a short ride on the old inflated ego wagon_. "Yes, I do," I responded somewhat submissively. "Yes, I do."

"Good. I wouldn't want that head of yours to get any bigger than it is or else certain persons might find it necessary to teach you otherwise. If you know what I mean?" She looked over at me and smiled as she finished speaking.

"You don't have to worry about that happening," I assured her.

"Good. Then tell me, does anyone else know where we're going?" she asked.

"I did call the Mayor. I felt it best to have him know, just in case."

"In case of what?" was Mary June's quick response.

"In case it's a trap and you and Flo and the Bufords and the two weirdoes I'm going to meet out here and most of the nut ball customers that come into the diner are all conspiring to get me out in the sticks to do away with me. That's what!"

My driver finally loosened up, "Okay, I get it. I'll lighten up. You just remember that I'll have Lucy turned around and ready to blast off if you come running out the door screaming for help. Okay?"

The sun, setting behind us, was much closer to the horizon. Darkness fast approached as my smiling chauffer made the turn onto a gravel road heading due south. I expected her to take another turn not much farther on to head us back in the direction from which we came. Then we would exit the gravel road onto the black top for the final run to UB2's property located a quarter mile back off the highway. My suspicion proved to be correct. Mary June made the final turn onto the long entry road leading up to the dilapidated old farm house partially concealed by overgrown shrubs and trees. The time read 8:59 p.m. I had to be impressed with my companion's logistical calculations. After I got a good look at the ominous appearing, run down, old farmhouse, I felt even more grateful for her company. _Not a place to find yourself alone_.

Everything related to the old farmstead reeked of disrepair. Shed doors hung askew, old rusting farm equipment left out in the open was partially obscured by tall weeds, the roof of the farm residence had missing shingles, and the whole porch running the entire length of the front of the house looked to be piled high with sagging cardboard boxes containing who knew what. The only thing not deserving to be classified as trash heap or junk yard worthy was the same shining black pickup truck I'd seen at the diner earlier when the Judge blew my socks off by informing me of his UB2 connection.

The VW came to a quiet stop a ways back from the house. I turned to my companion, but before I could say anything, Mary June started talking.

"I'm going to turn the car around and have it heading down the driveway, so if you're running for your life, shout, so I can go get you some help. Okay?" She smiled then which helped to reduce the mounting tension somewhat.

"Listen," I began picking up on her attempt to lighten the mood and ease my nervousness. "If I don't make it back, I just want you to know—"

"Shut up," she interrupted, after first looking as if she thought I was serious. "Do you want me to tell Flo how you tried to get some sympathy? Do you?"

"Bad idea, huh? Well, okay then. I'll just go on in there and see if I can't put in a few bad words for our buddy, Big Bob, and his band of goofy pranksters. Wish me luck, huh?"

"Get out of the car, now!" Mary June demanded from behind a smile she tried to conceal. "Now!" she said again as the smile morphed into a grin. By the time I exited the VW, she struggled not to laugh.

"Anyway, it's just gratifying to know someone cares—"

"Go," I heard her yell through the rolled up VW window.

As I turned and walked the twenty yards to the box laden front porch, I heard outright laughter coming from the VW. What else should I expect of one who is trying to function normally in the midst of universal insanity? This whole thing did screamed of insanity. It stood to reason I must be the craziest of all. Because? Well, because I had no dog in this fight. I should be the gawker standing on the sidelines merely curious as to how all these crazy people ever got involved in this mile long turnpike pile up.

Right as I finished that disturbing thought, I stepped on to the creaky wooden porch amid all the boxes and junk. At the end of the five-foot wide corridor between the piles of boxes, a rickety wooden screen door awaited my arrival. The greater part of the upper section of the screen door hung loose towards the bottom of the frame. I simply reached through the hole and rapped on the flaking paint covered front door. I stepped back in anticipation of being greeted by either one or both of the two strange individuals I expected to find within. I hoped they did not want to shake one of my cold and clammy hands presently being robbed of the warm blood that was right then being redirected towards my heart as a natural precautionary measure. One more example of another highly evolved and essential evolutionary development serving humans for millions of years which I now intended to completely ignore.

I heard the sound of feet coming towards the front door well before the maintenance deprived, paint flaked, ancient piece of wood in front of me began to creak and groan in its futile efforts to resist being moved out of my way. Standing in the middle of the open door way, a kindly looking, white haired old gentleman absent the hooded jacket and sunglasses greeted me with a smile. My spirits soared as I hurriedly revaluated my chances of surviving this much agonized over ordeal and concluded Mary June may not have to function as my escape pod pilot after all.

"Welcome, Will. Please come in," said the friendly old gentleman to my exponentially increased relief.

"Thank you," I responded as I stepped back to open the dilapidated screen door. I advanced not more than eight feet into the room before I turned and awaited my host's next move. I'd managed to catch sight of another individual sitting alone in an adjacent room staring at a huge flat screen television on top of what looked to be an antique oak sideboard. Another quick glance told me my two co-conspirators were watching a baseball game.

"I'm not interrupting anything important, I hope?" I asked mostly to be polite. I had little doubt I would not have been asked to sneak out of town for a clandestine meeting unless they believed the matter was of the utmost importance.

"No, no, please come in. My brother Luke and I were just catching up on the status of our favorite Kansas City Royals' latest efforts to blow another ball game. They are badly in need of some pitching, but then what else is new. As soon as they get another good pitcher, the Yankees will come along in a couple of years and offer him a hundred million dollars to skip town. They haven't been the same since Brett retired over twenty years ago. But, that's not important right now, is it."

I recalled the golden era of Kansas City baseball back in the early eighties, but since then I had gradually lost contact with the team like so many other disenchanted former fans. I agreed, right now none of that was of the slightest importance.

"Come on in and let me introduce you to my brother." With these words, my host turned and walked towards the individual sitting before the big flat screen television. I asked myself if I heard him correctly when he said the individual sitting in the other room, whom I had already identified as looking a lot like our favorite diner Judge and the same individual who shocked me recently by identifying himself as UB2's confidant, was none other than his brother?

"Luke, I believe you know Will," he said to the television watcher. "Will, I also believe you know my brother Luke, or Judge Brazzi, if you go by his official title."

I definitely recognized the Judge, plus that name sounded very familiar. Not from the diner because the only name I'd ever heard there was the _you looking at me_ Judge moniker. I never thought of that guy having a last name. _Where had I heard the name Brazzi before? Oh my God! Lucca Brazzi! The Godfather hit man! Lucca Brazzi! Luke Brazzi? Dom Brazzi! Holy Crap! The Italian Mafia!_

"Is something wrong, Will?" asked my host, Dom. "You look as if you've seen a ghost or, at least, Big Bob Buford," Dom said half laughing.

All this time his brother, Luke, sat quietly looking back and forth between the television and the discussion going on between Dom and myself. I decided to come clean about the name.

"I'm sorry, it's just that—"

"It's the name, Brazzi. Isn't it? We get that all the time. In all fairness, we had the name before the movie came out. Of course, my brother has borne the brunt of the burden of having a name similar to the famous movie villain. I suspect that may be part of the reason for his generally surly disposition," he concluded with a smile.

When my host finished his statement both he and I looked in the direction of the Judge. My partner in conversation laughed while I, on the other hand, saw no benefit in chancing the Judge's wrath. The Judge merely looked at his brother with raised eyebrows as if telling him to immediately cease and desist, which he did.

Before more small talk ensued, the Judge turned away from the television and asserted himself into the conversation. "Did you come alone?" he asked rising from his chair and walking towards me.

I needed to think before I responded. "No, a trusted friend brought me here by a circular route to prevent me from being followed. She is waiting out in the car. I'm sure you needn't worry about her not being discreet; she absolutely hates Big Bob and his cronies."

The judge appeared to be thinking about what I told him before he responded. "Bring her in. I need to talk to her." His tone left no question regarding the seriousness of his request.

I turned to head for the same door I only a minute before came through. Glancing towards my host, Dom, I saw the same polite smile on his face displaying nothing to indicate that he wasn't in agreement with his brother's directive.

Less than five minutes later I returned to the same spot in the house with a highly irritated, but now amazingly quiet, Mary June in tow.

"Here she is Judge," I said in an unintended tone of voice consistent with one offering up a sacrificial proxy.

I think Mary June recognized my cowardly ploy because she turned and gave me the evilest of stares I hoped never to see again. Yet, given the alternative of incurring the Judge's ill will or her harsh scolding, I wagered hers gave me a better chance of keeping my rear end intact.

The Judge did not wait for introductions. "Do you know who I am?" he asked looking directly at Mary June.

Mary June collected her wits and responded with no hint of fear, "Yes, I do. You're Judge Lucas Brazzi, the Circuit Court Judge of Jones County."

"Very good," he said as he turned his attention back towards me. "So far the information I have received from Mr. Clayton gives me cause to suspect serious crimes are being committed in Jones County by certain parties. Therefore, as the highest court officer in Jones County, which has original jurisdiction over matters such as this, I intend to request assistance from the State of Kansas Attorney General's office. The potential scope of this matter, I believe, requires greater investigative resources than we have available to us at this time. Therefore, until such time in the future as I deem appropriate, I, in my capacity as chief officer of the court in Jones County, order you both to cease and desist, forthwith, from discussing this matter further, at any place and at any time and with any person. Do you understand what I am saying to you?"

Both Mary June and I looked to one another briefly before we answered in unison. "Yes, I understand."

"Excellent," responded the Judge. "Now, who else knows about this except you two?"

I looked at Mary June. "You haven't told anyone, have you?" I asked.

"Not a person," she responded.

"I haven't told anyone else either so that just leaves the Mayor, and I doubt he has told anyone. He's extremely nervous about this whole thing. That's why he came to a complete outsider like me. He said he did not know whom to trust. He's expecting a call as soon as we get back to town." I awaited the Judge's next instructions. My relief over finally having someone with authority take the burden of this whole thing off my back increased by the minute.

"My order includes any future conversations about this matter with the Mayor. I will contact the Mayor as soon as this meeting is concluded and give him the same instructions. I intend to stop by the diner whenever time permits to enjoy the much improved menu that I understand is mostly the results of your personal efforts, Will. So my instructions will apply there also. Any questions?"

I looked at Mary June, and she shook her head indicating she had none. Neither did I, but I did want to make one correction. "Judge, I have only one clarification relating to everything I've heard, and that is to correct you in attributing all the improvements at the diner to me. Mary June and Flo have contributed as much, if not more than I have. As a matter of fact, I believe you have taken a personal liking to Mary June's homemade pies."

I looked to Mary June to see if she approved of my obvious self-serving act of gallantry and was surprised to see her earlier scowl change into a pleasant smile. _Good_ , I thought, _maybe that will make up for my having earlier thrown her under the bus_.

"Have you ever run for public office, Will? I believe I detect some natural political instincts in you. A very nice save indeed," the Judge actually displayed a hint of a smile when he said this.

I tried to catch sight of Mary June's reaction to the Judge's comment by shifting my eyes instead of being more obvious and turning my head. I could tell she was staring straight at the side of my head. The Judge had revealed my true intentions and from what little I could see of Mary June's glare, I had been busted. Damn!

Assuming the instructions were complete, I had one further question. "Do you have any idea how long this whole process will take? The reason I ask is it seems I can't go out the door without catching sight of Big Bob paying much too close attention to my activities. I don't know how he could know anything about what we're doing, but it's still unnerving."

"I'm afraid I can't help you there at the present. I will be in contact with the state offices tomorrow to request assistance, but I have no idea as to what form that will take and how long it will be before they come forward prepared to file charges, assuming that's what happens."

The 'assuming that's what happens' part of his response threw me. "I'm sorry, but what do you mean by, 'assuming that's what happens?' This looks like an open and shut case to me."

The Judge pondered my question for a moment before he responded, "Will, when you've been around the legal system for as long as I have, you never take anything for granted. While I admit that the evidence here is almost overwhelming on the surface, there is a long way to go before someone ends up in jail. In my opinion, that's exactly as it should be. Otherwise, many innocent people could end up in a jail. Our system does move slowly at times, but that's because our efforts to protect the innocent supersedes all else."

What he said made sense to me. I looked over to Mary June to get her reaction and she, too, nodded her head in agreement with the Judge.

"Well, if that's all, we'll go back to town and—" I started to say before our host cut in.

"Please don't leave just yet. I've prepared cookies and coffee. Won't you two stay so we can talk a bit? You probably know I don't get much company out here. That's my fault, of course. I generally don't care for most people and their narrow mindedness, but you two are obviously different. It won't take but a moment to bring everything in."

Both Mary June and I looked to one another before we answered. Her expression indicated she was okay with the idea, and I, having gotten braver by the moment once I realized the two Brazzi brothers were human beings after all, saw no reason to disagree.

"Sure," we answered simultaneously.

"Wonderful," answered an obviously elated Dom. "Mary June, perhaps you would be so kind to help me. It will give me a chance to show you my Sevres porcelain collection. I couldn't help but notice you glancing at our mother's antique oak curio cabinet across the room. Our mother left that to me in safe keeping for both my brother and myself. Fortunately for me, Luke and his wonderful bride have never taken a fancy to such delicate novelties. Let me show you."

Finding myself alone with the Judge sent a sudden shiver down my spine. My brain went into overdrive to come up with some inoffensive topic to break the uncomfortable silence. But try as I might, I had nothing. Right as I intended to excuse myself to follow Mary June and Dom in the direction of the curio cabinet the Judge spoke up.

"Why don't we watch some baseball?" said the Judge.

"Great idea," I replied as if I would even think about disagreeing.

It wasn't long before I realized why I had, like so many others, given up on the Kansas City team. They sucked. I knew I was being somewhat harsh. So they couldn't hit or pitch or field, but they looked good running on and off the field. Unfortunately, they spent much more time on the field than off. I never held myself out as an expert, but I felt pretty sure being on the field was not a good thing. Two very bad things happen when your team is on the field for extended periods of time: one is the other team is putting men on base and scoring runs, and two, you're not.

"Here we are gentlemen," announced Dom as he came back into the room carrying a plate of chocolate chip cookies, followed by Mary June carrying a tray loaded with a pot of coffee and cups. Both he and Mary June set their cargo of goodies upon the coffee table located to the front of where the television spectators sat. Soon all were served, and Mary June and Dom returned to the oak curio cabinet.

To my great relief, the Judge barely noticed the intrusion and went on observing the two bottom division teams continue their charade as professional baseball players. Not one time, while I sat there, did the man display any noticeable prejudice towards the few successes or the many failures of either team.

I thought about getting up and going over to where the other two busied themselves inspecting the items displayed in the glass cabinet Dom was so proud of.

I gave the thought up as I soon realized I could enjoy the best of both worlds from right where I sat. Where I was, I had delicious coffee with tasty cookies while the Judge acted completely unaware of my existence. Over there, they were using words that had no meaning to me. Words and sounds actually. I heard Dom say, "This is my favorite piece. It's a Sevres porcelain jewelry box with Ormolu edging. The romantic scenes on the sides and lid are hand painted. I'm especially fond of the mottled blue glaze coating."

Then Mary June took the words out of my mouth by asking, "What does Ormolu mean, or what is it?"

"Ah, yes," answered Dom. "Ormolu is essentially imitation gold. It's a mixture of copper, tin, or zinc although they can't use zinc now for obvious reasons, and it's gilded with powdered gold. This particular piece was made in the early nineteenth century, so I expect it does contain the zinc mixture."

"This wonderful porcelain piece on the shelf below was also manufactured in the Sevres facility located in Chantilly, France, during the early to mid part of the nineteenth century," said Dom as he carried on with his tour of the oak curio cabinet. "It's a dresser box or some would call it a glove box, and it, likewise, has the Ormolu edging and hinges. I'm especially fond of the hand painted scene of the lovely young lady in the garden on the lid."

I listened to a couple more of Mary June's 'oohs' and 'aahs' before I turned my attention away from the porcelain snobs and back towards the non-game still underway on the tube. I thought about how differently things turned out. What started out earlier as an intimidating undertaking confronting my now mostly out of my control existence, turned out to be mostly a snoozer. I had to fight to keep from nodding off as the ballgame announcers tried in vain to make the game sound interesting. The Judge had not moved a muscle. The coffee and cookies before him on the coffee table were only partially consumed.

"I guess I'm ready if you are Will," came the sound of Mary June's voice from over my sagging shoulders. Just in time, too, because I was fading fast. Two more minutes and I would have started snoring.

"Oh, sure. I'm ready if you are," I said to the two porcelain admirers as I rose from my seat.

"Will, I'm so glad the two of you came to my home today," said Dom. "I hope you will visit again soon. I know I'll be seeing Mary June again soon. I have many more boxes of antique items she's interested in seeing. Fortunately, most of those items are stored in the boxes on the front porch. I hope you will continue to respect my desire for privacy by not revealing the UB2 ploy that has worked so well for me. Likewise that goes for my familial relationship with Judge Brazzi. I'm sure I can count on your discretion."

We concluded our goodbyes and headed for the front door. A last glance towards the Judge staring at the television screen verified my suspicion that he held no interest in further conversation. Not a word passed between Mary June and myself until we both felt the reassuring material of the VW's car seats under our rear ends.

"Wasn't he just the nicest person you've ever met?" offered Mary June when the VW started down the long gravel drive towards the highway.

I thought about her statement. I, too, felt relieved we were alive and being permitted to return to some semblance of our, not normal, lives. But I obviously hadn't been taken in by all the cookies and antique porcelain as she had. We were now under official court order to not discuss matters that were of vital importance to our personal safety. _What happens if Big Bob decides to take matters into his own hands and comes by with some of his Water Department mafia? Am I supposed to contact the Judge first? I don't think so._

"And did you see how nicely done the inside of that old house was?" asked Mary June. "It's like a brand new home inside while it looks like an absolute dump outside. Talk about having the entire community fooled. Boy does he!"

"Byzantine!" I said aloud to myself as Mary June took a hard right onto the gravel road to retrace our original circuitous route from Jonesboro to the Brazzi brother's farm.

"What?" asked my confused driver.

"I said Byzantine! It's a Byzantine nightmare we are living in."

"What's a Byzantine?" asked an obviously vexed Mary June as the VW's tires threw loose rocks towards the underside of our vehicle.

"It means complicated, devious, or underhanded. And that describes our lives at the moment. We presently exist in a twenty-first century version of a Byzantine nightmare surrounded by deceit, greed, and danger. Worst of all, we are not even the main players. We're merely bit players caught up in something that is getting way over our heads."

## Chapter Twenty-four

_One whole week and not a word from anyone about anything_ , I thought as I departed the diner one week to the day following the meeting with the Brazzi brothers. The freight train barreling through my life of late had slowed to a crawl. It made me think of the old sailors' stories about how they sometimes found themselves in the doldrums while at sea— a region near the equator where there is no wind. For days and days sailors drifted, waiting for the slightest breeze. That's where I existed at the moment. I waited for one of the several storms surrounding various parts of my existence to reform and come crashing into my life.

I recounted the salient issues presently capable of attracting, and sometimes demanding, my attention. Of course, the Big Bob kickback/privatization matter claimed position number one. The excitement the plant employees exhibited over the interest the plant owner displayed towards my ESOP idea grew stronger daily. Junior Junior's absence was also of growing concern. Preacher Roy had come to me only the day before concerned about some of his parishioners opting to attend the fast growing 'your ass is going to burn in hell' Evangelical Church that was meeting in the now closed and moved to Asia sewing factory building in Justice City. Carlton expected my presence in Topeka sometime during the month to play golf. Mary June planned to sneak back out to UB2's farm to enjoy coffee and polite conversation relating to the finer things in life. Flo persisted with her suspicions regarding everything and everybody. The $4.00 gas price caused customers to act as if I was part of the problem. The housing market melt down had resulted in a twenty percent drop in the value of residential real estate across the country, as well as in Jones County, and although I had nothing to do with it, I figured someone would somehow hold me at least partly responsible.

Other issues also threatened the existence of our consumer driven lifestyle. Issues that crossed my mind from time to time generally considered too big to deal with at the local level. Issues mentioned regularly on the nationwide nightly news broadcasts. Such as: the financial market collapse along with the failure of several large financial institutions, illegal aliens, outsourcing jobs, blatant and destructive political partisanship, peak oil, the never ending wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, our unsustainable and ever increasing national debt, deficit spending, global warming, corporate farming, a disappearing middle class, growing unemployment, devaluation of our currency abroad, the dollar's inevitable loss of reserve currency status, NAFTA, budget busting senior entitlements, religious fanaticism at home, and religious fanaticism abroad to cite only a portion of a long list.

_I wonder how many of those issues will be discussed at the Republican Convention this week in Minnesota?_ I asked myself as I started up the stairs to my apartment. I knew the answer long before I reached the top of the stairs. None. The Republicans were in charge for the last eight years, and arguably much of the blame for these numerous issues could be placed, in large part, in their laps. They dare not open that box of political and financial mismanagement. They most likely would end up emphasizing the always-reliable hot button social issues such as religion, allowing prayer in schools, criminalizing abortion, creeping socialism, and opposing gay marriage and homosexuality. Those were the issues sure to fire up the presently irate and disenchanted conservative base. I, forever, was amazed at how easy it became to redirect the attention of the majority of Americans away from the real issues like wars, jobs, homes, health care, and all the other actually important things going into creating and sustaining a home and family in a viable community.

Glad to be alone in my comfortable apartment above Junior Junior's garage, I put my mental wanderings aside to slip down into the well-used, but still comfortable recliner I'd come to appreciate more and more of late. Comfortably seated, I decided to put all thoughts of politics and local issues away for the moment. I planned to pop a top on one of the cold grape sodas I kept in the fridge and then sit back and watch some reruns or an old movie. Or maybe... I would watch a Royals game. Or maybe I should think about that stupid debate I got bush wacked into agreeing to participate in.

_Damn. I forgot about that_. Mary June notified me right after I arrived at the diner that very morning about the "Great Debate," as she referred to it now, going off one week from tomorrow. That made it the eleventh of September at 7 p.m. sharp. They were undecided on the venue. They first wanted to get an idea as to how many people might attend. Mary June went on record projecting the largest gathering since Councilman Deedlebush tried to get the rest of the city council to issue a proclamation proclaiming the citizens of Jonesboro were at least partly in agreement with those heathen's _Theory of Evolution._ To wit: While all good Republicans were most certainly the children of Adam who was not only the first man but also the first Republican, the Democrats were indeed fathered by tree swinging, banana stealing monkeys! The proclamation did not pass, but not because the locals didn't support it. A few later surmised that since all but Councilman Deedlebush attended the unholy halls of higher education at various out of state universities, those councilmen most likely were unknowingly brainwashed, or the CIA had implanted sensors in their brains whilst they were passed out after consuming health drinks spiked with mind-altering drugs provided by those sneaky liberals.

_I wonder if they will still be giving me cookies after the debate?_ I thought as I sat sipping on my grape soda pop. I didn't bother to answer the question. The answer was obvious. Whatever service I might provide to the community and receive acclaim for would not survive once the conversation drifted into the sphere of hot button social issues. Both parties' efforts to gain control of the government blanketed the field of battle with victims that had succumbed to their vicious attacks. But this paled in comparison to the carnage created when the fight changed to one concerning God's will. To those basing their arguments upon the belief that various ancient documents, of dubious repute, are in all cases inerrant, there is no middle ground. This battle for the minds and souls of all living humans in the name of the one who supposedly asks only for love and acceptance for all mankind was, ironically, for all the marbles.

After staring at the television for a time, I realized I did not have the slightest idea of what I watched. It served merely as background noise. I didn't want to know what happened on the screen. I just wanted noise. It occurred to me that I might be intimidated by the quietness. Where once I existed mostly as an island, accustomed to long periods of quiet, I now was experiencing sensory depravation, and there was little that I could do about it. I asked myself if maybe I should read a book since earlier in life I had been know as a voracious reader. Then I recalled that the only reading material available was a stack of Junior Junior's old shoot'em or hook'em magazines. I felt confident there would be little to learn there. You, either, put a worm on a hook and sat your butt down to wait or you snuck up on it and _blowed_ the hell out of it while it chewed away on its last supper.

This presented a dilemma. Where I once relished being alone, I now wanted company, but whom? Not the Mayor, for sure! The poor guy had become a walking paranoiac with people telling of him hiding out on his farm with only his dogs. Mary June was probably enjoying tea out at Dom's while admiring all the unboxed dishes. Junior Junior still had not been seen by anyone other than Chief Barley and the Doctor for weeks— not that Junior Junior constituted a viable choice of conversation partners. I figured Flo might tell me to shove it. I could call the Vietnam vet and invite him to the local tavern for a beer, but I didn't drink alcohol, and who invites a person out so you can watch them drink? The Preacher would have to drive several miles into town and back. Plus, he might end up telling me more about those former members of his flock who turned towards the dark side of religion. I actually felt sorry for myself.

While I chewed on this, one of the television shrinks berated another complete idiot for not having the common sense to know he couldn't get away with banging his wife's half-sister while his wife was away at the liposuction clinic hoping to regain a figure she never owned in the first place. Fortunately, a novel idea occurred to me. I decided I needed some air and what better way to get it than to take J3 for a walk around town. His free roaming days were limited of late. Possibly the result of too many townsfolk griping about piles of dog poop as big as cow piles showing up on their lawns, as well as one too many cats going missing. That's what I decided to do. Get up and take J3 for a walk.

Very quickly I realized the error of my thinking. I soon discovered what it must have felt like to walk behind an old plow horse. J3 pulled me along like a sled dog pulling a fat fur hunter in the snowy Yukon. It was all I could do to keep him from running full out. Within three blocks my arms ached and the sweat began to pour off my brow. J3, on the other hand, was merely getting started. He took a big dump on the grade school principal's immaculately trimmed front yard. I hadn't thought about that possibility, of course. I tried as best I could with the use of distraught facial expressions and hand signals to express my great distress at J3's rude behavior to the obviously highly agitated elderly woman staring at us through her front window as we walked off leaving J3's smelly fly magnet behind. Needless to say, we headed for home as soon as I could coax J3 into making a turn. We arrived back at the diner parking lot with me sweating like I'd ran a 10K race and J3 ready for another lap. I also toted along two more bags of cookies given to me along the way by the grateful wives of plant workers who now, at least, maintained some slight hope of financial salvation.

Walking away from a safely penned up and vocally displeased J3, I looked forward to the comfort and privacy of my lofty abode. _Don't ever make a rash decision like that again_ , I admonished myself as I limped towards my nest wondering if I had any lotion to rub on my seriously aching back and arm muscles. Still, I did need something to occupy my time while alone in my loft apartment. Watching too much television would soon cause my brain to resemble one of those ossified, wrinkled surface, barely functioning organs residing in the top of the skulls of those sponge-brain, you are going to burn in hell evangelicals. I say sponge because the actions I've witnessed of more than a few callous individuals lately strongly suggested the presence of something more akin to a worn out sponge in place of a brain.

Getting back to the subject of my uncomfortable free time, I decided I needed to get a few good books and catch up on my reading. I would read some of those old classics I'd started earlier in life when I believed it a necessary sacrifice in order for me to be able to participate in polite, yet totally bullshit and boring, cocktail party conversations. I had read famous novels like "Ulysses," "The Pickwick Papers," and other great books such as Sigmund Freud's "The Interpretation of Dreams," and Charles Darwin's "Origin of the Species." The last one, most unfortunately, resulted in chipping my tooth after falling asleep while reading it and smashing my face upon the hard surface of a library table, not to mention my embarrassment over having jumped up from the table with a bleeding lip screaming vile expletives like a wounded banshee and finding myself surrounded by nuns escorting a visiting fifth grade class from the local Catholic school.

Right as I prepared myself for the painful assent of the stairs leading to my apartment, I became aware of the unmistakable sound of tires rolling across the gravel surface. Instinctively, I knew I had visitors. Someone needed or wanted something that only a certifiable lunatic with an obviously insatiable need to poke around in complete strangers' pathetic lives could or would provide— someone like me.

Preparing myself for the worst, I turned to see Chief Barley rolling to a stop just short of the stairs where I stood hopelessly awaiting instructions or information regarding my next impossible mission.

"Afternoon, Will. Glad I caught you," said the Chief after he exited his cruiser and walked around towards where I now stood awaiting more bad news. "Just thought I'd bring you up to speed on Junior Junior's condition. Actually, there ain't nothing new to report cause he's still pretty much moping around like a whooped puppy. At least, he's starting to eat more, and that's a good sign, so the Doctor says. Looks like you guys aren't missing a beat at the diner. I'm sure Junior Junior must be aware of that since all he has to do is look out the window to see the vehicles. Oh, one more thing before I forget. I got some cookies in the car the wife made for you. I suppose you must know by now how much we all appreciate your help to save the local folks' jobs over at the plant. Anyway, let me get those cookies out of the cruiser so you can go on about your business."

I stood there in a mild state of shock at not having had a new crisis placed in my lap. The Chief returned with a sack of homemade cookies. I thanked him with a smile and wished him a pleasant day as he returned to his appointed rounds. _A good man, the Chief_ , I said to myself as I started up the stairs to find some lotion to apply in liberal quantities to my now aching muscles. At the top of the stairs, I turned around for some unknown reason to survey the strange new world I found myself now inhabiting.

Who would have guessed it? Who would ever have imagined that Will Clayton, the guy that went far out of his way to be distant and often elusive to the rest of the world, would ever allow himself to become involved with the affairs of so many people he didn't even know?

"Absolutely no one," I said aloud as I turned to seek the safety of my lofty aerie.

## Chapter Twenty-Five

I arrived back at the register after having pumped exactly five gallons of gas into old Widow Diggins' 1978 Buick La Sabra with my ears still ringing. She'd given me her two cents worth regarding, what she considered, the outrageous price of gasoline. "Why I recall buying gas from this station for seventy-five cents a gallon," she screeched in indignation. I said nothing because I knew by this time that it made no difference that I represented the last link in a very long chain of big oil company lackeys. I was the unfortunate one who completed the final criminal act that had begun far away in the Middle East when some big oil company geologist pointed to a spot in the sand and said, "Drill here." Nor would it do any good to suggest she might consider getting rid of her almost forty year old pile of rolling pig iron, averaging less than ten miles per gallon. One of today's newer, fuel efficient small cars could easily fit into the area under the front hood now occupied by a gas hogging, 400 horse power V8.

"Have a nice day," I smiled and said to the not to be placated old crone as she rolled her car door window up in indignation.

"I see _old lady D_ complimented you on your good work again today," said a voice from behind. I turned to find Mary June approaching the register, her purse and empty cloth shopping bag in hand. She was ready to leave for the day. "I don't suppose the Judge mentioned anything to you this morning when he came in for breakfast?" she asked.

Her questioning me in public regarding our ultra-secretive venture surprised me. I quickly looked around to ensure no one over heard her inquiry. She detected my concern and tried to reassure me no one was listening.

"Don't worry. No one is listening or suspects anything. Lighten up. You've been walking around here looking guilty for the last week and a half. You don't joke with the geezers anymore. If you keep acting the way you are, people are going to begin asking questions." She ended her short analysis of my current paranoid behavior and changed the subject. "By the way, Dom asked me to invite you along the next time I go out for tea. I'm thinking of going out tomorrow evening. What do you think? Are you interested?"

She was right. I had acted somewhat detached this last week and a half. I decided right then to act more normal. That didn't mean I'd be going out to her new buddy's tea parlor anytime soon. Besides, I always came off as an insensitive jerk at polite conversation. As far as I was concerned, admiring more than one ornately designed, porcelain boxy thing over did it.

"Oh, thanks, but I'm sure I've got some work to do around here," I replied trying hard to deliver my polite refusal in a disappointed tone.

"Okay," she responded with a hint of sadness. "Well, you've got both my home and cell numbers so just let me know if you need me for anything, okay?"

"Sure thing," I said as she headed for the door.

I stood in place going over my brief encounter with Mary June until another familiar voice announced its presence.

"You know, you're kind of dumb for such a smart guy. See you Monday," said Flo as she breezed by me.

"Wha...what?" I asked about the time the front door closed behind my other insubordinate subordinate. She was long gone, and I realized I probably did not want to find out what she meant anyway. I don't know that I was afraid of Flo, but I suspected that somewhere in the back of my mind there resided an unanswered question regarding who would come out on top in a fistfight.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing. I reached for it feeling almost glad for the interruption. I knew what Flo referred to, though. She, too, sensed something more than I let on transpired between Mary June and myself— something that scared the hell out of me.

A little over an hour later, I watched the plant superintendent's truck pull up out in front of the diner. He'd called earlier to see if I had sometime to talk with him about the developing situation over at the plant in Justice City. I'd said sure, halfway glad for something to turn my attention away from worrying about when the Judge would get back to us. The plant superintendent did not indicate one way or the other relating to whether or not the ESOP idea was a possibility. I'd also gone over in my mind what additional services I might be asked to provide, anticipating they might be looking for more help. I really couldn't come up with a thing, apart from going to work at the plant in some engineering capacity. But that idea made little sense as I'd intentionally avoided keeping up-to-date with industry innovations. I lagged twenty years behind regarding the new technology as well as production processes. _So we'll just have to wait and see_ , I said to myself as the plant superintendent exited his truck to come inside.

"Good morning...or rather, good afternoon, Will," said the plant superintendent as he came through the door and advanced towards where I awaited his arrival.

"Afternoon to you, Jack," I said in reply. "Why don't you take a seat over there while I get a couple cups of coffee?" I motioned to a table as I headed to the fresh pot I'd put on anticipating his arrival. Returning with two freshly brewed cups of coffee and a pint of real cream, I joined my visitor at the table.

"I prefer real cream if I'm going to drink coffee," I said as I poured both cups about three quarters full leaving room for cream and sugar.

"Well, okay. How are things going over in Justice City?" I asked as I took a seat at the table.

"Will, I'm happy to report to you that your idea may just end up saving our jobs. Nothing is certain yet, there are still several choke points, but the owner has indicated to the workers' committee, which I'm chairman of, that he is willing to put the previous sale plan on hold until this new idea is checked out thoroughly. Right at this moment they are planning to meet with a large investment firm out of Kansas City to get things started. While that is happening, the employees are going to get together and vote on whether the majority want to invest their 401k funds to save their jobs. As far as I can tell, not more than a few will vote against the idea. So, it looks like if things come together in Kansas City, your idea is a go." The plant superintendent's excitement morphed into giddiness by the time he stopped talking.

"Excellent, I'm real happy to hear that," I replied. At the same time I wondered why my visitor didn't say those same few words to me while he had me on the phone? Hopefully, he didn't drive all the way over here only to see my relieved facial expression. My instincts, that by now held a sharp edge, told me something else occupied my visitor's mind. I decided to keep quiet and wait.

"With this plan of yours looking as if it has real possibilities, Will, we were wondering if you would consider hiring yourself out as our advisor or consultant during this process? If we need somebody we can trust to help us, there's not another soul within a hundred miles of here that we trust more than you. How about it, Will? Can you see your way to walk with us this last mile if we need more help?" My visitor stopped talking awaiting my response. His earlier excitement was now replaced with one of anticipation.

I couldn't talk just then. The lump in my throat, feeling as big as a watermelon, wouldn't let me. The plainspoken gentleman sitting across from me had no idea how much his words had affected me. A long time had passed since I'd been told by members of the manufacturing industry that I was important, trusted, and best of all, needed. I knew my answer immediately. I just needed time to regain control of my faculties so I could get words to come out of my mouth.

"You can count on my help," were the words I mustered in response to his deeply appreciated request.

"I'm so glad to hear you say that, Will. A lot of other grateful employees and their families will be, too. I'll also let the plant owner, Mr. Olson, know you're going to help which I'm sure he will be pleased to hear. I think he's pretty impressed with you, also."

Later I sat alone in the diner with a slightly different feeling emanating from my stomach. For the first time in a very long time, I felt as if I were a part of something— no longer a mere witness going through the motions. I would have to think about this most unexpected development.

Deciding to put off the paperwork part of my job until the following day when I planned to come back and get the pastry items prepared for baking Monday morning, I busied myself with the task of closing the diner down for the day. I'd overheard some of the locals mention that both of the state's flagship universities' football games were being telecast that afternoon. Although I never considered myself a dedicated fan, I did enjoy watching a game now and then. So that became my plan: to kick back and watch some football and put all the other stuff out of my mind for a while, at least.

The plan seemed to be working until I turned off the lights in preparation for heading to my apartment. That's when the phone rang as if timed to start making noise right when I thought I was done for the day. I considered not answering until I remembered it might be from the Judge.

"Hello," I said tentatively. By this time, I knew most of the bad news of late came over the phone.

"Is this Will?" inquired a husky male voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, this is Will. Who is this?" I replied knowing full well I should have slammed the receiver down and headed out the door before someone else lassoed me into getting involved in another local issue looming over the town's future like a sledge hammer.

"Will, this is Wilbur Likens, the butcher down at the market. Do you remember me? I'm the one you talked to a few weeks back about getting you some less spicy sausage for the diner."

"Of course, Wilbur. How are you?" I replied, hopeful another crisis did not loom in the background.

"I'm doing well, thank you. Listen Will, I got something I'm supposed to give you, and I'm hoping you can come by as soon as possible to get it. Would that be possible?"

"What is it," I asked, curious to know more about this surprise request.

"I can't say on the phone, Will. So if you could come by as soon as possible, I'd sure appreciate it."

"You mean right now?" I asked revealing my confusion at this strange request.

"Yes, right now. I'll be waiting for you at the back door." As soon as my surprise caller finished speaking, the line went dead.

My mind immediately started racing through the possible scenarios awaiting me if I acquiesced to this strange request. Maybe the guy belonged to the cabal? Or maybe this is the way the Judge intended to get in touch with me? I admitted I had no idea what to expect if I went to the store. Still, I realized I had to go, no matter what. Besides, what could happen to me in a supermarket storeroom with customers only yards away? I grabbed my key chain that included a key for Junior Junior's truck and headed for the door.

The front parking area looked half full as I drove an extra block past the market so I could see if anything looked strange. Everything looked normal, which simply meant the lot was half full of mostly unwashed older pickup trucks belonging to locals stopping by to pick up the essentials. You did not see local patrons wheeling multiple carts of grocery goods from this market. For the really big hauls, most everyone went to one of the giant discount food chains like the one over in Justice City or even to Salina where the super giant 'Hog Mart' store dispensed products at prices often lower than what the struggling local markets purchased wholesale.

Turning on to a side street provided me access to the rear of the building. I was on high alert watching for anything looking suspicious. In this case, suspicious could be defined as trucks belonging to either Big Bob or the Judge. I saw neither so I proceeded to pull into the back lot where I parked my ride in a vacant space located close to the rear entrance. I did not exit my vehicle until I felt satisfied no other living soul was anywhere around. Five strides after exiting the truck placed me in front a heavy metal door where I immediately announced my presence by rapping loudly. I glanced around as I awaited entrance to the market's loading area. The heavy metal door swung open exposing the presence of Wilbur, the butcher, who barely looked at me and instead gave the whole surrounding outside area a quick once over trying to see if anyone followed me.

"Come on in. Thanks for coming so fast. Follow me," he said while walking through the pallets of food stocks covering the greater part of the large, high-ceiling storeroom.

"Right this way," he said as he turned to me and pointed towards a metal door attached to what looked almost certainly to be a walk-in-freezer.

I involuntarily halted as my mind tried to figure out what in the heck was going on. Did this guy expect me to simply walk inside a storage freezer? He saw my hesitation and looked around before he spoke, "Don't worry. The Mayor is my brother-in-law. He's in there waiting to talk to you. I won't let anyone come back here until you are gone. Here's a coat for you. It's cold in there."

My guide walked away before I could respond. I had serious reservations about going inside a walk-in-freezer to have a private conversation with anyone and, especially, a seriously disturbed elected official displaying the aplomb of a Baptist Preacher caught jumping out of a burning bordello second floor window without his pants. In other words, the Mayor seemed to me to be on the verge of catching the next bus out of town. The last couple of times I'd caught sight of the man he skittered about like a mouse hunting for cheese in the night. When he caught sight of me, he would do a one-eighty. The man looked scared to death.

Finally deciding I needed to get this silliness over with, I donned the winter coat given to me by the butcher and went inside the freezer. I closed the heavy door behind me, expecting to confront the Mayor, but not a soul appeared. I'd almost made up my mind to turn around and exit the freezer when out from behind a stack of boxes came the Mayor's head. Not the entire body, only the head.

"Hi, Will. Sorry about all this secrecy stuff," the Mayor stepped out into the open as he finished his statement. "I'm scared, Will. Every time I see big Bob or his brother they stare at me as if they know what's going on. And by the way, what is going on? When is this thing going to be over so we can get back to normal? This is killing my businesses. My insurance business requires me to be out at night, and there is no way I'm going out after dark right now."

All the while the Mayor spoke I watched his breath turn into a mist. It really was cold inside the locker. Turning back to the matter at hand, I realized nothing I said would help to allay the Mayor's fears. The entire matter now was out of our hands. The Judge had told us to wait. He gave us explicit instructions regarding what not to do, and we either followed his instructions or we, too, might end up in jail.

"Mr. Mayor," I said, "we have to hold tight until we hear from the Judge. I don't know anymore than you do. We might hear something tomorrow or six months from now. No matter. We have been instructed to keep our mouths shut and wait. And on that subject, how much does your brother-in-law know?"

"He knows nothing," answered the Mayor. "He thinks this is about me helping you come up with the money to buy Junior Junior's diner. I had to tell him something and that's the only plausible excuse that came to mind."

"What?" I exclaimed. "Why would I want to do something that crazy?"

"I'm sorry. I was desperate. I know you're not crazy. He assured me he would keep it a secret." The Mayor looked like a guilty ten-year-old. "But Will, I'm serious about being afraid."

"Look," I said with more than a hint of exasperation in my voice, "if the Bufords are going to come after someone, I'm pretty certain they'll come for me first, not you. So as long as I'm walking around the diner, doing my job, I don't expect you have anything to worry about. Don't you agree?"

For the first time the Mayor's face looked normal or, at least, not frozen in fear. I must have said the magic words because his whole demeanor changed. Not completely back to normal, but close to it.

"You're right. They will come for you first," he said mostly to himself. "I don't really have to worry as long as you're walking around."

I watched him change from a cowering victim back to the insurance selling machine the whole town hid from. I found it difficult to share completely in his newfound relief over some other human being destined to meet their demise before him.

"Well, okay then. What are we doing hiding in this freezing meat locker? I've got to get busy. I've lots of appointments and other important stuff to do. Thanks, Will! I knew this was a good idea, us meeting to talk things out, don't you agree?"

The Mayor was so busy refiguring his schedule in his mind that I didn't bother to respond. In spite of the fact that his fears of imminent death were now allayed by the comforting knowledge that the Bufords would undoubtedly come for me before they came for him, my personal relief was negligible.

"Hey, look at the time! I've got to get going. Lot's of people to see. You keep in touch, Will, you hear." And out the door he went.

After the door slammed behind the reinvigorated Mayor, I went over in my mind what the hell had happened. _I hope I never forget this moment. This is what happens when you allow yourself to be sucked into conversations with the asylum's inmates_.

Once outside the freezer, I calmly extracted my person from the loaned parka, handed it to the waiting butcher/brother-in-law without saying a word, and departed the building through the same door I'd entered earlier.

## Chapter Twenty-Six

Standing behind the counter the next Monday morning watching my reinvigorated co-conspirator, the Mayor, leave the restaurant headed for a full day's work running the town and tending to his multiple sales businesses, I felt somewhat envious. If only I could disassociate from the salient local issues as he obviously had, life might be a little more enjoyable. _Yeah right. Like that's going to happen._

Fortunately, what was left of the weekend after my visit to the meat freezer went well. I did, in fact, watch a couple football games. That activity, along with finishing off half of one of Mary June's pies and a couple of naps on the couch, put me in much better spirits. About the only thing I needed to do now, apart from my diner chores, I figured, was to prepare for the Great Debate coming up Thursday night at the grade school gym. Mary June's prediction that this year's debate looked be a barn burner turned out to be right on the money. Most of the customers stopping by the diner proclaimed their intent to attend this year's high plains smack down. I'd tried to take the whole thing more seriously, but having had the opportunity to briefly talk with my esteemed opponent a couple of times, I'd determined the man offered nothing but more of the same failed neoconservative political philosophy now being universally lambasted by Democrat and practical-minded Republican candidates alike. Traditional Republicans were going all out to distance themselves from any reported past association with the proponents of the now discredited "Outline for a New American Century."

Having read the complete treatise of the plan, I initially came away thinking it represented a bold undertaking. It essentially justified our country being at the top of the world's material wealth pyramid, lording over the rest of humanity. Of course, in theory, the rest of the world still benefited, much as the civilized world ruled by ancient Rome benefited during the hundreds of years of _Pax Romana_. Real nice work, if you can get it. Of course, it helped if all the modern day pretenders to the throne would have had the testicles to back their plan with sufficient force. Instead, they decided that by abusing a dedicated and highly professional military, underfunded and weakened by persistent bureaucratic cut backs, they could conquer the world on the cheap. They found out in Iraq and Afghanistan that people living much like humans did back in the _Stone Age_ don't lose much when they are bombed back to the _Stone Age_. In the end, all that happened amounted to a lot of non-political but fanatically religious people with nothing to lose, but mud houses and their own miserable and persistently impoverished lives, got pissed off and started putting up stiff a resistance through unconventional warfare. Now, thousands of casualties and trillions of borrowed dollars later, our country still did not control either the much sought after oil fields that they denied played any part in the decision to attack or the recalcitrant Islamic populations. Chicken hawks with ambitions much larger than their talons had led the country into a morass that one day soon may play a large part in ensuring its economic collapse.

"See you, Will." The voices of the geezers saying goodbye brought me out of my mental wanderings.

"So long guys. Have a good one," I yelled after them as the last straggler went out the front door. Looking around, I counted not more than a handful of customers seated in the diner. Most of those seemed to be in no hurry to get anywhere as they chatted away while enjoying their coffee. Turning my attention back to my job, I came to the conclusion that the ship was on course. This came as a relief to me since I dealt with multiple non-diner issues looming in the background any of which could jump up and throw a big wrench into the middle of things without a moments notice.

Both Flo and Mary June went about their usual duties as if I were not around. They knew exactly what to do, and usually, things were prepared well in advance. Likewise, when a rush ended they knew how to clean up quickly and get ready for the next one. The best thing I could do amounted to helping out where needed. At that moment, it looked as if my services were most needed to bus tables. So that's where I headed.

No sooner did I arrive at a table, bus pan in hand, than the occupants of the nearest table reminded me of how much they appreciated my hard work at the diner and my efforts to help to save the Justice City plant, and that they were looking forward to the Great Debate. I, of course, thanked them and moved along to the next, piled high with dirty dishes, table. Right about the exact moment I wiped the last table clean with my damp cloth and prepared to deliver my pan full of plates, cups, and utensils to the kitchen sink for a good scrubbing, the phone rang. I looked to see if my co-workers were anywhere near the phone. They weren't, so I headed that way anticipating the worst. Too many times that noisy, mind destroying, life-sucking contraption brought me bad news in the form of more worry and responsibility. My pace of travel towards the cacophonous appliance coincided with my growing distain for the mass of technological gadgetry often doing little more than crowding more work into the average person's day. I felt sure that some day, long into the future, when aliens finally did land on this, by then, long dead and polluted planet, they would read our final epithet, handwritten on the last piece of paper, made from the very last tree, by the last surviving human, "It wasn't our fault. It was that damn technology."

"Hello?" I said into the cordless, plastic devil box. "This is Will. How can I help you?"

I was right. It was trouble. "Will, this is Jack Fletcher at the plant. We got a little problem we need to talk to you about. It has to do with the stock market, the economy, and all that financial stuff. Some of the workers are unsure what to do about their retirement investments. Would it be possible for me and the other members of the workers' committee to come by the diner and talk with you this afternoon, say after 3 p.m.?"

I thought for a moment to make sure I had no prior meetings or anything else planned that might interfere before I answered. "Sure, come on by. I'll be here," I answered, trying not to betray my surprise at issues having arisen so quickly.

"Thanks, Will. We'll see you then," the caller said before he hung up leaving me holding the cordless phone to my ear and wondering how serious the workers were about questioning their investment choices.

Turning to go back to my day job of bussing tables, I caught sight of both Mary June and Flo looking towards me. I laughed, trying to assure them no new calamity had arisen demanding more of my time away from the diner. "Don't worry. Nothing new came up, just Jack and a few of the employees coming over to talk about some things later this afternoon." I'd determined it worked better if I kept my diner associates up-to-date as much as possible relating to my activities. Otherwise, they pestered the heck out of me to find out who else wanted more of the shrinking hours in my daily work schedule.

The remainder of the morning brought no new community problems to the diner's door, thankfully. I'd determined that absent the outside issues demanding more and more of my time, the actual diner operations ran smoothly. Everyone knew his or her responsibilities. I knew mine. Flo and Mary June knew theirs. The suppliers knew theirs. Just as important, the customers knew theirs. All in all, we had a pretty good little system going. Not trying to claim all or even most of the kudos for the newfound success of the diner, I still felt justified in believing I played some part in its resurrection.

Everything ran as smooth as could be hoped for during the rest of the day. Most of our lunch traffic included individuals on the work clock who by necessity operated on a NASA like schedule. I hoped they returned to their day jobs well fed and knowing a least one place in town realized they were deserving of consideration. The lunch crowd, absent the geezers, required a different set of social skills, along with prompt and courteous service, so they rarely had time for the banter the morning crowd demanded. The lunch time customers came in wearing their game faces that they would not put aside until much later in the day, possibly not until their family chores were complete. Only then would many of them sit down for a few minutes to rest their beleaguered brains and chat with their spouses and children.

Later, having said goodbye to my co-workers as they scurried out the door heading to their respective homes and the next set of responsibilities awaiting them, I took inventory of my to-do list scribbled on a pad atop the counter. Included on the list, along with the usual chores, was the 3 p.m. meeting with the plant committee and a note to call Carlton about going to Topeka to play golf as I promised. I knew he preferred to play during the week, but all I could see happening at this time was my getting away on a Sunday or, at best, on a late Saturday morning if I could talk my co-workers into covering for me. I'd imagined the response from Flo if I deigned to make such a suggestion. The images coming to mind were not pretty. I knew Mary June would be supportive, but Flo would demand my firstborn, figuratively speaking or, more likely, some future favor only an individual in possession of a seriously disturbed sense of humor could contrive. But if a promise needed to be made, I would honor it, no matter that it necessitated my placing my mental health at the feet of an ingeniously devious waitress suspected by many to have recently escaped from the nether world. I shivered as I folded the list and stuffed it deep into my pants pocket to be dealt with later. Much later!

I set to work preparing for the next day while I kept my eye on the clock. I hoped to have the greater part of the work completed prior to the plant committee arriving. Barring any interruptions, I fully expected I could make that happen. That silly notion lasted only until Preacher Roy came through the front door sporting a face as red as a beet. _This isn't going to be good_. I put aside all plans of finishing up before my 3 p.m. meeting. Preacher Roy looked very close to having steam coming out of his ears. I didn't bother to say hello knowing he probably wouldn't hear me if I did.

"You wouldn't happen to have an ax handle lying around the diner I could borrow, would you Will?" the Preacher asked as he came to a stop not two feet from where I stood. Not receiving a reply from me as I stood there hoping the man was joking, Preacher Roy calmly changed his request. "No? Well, then how about a baseball bat or maybe a loose two by four lying around in the back? No? Well, I guess I'll just have to use my hands. Nice to see you, Will," said Preacher Roy. Then he turned away heading for the door.

"Wait a minute," I yelled towards the departing individual who was reaching his arm forward to push the door open. The Preacher halted and abruptly turned to await any additional response on my part. I felt awkward then since I naturally assumed the man intended some most unholy mischief with the items previously requested.

"I hope you have some productive reason for needing those items. This doesn't have anything to do with a certain evangelical preacher over in Justice City, does it?" I said to my friend, concern evident in my voice.

Having turned back towards me looking as if my inquiry was made in jest, Preacher Roy said. "You know Will, the Bible says, 'The Lord works His wonders in mysterious ways.'"

I don't know how or why I recalled right then the correct version of that often misquoted Bible verse, but I did, and I corrected the Preacher. "Actually it says, 'God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants His footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.'"

Preacher Roy seemed surprised I could quote scripture. "Very good," he said, before offering another verse. "An eye for an eye—"

"And a tooth for a tooth," I responded, cutting the Preacher off.

But I didn't stop there. I remembered a couple more Bible quotes I'd randomly gathered over the years that related to this subject. "I personally prefer the one from Proverbs 29:11, 'A fool gives vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control.' Then there is always James 1:20 which if I remember correctly says, 'For a man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires.'"

That did it! The man's face went stone cold, and he stood in place as if nailed to the floor. I couldn't tell if Preacher Roy intended to drop to his knees asking his God for forgiveness or walk over and punch me in the nose for using tools from his own tool bag to make a small but important point: Preachers should not go around looking for baseball bats to use on their fellow human beings.

I knew I was not going to be the one to move or speak first. I'd said far too much already. The eerie silence that ensued unnerved me. Still, I stood my ground, awaiting his response. Then, slowly, I detected the beginnings of a smile forming on his face. There was no mistake about it. A smile was fighting its way to the surface.

"In mysterious ways, Will." said the Preacher. "He works his wonders in mysterious ways. Think about that, Will. I've got to get back to the farm and finish some chores that were interrupted by a disturbing call from one of my parishioners in Justice City. If you don't mind, I'll say my thanks later to the _One_ I'm convinced, more and more each day, brought you to our town. Good day to you, Mr. Will Clayton."

I stood there after he left wondering what in the heck the man meant by all that thanking the _One_ who brought me here stuff. I brought me here. Maybe someday, if I ever regain my senses, I'll take what's left of my sorely put upon brain and go back to Texas where all I'll have to worry about is the heat, hurricanes, and drunk cowboys driving big pickup trucks.

I looked at my watch and determined the rest of my chores were going to have to wait until after the meeting with the guys from the plant. That was okay. My social schedule was still not crowded. I checked the coffee pot in case someone needed a caffeine hit. There was still half of a fairly fresh pot. I figured I had enough time to get the frozen rolls out of the freezer to start the long process of thawing out before time came to stick them in the oven early tomorrow morning.

My timing was good because as I exited the kitchen after setting out several dozen, frozen cinnamon roll pellets, the gang from the plant walked through the door.

"Afternoon, Will," said Jack Fletcher the group spokesperson. "Where should we sit?"

"How about over here closer to the coffee pot and the phone? If any of you fellows want coffee, help yourselves. It's on the house. If you would rather have water, tea, or a carbonated beverage, that's on the house, too." I stood prepared to provide service, but they all declined. I promptly pulled a fifth chair up to the table and joined the group.

"Okay, what have we got today?" I inquired.

As I expected, the three men accompanying the plant superintendent looked to him to provide the answer to my question. Jack, in the meantime, busied himself sorting through various papers and newspaper articles he carried in a manila folder. After satisfying himself that he possessed the information he wanted, he turned to me.

"Will, have you been following the stock market?" he asked.

"Yes, I look from time to time. I like to have a feel for what's going on in the financial markets of the country as well as the rest of the world," I answered.

"Well, what's your thinking about the markets? The reason I'm asking for all of us is that right now our 401k funds are tied up in diversified investments. We have the option of investing our savings in stocks, bonds, and money market accounts. Frankly, we're wondering where our money would be the safest. In the market or invested in stock in the company? We all want our jobs but is this a good time to be risking all our savings in a manufacturing facility located in Justice City, Kansas? We decided we would like to hear your opinion on this. Can you help us out here, Will?"

I was impressed. They asked very good questions. They should stop and look hard at this very important investment decision in view of all the salient facts. Would it be better to walk away with their nest eggs intact? Maybe they should call it quits and take their savings and try to find new jobs. I didn't know how much assistance I'd be able to provide them since I wasn't privy to the plant's financial papers.

"First of all, this is the smart thing to do," I began. "Ask these questions now, so you can make an intelligent decision relating to investing in yourselves as the owners and operators of a going business concern. Ask the owner for access to the profit and loss statements for the past five years, along with the tax returns. Have them reviewed by professionals. You will need to talk with the dealers who actually inventory and sell the equipment. What are their feelings and expectations regarding future sales? Armed with that information, sales for the coming years can then be projected to some degree of accuracy. The owner of the plant is going to sell either one of two things: a viable plant and equipment with a verifiable profit stream or merely a big building with idle equipment. You don't want the latter. And furthermore, you guys will need to invest some funds to ascertain these facts as well as get a contract drawn up and signed with the plant owner to give you exclusive rights to purchase the company for the time it will take you to find out whether or not this is a good investment. This is the way it's done, so get used to it. There's not simply going to be a handshake and a promise here. You're getting into the area of high finance. There are lots of i's to dot and t's to cross. This may be the biggest financial decision you guys will ever make in your lives, so it is best to do it right. It's called due diligence."

This caused the entire group to look to one another as if surprised at the news this would be something more than a good old boy handshake transaction.

"This is what I've been trying to tell you guys. This is going to involve lawyers, accountants, and who knows what else to get this deal done, if we decide to go for it," said their nominal leader, Jack Fletcher.

The group mumbled among themselves before a serious looking younger man in his mid thirties spoke up.

"What do you think, Will? What would you do?" he asked with deep concern in his expression.

I hadn't expected to be asked this question, so I had to think about it before I responded. "I would look very seriously at this opportunity, and I will tell you why. Real jobs, the jobs that allow the average worker to buy a decent home and provide a decent life for a family are becoming fewer and far between. Corporate America intends to buy and send every manufacturing function they can overseas in search for higher profits through lower wages. They have no conscience regarding the welfare of former employees who have dedicated their lives to building a good name for the manufacturer of a certain line of products. Neither your families nor the entire country's long-term well being is of importance to them. As far as they are concerned, you can all die in a ditch. I know this sounds horrible, but it's true. Don't expect your government to do much of anything about it since both political parties are bought and paid for by corporate dollars. While the simple-minded voters of this country are incited to argue about abortion, gay rights, gay marriage, religion in the school systems, and every other non-economic political hot potato topic imaginable, large corporations are taking an ever larger portion of the total income derived from the sale of products and services once produced by the workers of this country. If this is a viable and profitable manufacturing facility, and you let it get away, you will most likely never have such an opportunity to make a decent living presented to you again. This country, in my opinion, is under attack by corporate interests that seek to maximize profits for an elite few by legally stealing your livelihoods."

I waited for someone to make a comment but not one of the committee said a word. My little rant about the sorry state of affairs relating to corporations running the show must have made some kind of impression upon the group. Finally, deciding I needed to move this suddenly bogged down work session along, I asked the group a few salient questions relating to what they proposed to do.

"Do any of you know where the Dow is right at this moment?" No one said a thing. "No? Well, it's almost down 3000 points from a high of over 14,000 just one year ago. I believe it is headed lower, very possibly, much lower. Do you know why?"

Not one person responded. This surprised me because access to market information as well as opportunities to invest, was plentiful.

"Let me tell you why I think the market has further to fall. First, the residential housing market might be headed for a freefall. Prices are down twenty to thirty percent from their year ago highs. Millions of owners are beginning to walk away from mortgages they never should have gotten involved with in the first place. They can't afford the payments, and they never could. Large mortgage financiers are beginning to fail because of this collapse, and only yesterday, the federal government took control of Fanny Mae and Freddy Mac, the two largest mortgage insurance companies in the world. They are insolvent. It's believed that additional financial institution failures are imminent. The entire financial system of this country is under attack at this very moment, and millions of investors are trying to run for cover. They are locking in their losses and hoping to salvage what few dollars they have left."

"You have just told me you are worried about investing your 401k dollars in a manufacturing facility, and you should be. But don't think the markets are going to simply turn around and head back up, or if they do, that they will not ultimately crash again. This country is in for a big correction regarding how we go about managing our financial lives. In my opinion, we have enjoyed a standard of living most of the world has never known, or will ever know. But that's about to end. Many other countries now want to enjoy that same lifestyle we have enjoyed, and they are positioning themselves to try to do just that. We, on the other hand, have allowed the greater part of the manufacturing base that provided the foundation for our comfortable middle class lifestyles to be shipped abroad where workers will do the same jobs for mere pennies on the dollar. Ask yourselves where you will work in the future if this opportunity gets away? You won't work around here unless you farm, fix cars, paint houses, or perform some menial labor. If you do any of those jobs you will do them without the benefits you have grown accustomed to. For years, the know-it-alls have been assuring us that we are naturally moving away from a country that manufactures things to a country where we manage the world's financial affairs. Well, that's bullshit! That highly touted financial industry has just failed or moved to Hong Kong or Shanghai along with our manufacturing jobs. So while I encourage you to investigate this opportunity thoroughly before you decide, I would ask you to ask yourselves, whom do you want managing your savings in the future, yourselves as workers protecting your stake in a viable company you have ownership in or the same greedy financiers who have driven the good ship USA on to a rock?"

## Chapter Twenty-Seven

What started out as a quiet, normal (to the extent a struggling farm town populated with characters right out of a Dickens or Twain novel can be described using the adjective _normal_ ) Wednesday, soon turned into something else entirely, at least for the Mayor and myself. The Mayor received two phone calls at home earlier that morning. The first came from the Kansas Bureau of Investigation, and the second from Judge Lucius Brazzi, himself. They informed the Mayor that an investigation was imminent relating to the affairs of the Buford brothers. They instructed him to keep quiet about the pending investigation and to expect agents to arrive at the city offices by no later than the following Monday morning. The Mayor's renewed self-assurance, a product of the little pep talk we'd had in the meat locker, got blown all to hell. My subsequent conversation with the Mayor centered on him wanting to leave town until the Buford brothers were securely in jail. I informed him this might not be for months, or years, since they could get out on bail. The Mayor then resorted to disclaiming any part in bringing certain evidence to the authorities in the first place. He suggested that maybe in exchange for a real good deal on a term life insurance policy paying out to any beneficiary I wanted to name, I'd admit I, alone, brought the matter to the authorities— as if I stumbled on the evidence in the street. Since the Buford brothers obviously didn't like me, and probably intended to come after me anyway, what difference would it make? All I needed to do, the Mayor suggested, was pack up, get out of town, and never come back.

I thanked the Mayor for the heads up, along with his consideration, but I declined his kind offer regarding the insurance policy or running out of town like a rat jumping off a sinking ship. He told me to think about it and would keep the generous offer open. He also told me he might have a dying aunt whom he most likely would need to go and see immediately. I told him to have a safe trip and hoped he made it back by the following Monday otherwise, the investigators might get the wrong impression and assume a much wider conspiracy existed. I'm not sure, but I thought I heard sobbing or, at least, moaning coming over the phone before the line went dead.

_Poor guy. He'll probably take a shotgun, his two Labradors, a couple bags of Oreos, his cell phone to call potential new clients, and hide out in his barn until Monday morning_ , I told myself, replacing the phone receiver in its cradle. Such are the dangers and burdens placed upon those seeking to aspire to higher office. This likely held little chance of going down in the history books as another Watergate or creating suction like the incident when the White House ingénue rendered her services to the leader of our country while kneeling beneath the oval office desk or even come close to that little lie about all those evil weapons of mass destruction used as an excuse for the country to go to war in Iraq, but it damn sure was going to raise a stink like a dead opossum found under the front porch in July around Jonesboro.

After I'd hung up the phone, I made sure my composure stayed calm in front of my co-workers. They always looked in my direction when I finished talking on the phone, I expected, in fear of ascertaining if yet another crisis arose. All they got from me this time was a disinterested return to the chore of reviewing the supplies list I needed to have ready for the driver of the delivery truck stopping by the diner between 9 and 10 a.m. every Wednesday morning. I didn't chance a peek in their direction until I perused the supply list that hadn't changed for the last several weeks. We almost always needed the same basic items: coffee, flour, sugar, syrup, and so on. Our business was steady, meaning we sold food about as fast as we prepared it. Only occasionally did someone come up with an idea to try something different, like when a couple of the younger, more hip geezers requested we add quiche to the food bar staples, that I, in a not to be repeated moment of weakness, agreed to do. I seriously doubt any members of the group will ever again risk the unremitting hounding occurring when trying to introduce French cuisine to a bunch of unrepentant aging Anglophiles.

I kept up my nonchalant attitude until after the lunch crowd dispersed to resume their individual, and according to most of them, life sucking and unrewarding day jobs. That's when Mary June, using the excuse of refilling all the sugar and creamer holders on the individual tables, blindsided me as I collected the last of the dirty dishes.

"You really think I'm pretty stupid, don't you?" said Mary June as she moved from table to table in the vicinity of where I busied myself while secretly attempting to anticipate future events in light of the earlier notification of the commencement of the investigation.

"What? What do you mean?" I stammered while trying not to look guilty.

"What I mean is, something is going on, and you haven't told me about it. But, all that can be fixed tonight after you have dinner with my mother and me at our house at six o'clock. You got that?"

I merely nodded my acquiescence and stood silently as my accuser returned her attention to the dining room tables.

_How do they do that?_ I wondered for perhaps the millionth time. I had acted normal. I intentionally gave no indication that a conflagration, the likes of which was probably unknown to the citizens of this community loomed over the horizon. _Just how do they do that?_

For the rest of the afternoon, I basically wandered around in a fog. Multiple issues competed for attention in my mind's now seriously challenged state of disequilibrium. My thoughts no longer passed from one subject to the next, they leapt unexpectedly. I tried to anticipate the direction of the formal investigation of the Buford brothers' criminal activities only to find myself thinking about the upcoming debate, trying to sort out the completely erroneous and contradictory reasoning of my opponent whom I expected to do little else than repeat the most egregious party slogans designed specifically to appeal to the millions of right-wing voters not willing to be burdened with issues necessitating non-linear thinking.

I even worried about calling Carlton and telling him I'd be hard pressed to find the time to come over to Topeka for the promised golf outing anytime soon. I knew I had a better chance of getting away with stealing his prized 1979 Cadillac Eldorado convertible with the torn red interior or one of his many girlfriends then I would if I broke a pledge to come and play golf. Somehow I knew I had to keep that promise.

_Okay, so what am I forgetting to worry about here_? I stared out the diner front window watching all the normal people with normal worries go about their business. Surely more stuff hung around in the back of my brain that I could drag out and get all flummoxed over, possibly that little issue with the employees' over in Justice City counting on me to guide them through their negotiations with the present plant owner. We might as well toss in the real threat of Preacher Roy going Rambo on the evangelical shyster, also over in Justice City. We could also give Junior Junior's absence a mention. Plus, the real possibility of our country's entire economic system collapsing completely any day now deserved a brief heads up.

_That's probably enough for now_. I expected I could find more issues if I tried, but the ones I'd come up with sufficed to impress upon me the true nature and scope of the mess I'd gotten into. I reminded myself if things got too bad, I could hit the road. I did not owe a single person in this town a penny. Nor had I bound myself by contract to perform any function. I could walk out the door and never look back. Therein resided the cause for my puzzlement. Why did I not do that? Most of what I told myself I didn't believe in or ridiculed, yet these people accepted it outright. Religion, check; partisan politics, check; perpetual military interventionism, check; community involvement, check; the traditional family unit, check; America's phony moral rectitude, check; empty and often misguided patriotism, check; and God love it, bowling! I'm not sure why bowling made my lists so often as it's not exactly a _Sword of Damocles_ issue, but why someone would go bowling a second time is a complete mystery to me— my puzzlement being somewhat mitigated by my awareness that millions of seemingly sane people held the same legitimate opinion of golfers. So back to the original question: Why do I stay? _Hell if I know_.

The day passed without further distractions, or if there were any, I was so absorbed with the pending onset of the KBI investigation I paid little, if any, attention. Mary June did tell me, curtly, as she walked out the door at the end of her shift that supper was at 6 p.m. sharp and not to be late. Flo said not a word as she passed by offering nothing but her usual weak snarl. Realizing these two individuals who blew past me as if I were trying to sell them vacation time shares constituted the majority of my local support group, I started thinking maybe this might be a good time to talk with the Mayor about that insurance policy. I could direct the proceeds, payable upon my demise, to bribe many of the former friends and relatives I ignored so often during my life to no longer think of me as such a jerk. _It's a thought_.

The day went forward without any additional major announcements or crises, and that was fine with me because my plate looked to be piled high. When the time came for me to depart for my dinner date with Mary June and her mother, I decided to walk instead of drive the several blocks to Mary June's and her mother's house. While expecting a nice walk might help clear my head probably had some merit, I did not take into account the late afternoon, Kansas high plains, heat factor. By the time I arrived at my destination, I needed a towel to dry the sweat pouring forth from every pore on my body. The back of my Polo shirt absorbed so much body juice that wet cotton threads stuck to my skin.

"Looks like I'm going to need a towel," were the first words out of my mouth when my host opened the door to find her dinner guest dripping sweat on her front porch. I couldn't help but take notice of the look of puzzlement on Mary June's face. By now, I pretty much could tell what she thought by the various looks she displayed. This one, without a doubt, was her 'what an idiot' look. Not to be mistaken for the somewhat similar, but more sinister, 'if I had a stick I would hit you' look.

"Come in before you melt," said my host as she grabbed my arm and pulled me into the air-conditioned living room. Once inside, she repeated the look one more time before turning to announce my presence to her mother. "Mom, Will's here. Come and say hello."

I caught sight of a slightly puzzled, yet spry looking, white-haired elderly lady approaching the two of us from the dining room. I could see a slightly puzzled look on her face as she closed the distance. Mary June's mother observed me commending the entire air-conditioning industry for providing the citizens of the state of Kansas, as well as the nation and, especially, Jonesboro, Kansas, with all the wonderful cooling devices presently helping to lower my now elevated core temperature.

"Mom, this is Will. He's the man I work with at the diner. Do you remember me telling you about him? He's going to have dinner with us this evening." Mary June's demeanor indicated she believed there was a chance her mother might recall having been told about me.

"What did you say the name was?" her mother asked.

"It's Will, Mom. I've mentioned him to you earlier. Do you remember?" asked Mary June hopeful her mother recalled the incident.

"Can't say that I recollect any Bill excepting that scallywag Bill Humpner or Humpter or whatever it was. I think he got run out of town and told not to come back for trying to get all the young men back in the 60's to burn their draft cards and smoke funny cigarettes. Are you him?" she said looking straight in my direction.

Mary June cut me off before I could reply. "No, Mom this is Will Clayton. Will not Bill. Let's just forget it. Come on everybody, it's time to eat."

Mary June took her mother by the arm and walked her to the well-provisioned dining room table and seated her before directing me to the place of honor at the end of the table. We all settled in for what looked to be meal sent down from heaven. I spotted the meatloaf first off, then in no particular order: the mashed potatoes, home-grown green beans, brown gravy, fresh garden salad, hot rolls in a covered basket, and what looked to be some kind of cream pie sitting way down at the end of the table intentionally placed out of reach of those who could not resist the temptation to sneak a slice onto the side of a plate not totally covered with gravy. Marveling at this veritable feast, I realized how much I missed home-cooked victuals.

Mary June noticed me admiring the impressive array of home cooked dishes. "Help yourself, Will. We don't stand on ceremony around here." And I did just that while my hostess tended to her mother's dining needs before fixing a plate for herself. Only the pouring of the freshly made ice tea delayed me from commencing to satiate my taste, smell, and sight senses waiting impatiently for a chance to dig in.

Thankfully, the conversation was kept to a minimum during the greater part of the meal, which allowed me to savor each bite of gravy-soaked meatloaf. I thought as I sat there, _if Mary June had served this kind of food at her restaurant instead of the vegetarian fare, Junior Junior's would by now be just a bad memory_. A minute later, I noticed Mary June looking in my direction.

"I know what you are thinking," she said to me as I washed down another mouth full of meatloaf and potatoes with a big gulp of ice tea. "You're wondering why I didn't serve this kind of food at my own restaurant, aren't you?"

My mouth was so full I couldn't even begin to think about answering her rhetorical question. So I nodded and awaited her response.

"It's because food like this will take ten years off your life, that's why. I agree it's good. I love it myself, but you can't eat like this every day if you want to live, much less be able to get up from the table."

"It's my recipe, of course," said Mary June's mother as she nibbled at her small plate of food.

"I was going to tell him, Mom, and I told you, I'm not trying to steal your recipes. I just wanted to borrow them so Will could have a nice home-cooked meal for a change."

By this time my mouth emptied sufficiently to join in the conversation. I decided I needed to be tactful. As an individual once well versed in the art, I knew how to be tactful. "I think this must have been a team effort," I began. "It surely took both of you employing your considerable talents to create this delicious meal. I haven't dined this well in many years. You are so correct. Junior Junior's would now be just a very bad memory if you had ever decided to prepare meals this spectacular for the public. Just say the word, and I will gladly turn the entire diner over to the care of you ladies and your delicious recipes. Then I would hurriedly leave town, lest I run the risk of happily eating myself into a much larger wardrobe."

Both ladies smiled their approval of my compliments, but Mary June surprised me with her response.

"But that's what we want you not to do, Will. Don't you see by now how much we want you to stay? You are making a difference here. If you go somewhere else you might get lost in the crowd again, and maybe that's what you want, but here, you have a chance to make things better. Think about that, will you?" Mary June's comment put me off my game. I hadn't expected it.

While I sat there thinking about what Mary June said, she, in the meantime, got up to clear the dishes in preparation for serving pie and fresh coffee. Not until a large piece of coconut cream pie and a steaming hot cup of freshly brewed coffee sat before me did I shake off Mary June's surprising comments.

"This may be the coup de grâce," I said before I started on my slice of pie piled high with a lightly browned meringue topping. The light flakey crust holding the still warm coconut cream filling topped off with the meringue topping melted inside my mouth. I think I may have closed my eyes for a second as I savored the first bite. I can't exactly recall if I actually chewed before I swallowed or simply allowed the dissolving confection to slide into my upper digestive tract on its own accord. Ultimately, it mattered not. The joyous result would, no doubt, have been the same either way.

Having finished perhaps the finest meal that had been served to me in many years, the tell-tell signs of extreme gastrointestinal discomfort visited upon my person. I had eaten way too much, way too fast, and now, I was going to pay. Fortunately, Mary June recognized the symptoms and directed me to a soft chair in the living room before all the great food I'd ingested actually reached my stomach. When it did I had to loosen my way too tight trouser belt. I expected the sigh of relief I emitted, as another badly needed two inches of stomach space came available, was noticeable to both hostesses as they went about the business of cleaning the table and transferring the leftovers to the kitchen where they washed and dried the dishes. Having been directed to sit and relax while they tidied up, I couldn't help but notice the all too humorous and chatty newscasters dominating the television screen that glared at me from across the room. These people were banter professionals, regularly mixing in bits and pieces about humanity's daily carnage creations with their snappy one-liners. They were masters of segue, moving adroitly between train wrecks, girl scout cookie drives, and slick politicians who swore on their mothers' graves they had no foreknowledge that the bundles of cash crammed into briefcases of trusted bag men and women were for backroom support for the latest, small business destroying, big box store developments to be built on prime farm ground on the edge of town secured via imminent domain.

"I see you're still alive," the sound of Mary June's voice stopped me before I had time to get a good rant going regarding the sad state of news casting. Just as well as I reminded myself I had plenty of other issues sitting on my plate. Speaking of plates, I decided it would be entirely appropriate for me to blame my present stomach pains on my hostess. Obviously, she over served me. Mary June had caused my pain. It was her fault. I knew both she and Flo only thought of me as another marginally useful male idiot. So what else could she expect of me? Of course I would eat piles of great food if you put it in front of me— I'm a man. That's what men do!

"Here, drink this. I believe it will help. I suppose I should take part of the blame for how you feel. I should have remembered how men react to a home-cooked meal. Men are all the same, aren't they?" My condescending hostess politely informed me as she sat down beside me offering up an unidentified olfactory pleasing libation.

All I could do at the moment was wonder if the woman could read my mind. Only seconds before I came to the conclusion the blame belonged to her, and here she was taking the blame, as she should.

"Thanks, but I cannot consume anything else, liquid or solid. I'm in pain, and I think I need to tell you now I may have to contact my lawyer. You've just admitted the average man cannot help but stuff himself when served such wonderful food. You are going to have to pay for this."

Mary June laughed as she extended the frothy libation towards me. "Drink this. It will ease your pain."

"What is it?" I asked, not trying to hide my suspicion.

"It's a concoction called Lassi, and it will stimulate your Agni, or digestive fires. My Maharishi, back in San Francisco, gave the recipe to me during Ayurveda or science of life sessions that included instruction on ways to stimulate the digestive tract."

"What's in it?" I inquired not yet willing to buy into her Eastern cure-all.

"Well, let's see. There's homemade yogurt, room temperature sugar water, a pinch of ginger, coriander, cumin, and salt. I blended the ingredients for one minute to provide the sufferer with a healthy concoction guaranteed to provide all the necessary bacteria for lubrication of the intestines as well as helping to smooth digestion. It reduces bloating and gas, and finally, I think it tastes delicious."

She was right. Within minutes my stomach pain began to subside. While this went on, Mary June finished getting her mother situated before the television so she could watch her gossip shows. Once accomplished, she silently directed me to follow her to the enclosed and air-conditioned back porch where more comfortable chairs awaited. After getting resettled, Mary June wasted no more time. "Okay, now bring me up-to-date, and leave nothing out. I can't help if you don't keep me informed, and I do want to help."

I hesitated but only because I needed to organize my thoughts in relation to those matters Mary June was involved with. She wasn't in on the proposed plant sale to the local employees. Nor would she be interested in the Preacher's tendency to violence or my need to go to Topeka to play golf. She would be interested in Junior Junior's status, along with the Mayor's intention to go to the mattresses until things settled back down as well as tomorrow night's debate. She would most certainly want to know about that. Most importantly of all, she would want to know about the investigation.

"Okay, the important news first. The KBI will be here Monday morning to begin their investigation. I learned this from the Mayor today. I expect by now the Mayor is hiding out at his farm until the authorities force him to come forward and do his job, especially, since the Mayor originally brought the problem to me and asked for help. Other than the Brazzi brothers, only you, the Mayor, and I know what is about to happen. This is as far as it can go, period. That's all I have relating to that subject. Pertaining to Junior Junior, I know absolutely nothing more than the Chief reported after the Doctor's last visit, which you already know about. Lastly, the debate is tomorrow night. I have done absolutely nothing to prepare and intend to do nothing more than show up and respond to questions and attempt to debunk just about every single utterance coming from my challenger as they arise. Saving the most important for last, thank you for the absolutely wonderful dinner. Any questions?"

"Just one more question. What about the Bufords? What happens when those apes find out they are on the hot seat? What do you propose to do if they decide to come after you?" asked a concerned Mary June.

I thought about her question for sometime before I answered. "I don't really know what I will do. This is new territory for me. I haven't gotten involved in someone else's fight in a very long time. I guess the best I can do is to say I hope I continue to stand up for what I believe is right. I do recall that the last time I decided to make a stand in Vietnam, at my country's request, my country abandoned the fight. I sure hope that doesn't happen again."

"So do I, Will," answered a somber Mary June. "So do I."

## Chapter Twenty-Eight

The next morning came way, way too early. I felt the effects from so much delicious home-cooked food. After another hour of conversation with Mary June the previous evening, mostly related to the pathetic state of affairs in the world and, especially, Jonesboro, I'd headed for home. The elixir did help, but not enough to prevent me from suffering a bout of late night indigestion. Stumbling towards the diner the next morning feeling as if I needed at least another six hours sleep to get me anywhere close to feeling normal, no thoughts crossed my mind other than getting through what loomed over me as a very long day. Not until much later in the morning did I have the presence of mind to recall all the issues so thoroughly dominating my consciousness prior to Mary June's amazing home-cooked meal.

Even the constant chatter amongst the diner regulars regarding the much-anticipated debate hadn't actually registered until half the day went by. I barely recalled hearing their comments relating to how my opponent, Cecil Wonkers, looked forward to putting one of those soulless socialist in his place. I did recall hearing them say Cecil was so intent on being prepared that he bragged to his supporters he planned on reading a book, but only if he found the time away from his busy schedule of watching conservative political programs aired daily on cable television. Cecil reportedly said that everything a God-fearing Republican needed to know could be gleaned from reading the Bible and watching politically conservative television channels every day. To be able to say that he had, for sure, covered all the bases, he conceded it was time to read another book. The last one he read was in 1968, right before Nixon got elected. It was a biography about Warren G. Harding. Cecil claimed it to be the finest book he'd ever read. It made such a strong impression on him, he had naturally become loath to ever read another for fear it would contaminate the profoundly uplifting revelations gleaned from the Harding book. Cecil went on and on about the mostly forgotten President's wise determination to pursue an isolationist policy when it came to the sordid affairs of the European continent. Cecil, henceforth, became an inveterate isolationist, forever condemning the ongoing influx of all late arrivals to this great country, excepting of course, those English- speaking adherents to the traditional Anglo-Saxon version of Christian orthodoxy.

The most important concept he extracted from this seminal work regarding the life of the individual who most every scholar in the western world considered the worst President in the history of America and the one that made the greatest impression on him, dealt with the nebulous subject of Nativism. Nativism was loosely defined as a policy promoting the rights and interests of current inhabitants of a nation over the specious claims of more recent immigrants. It basically opposed future immigrants coming in and attempting to establish any ethnic or cultural traditions that differed from the ones the earlier immigrants set up first.

Best of all, these isolationist and Nativist ideas could be encapsulated in the most effective slogan ever attributed to President Harding, "Normalcy." Harding said, "America's present need is not heroics, but healing; not nostrums, but normalcy." It became a catchphrase he used effectively in maneuvering the voters. Yet Normalcy was not a program, rather it was more akin to a code word used to deter the masses from asking Harding about his political ideology which, in fact, did not exist and backwards towards an idea of a more pleasant place and era that had never even existed.

To me, it made sense that a _doofus_ like Cecil chose as his role model a President who spent his time playing golf and poker with his cronies and courting his mistress. All this went on as his administration handed out oil concessions for bribes, creating the Tea Pot Dome Scandal. Never before had the White House been so completely aligned with corporate business interests. Only Harding's untimely death in 1923, just two years into his first term, prevented him from climbing to even greater heights of public scandal. I had no information regarding which crooked politician Cecil had in mind to read about next, but I'd be inclined to put my money on Tricky Dick Nixon. Cecil was reportedly one of only a handful of living human beings that actually believed Nixon when he so forcefully proclaimed, "I am not a crook!"

About the time I began to get my brain wrapped around everything going on in my life regarding the community's dysfunctional affairs and began to zone in on the fact I was expected to stand before the community that very night to support a political view point anathema to the local denizens, life happened. The diner's sewer drain stopped up.

In this highly industrialized modern world, few things can expose a society's limitations and weaknesses quicker than a stopped up sewer pipe. When the crap won't flow— the world don't go! During the greater part of the diner's operating day someone is visiting one of the two lavatories every ten minutes. Every cup, glass, pot, pan, and utensil is washed, and every square foot of floor is mopped repeatedly.

Within a half hour of learning that every drain in the building did not function, the fear showed on the faces of the staff and customers alike. At first, everyone maintained their composure and even made jokes about it. The reality of life without plumbing soon began to take its toll. Both ladies began to display something akin to mild hysteria at the thought of being without plumbing. After an hour without working pipes, I tried to stay as far away from my fellow workers as possible. It became apparent both were prepared to place the blame for the crisis squarely on my shoulders. I did not take this threat lightly and stayed on the phone to get a plumber to come and save us. One of the idiots I spoke with actually tried to get me to make an appointment unless I agreed to bare the extra cost of declaring an emergency, wherein they would drop everything to come out immediately. Maintaining an attitude consistent with my lofty employment position, I merely inquired as to just how high must the crap be piled before it constituted one of those real emergencies. The nice lady got my point and redirected one of the company's trucks to our location.

A long white van eventually pulled up to the front of the building that was now vacant of customer vehicles. Displaying the typical haughty attitude of an individual who knew without a doubt he maintained all the negotiating leverage, our rescuer calmly sauntered inside and inquired as to what the problem was. I politely informed him, just as I had informed his dispatcher, that basically our crap simply refused to leave the building. I told him I didn't want to seem presumptuous, but utilizing my vast experiences as a leader of industry and boss of a roadside diner, as well as a long time user and admirer of commodes, my money would be bet on finding a stoppage somewhere in the main sewer pipe.

Then Hoyt, according to the name on his suspiciously clean work shirt, smiled politely and told me he'd check things out. I thanked him for coming and left the man to his business. Meanwhile, I felt brave enough since professional help had arrived to venture back to the area where the two ladies hovered like witnesses to a terrorist attack. This was no small deal. For them, nothing worked without water. They cooked with it, cleaned with it, bathed with it, washed clothes and dishes with it, grew gardens and lawns with it, even got baptized in it, and somebody damn sure better get whatever needed to be unplugged, unplugged, so it could once again flow into and, more importantly, out of the building.

"Well ladies," I said to them, "hopefully things will be back to normal soon. Hoyt's going to check things out real quick and get back to me. Until then I guess we may as well take it easy. Fortunately, we got through most of the lunch period before things plugged up, and if necessary, we can serve the afternoon crowd with carry out plates and cups which we won't have to wash." I finished attempting to reassure my team by offering up my most positive face.

Mary June received my assessment with a show of optimism, but Flo simply directed my attention to the far end of the diner where our recently arrived crisis control expert carried on a casual conversation with one of the few customers.

"Hope he doesn't wear himself out trying to find out where the problem is," said Flo as our would be savior finally broke away from the cordial chit chat and went looking for some, sure to be profitable, work.

I didn't take the bait and made a suggestion instead, "Maybe you two might use this time to run personal errands. Then when this guy's finished, we can all reconvene and get ready for tomorrow. I'll stay here and do what I can and find out how badly this is going to hit Junior Junior's wallet. Will that help?"

Mary June said okay immediately, but Flo felt it necessary to inform me I was lucky this wasn't one of her hair appointment days that she never, ever, canceled excepting for maybe a funeral or a chance to meet a feller. Soon only Hoyt and I were at the diner. I'd gone ahead and put hot coffee and the last of the pastries on a table located next to the front door with a sign to help yourself for free. No need to risk the wrath of a few afternoon customers who depended on the diner for a quick sugar and caffeine fix.

Deciding I might as well use the down time by actually giving some thought to the coming evening's festivities, I poured myself a cup of coffee, took a note pad, and sat down at one of the rear tables. Hoyt, busy attempting to isolate the drain problem, had received the go ahead to fix whatever was broke, so I determined to try to clear my mind to be able to organize my thoughts relating to the most salient issues confronting the country. I checked to see if I had enough notepaper and quickly surmised, my list would not be a short one. I told myself not to try to prioritize anything until I'd listed everything I could think of. Fifteen minutes later, I finally put my pen down. _Enough_! I had three pages of notes and hadn't even broken a sweat. _This country is really screwed_ , I told myself as I gazed at the pages filled with solid lines of closely printed words. I felt I pretty much addressed the major issues, but, by now, my partially energized brain also told me most of what I listed would not be considered vital to ninety-nine percent of the attendees. It was good for me to remind myself of the entire universe of salient issues, although, I felt sure the debate would center on a mere handful of what I considered less important matters. That's where I needed to be prepared, if it was possible to prepare to debate periphery issues such as abortion, homosexuality, gay marriage, prayer in public schools, and the right to end one's life with dignity. I recognized all of these as legitimate points of discussion but certainly not at the expense of debating and acting upon far more important issues. Issues such as: our nation's financial instability, fair taxation, national security, illegal immigration, terrorism, global warming, military interventionism, corporate malfeasance, corporate lobbyists, national debt, education, poverty, real estate market crash, destructive political partisanship, current and future energy needs, globalization, outsourcing of jobs, corporate farming, and old age entitlements, just to name part of a very long list of important issues.

I decided right then that if I permitted the debate to dwell in the nether regions of non-quantifiable social issues, all would be lost. You can't argue prejudices. One person's prejudice is often another person's core value cornerstone. Somehow, I had to redirect the debate back to the important issues whenever my opponent tried to hide behind a hot button social issue smoke screen. Whenever Cecil tried to rely upon the customary exchange of prejudices, I intended to redirect the debate back to the discussion of more critical issues.

There would not be an official moderator at my insistence. I wasn't going to be fool enough to stand up there and allow some local party hack to direct the debate away from the current administration's history of almost total incompetence and outright deceit. That demand was non-negotiable if they wanted me to participate. Each participant would be allowed five minutes to make an opening statement, and after that, we were free to argue, condemn, chastise, orate, preach, obfuscate, or pretty much anything else except cuss.

It was about this time that Hoyt came out of the kitchen to inform me he had finally located the main sewer pipe clean-out plug. The reason it took so long was because someone long ago concealed it by placing a linen cabinet over it. The cabinet had to have been there for sometime. Hoyt said we were lucky he was familiar with the construction of concrete block buildings of this nature built mostly during the '70s and '80s. The plumbing codes by that time always stipulated there must be a clean-out plug somewhere. Now he could bring in his 'heavy-duty commercial grade sewer pipe auger and get it done.'

I flashed him the thumbs up before checking my watch to see it was getting close to 2 p.m. I figured if Hoyt finished by 3 p.m. it would require at least a couple of hours to get things cleaned up. That meant I wouldn't be getting out of the diner until around 5 p.m. I decided to kick back and relax because no benefit came from worrying about the debate. I'd do my best to explain my positions and point out the fallacy of my opponent's arguments. I doubted I stood much of a chance in changing anyone's core beliefs. Mostly because their so-called beliefs were, to a great extent, merely extensions of deeply ingrained prejudices passed down to them from their ancestors. What is it they say? An apple, pear, peach, banana, dead buzzard, or whatever never falls far from the tree. To borrow and misuse a term generally associated with nature lovers, these people were tree huggers, though, only in the sense they seldom ventured far from the limbs and leaves protecting them from being exposed to the sunlight of real facts and figures.

Awakening from my mental wandering, I spotted Sheriff Slaybaugh coming through the front door with Preacher Roy in tow. They saw me sitting alone in the back of the room and immediately headed in my direction. Preacher Roy halted his progress long enough to stop by the free coffee and pastries table and avail himself of the goodies.

"Afternoon, gentlemen," I said as they approached my table.

"Afternoon, Will," responded the Sheriff.

"Howdy, Will," offered the Preacher right before he took his first big bite out of the oversized blueberry muffin he held firmly in his large, calloused hand. "Thanks for the muffin."

"Sit down," I said to them both waving my hand in the direction of the vacant chairs at my table.

Both did, and then the Sheriff, after determining his associate wouldn't be talking until he'd finished off the muffin, spoke up.

"Will, both the Preacher and I wanted to stop by and tell you how much we appreciate your taking the time to participate in tonight's debate. I truly don't know if you will accomplish much trying to respond to Cecil's infernal ramblings and the local folks' predisposition to lean to the far right, but we want you to know there are folks around here who look up to you for being the person you are, if not for your politics. You pretty much go along with that Preacher Roy?" asked the Sheriff as he turned to his traveling companion busy trying to get the last of the muffin into his mouth.

"Umph! Umph!" was Preacher Roy's terse response as he chewed his muffin while nodding his head in approval.

"Thank you both. I appreciate that you stopped by to say this. It means a lot coming from the two of you." I fully expect the smile on my face gave away my grateful feelings well before I'd said a word in reply. "I'll look forward to seeing both of your friendly faces in the crowd this evening."

They headed back out the door but not before Preacher Roy stopped by to pick up the last blueberry muffin for the road. He even managed a thank you with his mouth half full of the remnants of the first muffin. As I watched the two sympathizers to my plight depart, I decided to go ahead and close out the register in preparation of closing down as soon as possible after we got back to work. Soon afterwards, both ladies returned in hopes of doing the same. Fortunately, their wait wasn't long. Hoyt exited the kitchen area pulling along his drain cleaning device and announced he'd completed his job. We were once more officially connected to arguably the most important public service civilized societies everywhere aspired to provide— liquid and semi-liquid waste removal. No need to go out to some dilapidated wooden structure sitting atop a most vile and odorous hole. We could simply pull a plug or activate a lever and, _shazam_ , all our waste products miraculously headed downstream. We didn't have to bury it. We didn't have to put it on a truck and haul it off. We didn't even have to burn it, and I especially appreciated this, remembering all too well the thick clouds of black smoke constantly rising up from the thousands of G.I. shit holes set afire with diesel fuel and left to burn in Vietnam, causing minute particles of human feces to drift away until caught up in the hairs of an unfortunate G.I.'s nose. We had been rescued. God bless plumbers everywhere.

Caught up in the excitement of the occasion, we all gleefully set forth to render our fine dining facility fit for the next day's expected activities. Less than an hour later everything sat cleaned and ready. Flo looked so relieved she even wished me good luck with the debate. Unfortunately, she would not be attending the affair to cheer me on but only because she had set aside the evening to try a new hair color. The most recent shade failed its main purpose of securing polite comments from the men folk. She held off changing colors for an additional two weeks just to make sure, and now that she was, color number two hundred and twenty-two had to go. When Flo made a decision regarding her hair, nothing stood in the way.

Mary June hung around for a little longer to see how I held up in light of the major event happening that evening. She offered to give me a ride to the gym. I thanked her for her concern and for the ride offer, but told her everything was fine and that I preferred to walk. Walking helped clear my brain. Still not completely convinced of my outward calmness, she assured me I would do fine and gave me a hug before departing the premises to go home to tend to personal chores before heading for the high school gym.

I truly did appreciate her show of support and confidence, but I also experienced an unexpected pang of guilt over having not told her the truth about my not being a registered Democrat that I fully expected she thought I was. To my recollection, only Preacher Roy and the Mayor were aware of my true Independent status. Technically, I probably should have told her, but I truly could not imagine a registered Democrat anywhere in the country being anymore opposed to the destructive and deceitful policies presently being forced upon our country and the world by the current administration. Still, I figured, one of these days I needed to tell her the truth.

I followed my loyal co-workers out of the diner and headed for my apartment and some much appreciated quiet time. Maybe I could even get in a short nap. Or maybe I'd find some glass slippers, put'em on, click my heels, and get the hell out of Kansas!

## Chapter Twenty-Nine

Stepping out on to the porch of my second floor apartment freshly washed and sporting my favorite khaki trousers, blue Oxford cloth short sleeve shirt, and my always dependable Rockport lace ups, I was surprised to find Junior Junior waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. He exhibited no evidence to suspect he'd suffered, of late, a severe emotional setback.

"Howdy, Will. Mind if I come along with you to the debate?" he asked before I could voice both my surprise and pleasure at seeing him up and about.

"Not at all! Glad to have some friendly company. That is if you are friendly?" I said to him jokingly as I descended the stairs.

"Depends on if you consider a fellow Democrat friendly, I expect," he countered.

I halted dead in my tracks only halfway down the steps. "You...you're the other Democrat?" I stammered, shocked to the very bottom of my shoe soles at having heard this unexpected confession from the single person in town I least expected to reveal a political bent, much less admit to being the unknown Democrat.

"I am. I was born on the same day Robert Kennedy got shot dead in 1968. I kind of took that as an omen when I got old enough to start thinking about politics. After I learned about how he was a rich feller just like his brother who got killed trying to speak up for the little man, I decided to give the Democrats the benefit of the doubt when it came to electing our so-called public servants."

I slowed my descent while trying to come to grips with this strange event. This could be a good omen. If a simple man like Junior Junior got it, then maybe there was cause for hope.

"This is great. Are you going to let others know? I won't say a word if you don't want me to," I asked him as we stood together at the foot of the stairs.

"I haven't gotten that far yet so why don't we keep this to ourselves for the time being, okay?" he replied.

"Absolutely," I responded still feeling strange hearing a verbal response from a man famous for never saying anything. "So are you feeling as good as you look?" I asked.

"Much better, thanks. And straight off, I want to thank you for taking care of things while I've been ailing. You've been a real good friend. I want you to know I won't ever forget it. That's one reason I want to go along tonight and offer my support."

"Great," I replied enthusiastically, "and I'm happy to say you will have some company. Mary June will be there, along with the Sheriff and Preacher Roy. The last two may not be Democrats, but they are both fair-minded men who shun ignorant political partisanship. Unfortunately, Flo has a prior commitment; you can guess what that means."

Before I could ask Junior Junior if he wanted to walk or drive his truck, he moved past me to the passenger side and asked if we shouldn't get going. I agreed we should indeed and headed towards the driver's side. We soon found ourselves crawling along in the steady stream of traffic heading for the high school gym. My unexpected companion said nothing while we drove along until we approached the soon-to-be filled-to-capacity school parking lot. That worked for me since I had plenty of other things on my mind. "You know what surprises me most?" asked Junior Junior breaking the silence. "I haven't heard a single person mention anything about today being the seventh anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Center." I had no reply. I instantly realized I, too, stood guilty of getting wrapped up in my own selfish little world of late. _How quickly we forget_ , I said to myself admitting my personal shame.

We made our way on foot from the rear of the parking lot towards the gymnasium doors. Glancing at my watch, I noticed we still had some time before the debate started. All along the walk to the gym, group after group called out wishing me well. I found this to be reassuring. I didn't know what the local folks expected, but I figured they weren't looking for a fight. I did not detect any outright partisan behavior at all. If you asked me, they acted more like folks going to a high school play or a ball game. With Junior Junior joining my team, along with all these greetings and salutations from members of, I'm sure, the opposite camp, I started feeling more at ease.

Soon we approached the main entrance to the gym. Mary June was waiting there accompanied by a nattily attired elderly gentleman who I immediately recognized as the town boogieman, UB2 or Mr. Dom Brazzi. I chuckled at the thought of all these unknowing people calmly passing by the most feared individual in this part of the county. But why should they suspect anything? Dom resembled UB2 in no way. As I came abreast of these valued supporters, I stopped to say hello and to thank both for coming. Only one of the two heard what I said, for Mary June immediately locked on to the presence of Junior Junior and looked to be in danger of becoming speechless.

"Oh, my, goodness," she finally said. "Isn't this a pleasant surprise? Junior Junior, I must say, you look snappy."

"Thank you," responded Junior Junior to the amazed Mary June. "I feel much better now, especially, since I've stopped drinking. And I want to take this opportunity to thank you for helping out at the diner. I've heard good things about your pies."

I had to smile as I watched Mary June absorb Junior Junior's comments. She probably heard more words from him at that moment than during the previous thirty years.

"Hello, I'm Junior Johnson," my companion said to Mary June's friend, Dom, while simultaneously offering an outstretched hand.

Mary June's eyes opened wide in amazement at this second barrage of coherent syllables. By this time, others began to take notice of Junior Junior's presence as well as the sound of words coming out of his mouth. I felt I needed to get the group moving along before we created a bottleneck of gawkers at the main entrance. I also wanted to get inside and get the night over with.

I gently put my arm around Mary June's shoulder and suggested to her we make our way inside. She didn't resist, but neither did the dumbfounded look disappear from her face. Dom and Junior Junior walked along behind chatting amiably as I led the way into the gymnasium hoping to find someone professing to be in charge of the evening's activities.

I looked around for a place to deposit Mary June and her new friend, and I caught sight of a number of familiar faces. Down front, standing before front row seats, I saw a waving Preacher Roy along with the Sheriff. Nearby and clumped together, sat the entire geezer crowd, who also smiled and waved. Searching for more friendly faces, I caught sight of my fellow Viet Nam vet, and near him sat several familiar faces from the Justice City plant group. I wasn't sure they were supporters, but I felt confident they would be inclined to not prejudge me.

All in all, things didn't look too bad. Most of the attendees busied themselves chatting with friends and neighbors, while the few kids who had been forced to accompany their parents to this affair played tag out in front of the gym and loudly entertained themselves. I caught sight of my opponent, Cecil Wonkers, who waved to me from the far side of the room. Of the several individuals congregating near him, all of whom seemed to be busy conspiring if furtive glances in all directions gave a true indication, the only individual actually looking in my direction was Big Bob Buford. Unlike the others, he looked interested in only one thing— me. If the man had possessed laser vision, I would have been cut to shreds in mere seconds. _Go ahead and smile_ , I thought while returning his stare. _Come Monday you might very well find life a little more difficult. If there's any justice in this world some serious people will come to town real soon and give you an opportunity to learn how to frog hop while wearing leg irons._

"Mr. Clayton, I'm Bob Conners, the school principal," came the sound of a voice from over my left shoulder. I turned to find the school principal extending his hand in my direction. "I believe we are about ready to begin, so if you would accompany Cecil and me to the stage, we can get started."

I grasped his strong calloused hand in reply recalling that he, too, belonged to an established local farming family.

"Of course," I replied. "I'll see you folks afterwards, I hope," I said to my companions. "Wish me luck."

As I started to turn away, Mary June squeezed my hand giving my flagging spirits a needed boost. "This is exactly where you're supposed to be, Will. These people need to hear the truth, and more than any other person I know, you know what that is. Plus," she added with a wink, "remember we're gonna have pie at my house afterwards, okay?"

"Can I come, too?" asked the principle jokingly as he led me away by the arm.

We joined up with my opponent, Cecil, and the three of us made our way to the stage located at the end of the gymnasium. As this occurred, the rest of the crowd automatically began to head to their respective seats. The principal motioned for Cecil and I to be seated on two folding metal chairs situated a short distance behind the portable speaker stand located in the middle of the stage. Mounted on the speaker stand, I noticed a single microphone which considering the size of the room as well as the large number of attendees, I expected to be helpful.

The two of us sat awaiting our fate following the principal's introduction. While doing so, I became aware of Cecil's hand being offered to me. I should not have been surprised as Cecil always before came off as every bit the nice guy. "Thanks for coming, Will," he said. "Looks like from the turn out, there are lots of folks here who want to hear what you've got to say. I hope to do my best. I don't plan for this to get personal because so far as I can tell, you're a pretty good feller."

I have to admit to being taken by surprise by my opponent's remarks. Yet, I appreciated hearing them. I wasn't looking for a fight either. I didn't even want to be there in the first place, but now that I was, I also knew I had no intention of allowing the debate to degenerate into one of those all too familiar character assassination events having nothing to do with the real issues.

"I appreciate you saying that, Cecil, and I assure you I intend to do the same," I said to him while accepting his hand.

My opponent and I returned our collective attention back towards the speaker stand upon hearing the principal's final words of introduction. "So without further delay I will now ask our first speaker, determined earlier by a coin toss, representing the Republican Party, Mr. Cecil Wonkers, to come forward and make his opening statement."

Notes in hand, my opponent turned on his friendliest smile and rose to address the seated audience. Naturally, being the hometown's representative, Cecil received a very warm reception accompanied by several admonishments to "Give'em hell, Cecil."

Obviously intent upon milking the smattering of applause forthcoming from the loyal base, Cecil made no attempt to get down to business. Not until the very last diehard supporter of all things Godly and Republican satisfied themselves they had gotten their point across and stopped clapping and whistling, did Cecil begin to speak.

"Well folks, here we are again, on the verge of electing a new President of the United States. I want to go on record right now to take this opportunity to thank all of my fellow citizens of Jonesboro, and the surrounding area, for coming out tonight to listen to two citizens tell you why their political party's candidate is the better man for the job. I especially want to thank the lone known representative of the local Democratic Party for choosing civil discourse this year as opposed to physical mayhem."

Even from where I sat listening to the crowd chuckle at the memory of last year's theatrics, I could easily make out the scowl on Mary June's face as she glared at my opponent. "I, of course," continued Cecil, "intend to tell you why the Republican candidate is by far the better man. My opponent, who we all most likely know by now is a nice feller, will try to persuade you that some young socialist scallywag from back east can do a better job than the Republican nominee who is a long serving United States Senator as well as a genuine war hero."

Cecil then paused while he arranged his note cards before him on the speaker stand. Eventually satisfied all was in order, he continued, "It's no secret that things aren't going well in the country right now. Mistakes have been made, for sure. But I believe we can fix those mistakes if we put the right man in the job. This is no time to get scared and turn to the purveyors of godless socialism for the answers. We need a strong leader. We need a man who is a true American hero. A man who understands that it is the basic values set forth by our Christian heritage that will ultimately lead us out of these troubled times. I expect most every adult in this room is aware of the real reasons for our country's problems. I believe, along with most of you, that we have lost our way. We need to return to the right path to find our way back to the promise land. We need to quit sinning against God's will. We must put a stop to abortion. We must oppose those who support giving government sanction to homosexuality. We must oppose same sex marriages. We must fight to reintroduce God's word into our school curriculums. We should resist all attempts by those who propose to introduce _Right to Die_ legislation at the state or federal level. This is a Christian country, and we need to fight to preserve our Christian heritage at all costs. We must insist on the right to protect our children, as well as all citizens, from all forms of pornography presently disseminated through television, film, radio, books, magazines, the Internet, or wherever. I believe that when we begin to conduct our lives as true Christians once more, the answers to all our problems will come to us." The sound of applause emanated from many of the more staunch supporters of Cecil's personal belief that social issues took priority over all else.

Cecil halted and coyly turned to look directly towards where I sat. "Having introduced the gist of my proposed arguments," he continued, "that I intend to follow up on in more detail later, I, at this time, concede the microphone to my opponent so he has the opportunity to do likewise."

Surprised at both the brevity of Cecil's opening remarks, as well as the complete lack of political substance in them, I haltingly responded to the invitation to take center stage. Rising to my feet as Cecil prepared to sit down, I approached the microphone not at all certain of what I intended to say. The crowd offered up a smattering of applause, highlighted by Mary June, Junior Junior, and Dom's obvious partisan greeting. Possibly more of the attendees watched my supporters' display of support than they did me. This may very well have been the first time the locals ever witnessed support offered to a Democratic candidate.

Standing at the podium with nothing before me to organize or shuffle in order to delay having to speak without a clear objective outlined in my mind, I experienced a pang of indecision. Should I take the bait and try to argue my points through the usual smokescreen of _value issues_ laid down by Cecil only moments before, as I felt he expected me to do? Or should I simply go directly to the issues that I personally believed to be the real problem? I decided I must avoid Cecil's trap and go directly for the jugular.

"Well," I said with a hint of intimidation in my voice, "where to begin? First off, just let me say that I understand where Cecil is coming from when he alluded to the only known local Democrat's predisposition towards physical mayhem. My choice was either risking my hide debating in front of hundreds of irascible Republicans or risk angering Jonesboro's most belligerent and active Democrat. Obviously, I decided I had a better chance of surviving by coming here and arguing with Cecil in front of you guys."

The modest level of laughter that followed helped to settle me down. All I could do, I realized, while waiting for the room to quiet down again, was try to give these people some insight into my way of thinking when it came to the subject of politics and economics in the United States today. I firmly believed that in this country you cannot talk about one apart from the other. No matter how loudly people scream about socialism, our country is a capitalistic enterprise, so trying to discuss politics apart from economics is like talking about feeding hogs without mentioning a bucket of slop.

"Okay then, so let's get to it. This is what I believe. First, I totally disagree with my opponent's assertion that the 'real reasons for our country's problems is that we have lost our way' and 'we need to return to the right path to find our way back to the promised land.' I personally find it somewhat ironic to hear people comment that we need to get back to devoting more time to the single subject that became the primary motivation for most of our ancestors to give up all they owned and risk their lives to travel half a world away to find a place in the wilderness that allowed them to live free from religious persecution. They were trying desperately to keep religious fanatics from running their lives. They were running away from religious intolerance."

"I'm convinced our main problem is that we are not smart enough to keep our eyes on the ball. The ball is politics and economics. Politics and economics are all about the survival of the fittest. Period. I'm not talking about evolution. I'm talking about money. As long as the greater part of the voting population of this nation, both Democrats and Republicans, are distracted by rich people telling them that it's the _value issues_ that are of primary importance, nothing is going to change for the better economically. If you really want to know what's going on with the economics of our country, then watch where the money goes. That should be your acid test. Who is getting most of the money year after year? I'll tell you right now who it is. It's the wealthiest one percent of the population in this country, that's who. At this time, the wealthiest one percent own forty percent of the total wealth of this country. The next forty percent of all the wealth is owned by the next nine percent. That leaves twenty percent of all the wealth to be divided among the remaining ninety percent of the total population. Forty-five percent, or roughly half of the remaining population owns just a single one percent of all the wealth, meaning they are essentially living in perpetual poverty. That leaves the remaining forty-five percent of the population which includes the so-called middle class controlling a mere nineteen percent of all of this country's wealth. Think about that. If those figures make the hair rise up on the back of your necks consider that every year more and more of that puny nineteen percent we're all trying to live on after paying taxes on it, unlike the top ten percent, is being directed to the top. Essentially, all that talk about the 'Trickle Down Economic Theory' working for us is a bunch of bull."

I hadn't expected to get on a roll so quickly, but I decided what the hell, go for it. "I expect there are many individuals in this room right now who would reply, 'Yeah but those fine, mostly God-fearing rich folks are reinvesting most of that wealth back into our country's manufacturing and production base.' Well that's bull, too. Unless you live in a cave, I expect you are familiar with the term off shoring, right? That's where the wealth and the jobs are going now and have been for the last twenty years or since NAFTA was created by a Republican Congress and a Democratic president. Our country is becoming a hollowed out shell where the last of the few production facilities that traditionally provided American workers with jobs paying a living wage are in line to be taken off shore with all the other good jobs already shipped out. Once safely offshore, the owners will no longer carry the burden of taxation or have to pay a livable wage to employees or worry about employee rights and safety. Once off-shore, they have all the workers they need for a few dollars a day and do not have to worry about providing safe working environments or adhering to stricter environmental laws. Maybe worst of all, they then ship all those slave labor produced goods straight back to this country where they are merchandised in gigantic box stores that move into our communities and destroy the smaller retailers that have supported local activities for many years, leaving communities with empty store fronts and without the former community leaders who once came from the ranks of those now disappearing local businesses."

Stopping for a moment to catch my breath and seeing that no one seemed prepared to come forward and toss me out of the building for uttering such blaspheme, I decided to press on. "My opponent earlier remarked that 'mistakes have been made.' That's true, and the worst part is we keep making them over and over. By the way, that is one of the definitions of insanity: committing the same destructive act over and over while expecting a different outcome. And yet that's what we are doing. I'm talking about both parties. Because in my opinion, there is only a single political party of any consequence in the United States, and that party is corporate America where membership is by invitation only. The two traditional political parties getting all the attention are, in my opinion, only acting as shills for corporate America. While the voters and their elected representatives concern themselves mostly with arguing the so-called value issues, corporate America is carrying away the store. Much of our tax money might start out going downward as welfare payments to groups or individuals that I know is a sore point with many here tonight or even to farmers as crop subsidies or to provide for our military adventures abroad, but make no mistake, it always ends up in the bank accounts of the top ten percent. And who do you think owns the banks and the media outlets that continually bring up the value issues among the two parties' members as a way of distracting us away from the real problems? The top ten percent, that's who. While they count the money, the working people debate value issues and wonder what in the heck happened to all the jobs. Meanwhile, the rich are laughing all the way to their banks."

"Ladies and gentlemen, we do have serious problems in this country, and we are going to have to start paying more attention to those problems soon, or this grand experiment, known as the United States of America, is going to come to a screaming halt. We are currently the longest surviving sovereign entity on the planet. That's because all the rest have failed and have had to form new governments, or they have dissolved altogether to be consigned to the back pages of history."

"The critical issues we must attend to immediately are extensive. They include: The viability of our entire financial system that has in actuality failed and exists now only because of the life support provided by foreigners loaning money to our federal government. This means that you, the taxpayers, will be held responsible for paying the bill for the mismanagement of the top ten percent, who are still raking in the money while the working families suffer. Also, our military is spread out dangerously thin around the world fighting wars that history and common sense tell us cannot be won and are unnecessary. The children of the common workingman and woman are now, I believe, being employed as mere tools of the same Military/Industrial Complex we were warned years ago about by President Eisenhower. These interminable wars in the Middle East are being lobbied for constantly by weapons manufacturers who are making billions of dollars that are billed to the average tax payer while our young servicemen and servicewomen suffer and die."

"There is also the not so small matter of our escalating national debt. Presently, it is growing exponentially. Our government is literally creating money out of thin air. This burden will become the responsibility of our children and even their children if we survive as a nation. We are, in effect, indenturing future generations with our financial irresponsibility. It's only through the Federal Reserves lowering the interest rate to one percent that we are still functioning. But you know what? Even with the Federal Reserve rate at near zero, the economy is not responding, leaving the Fed out of bullets. Soon they will have to start printing money to cover the costs of doing business and that's when the wheels are going to come off, and life all over this country is going to get hard, real fast."

"Moving on, and mostly for the sake of the younger folks, I should probably mention to you that soon all the baby boomers are going to start lining up for Social Security payments, and the really interesting thing is that our government spent the money in lieu of having to raise taxes to cover government expenditures over the previous years. So for all the younger folks who are lucky enough to still have jobs and are paying into the system, tough luck, because there is not going to be anything there as you reach those golden years. That is, unless your children are willing to step up and do the same for you as you are now doing for today's seniors. If any other organization did this, except our government, it would be called a _Ponzi Scheme_."

As I finished saying this, I knew immediately I had brought up a subject many of the elderly in the room would have preferred I stay silent about. I wondered if maybe I was on the verge of inciting class warfare. Yet, I was determined to go all out.

"As a matter of fact, if you add up the yearly cost for Social Security, Medicare, Republican-sponsored Prescription Drug Benefit Plan for seniors, defense spending, and finally, the interest on the existing national debt, there is not a penny left for anything else, unless we borrow it. Very soon, the number of individuals, institutions, and nations who will be willing to lend to a broke country that has allowed its manufacturing base to move offshore will become few and far between." I could definitely see some mumbling and, possibly, even some grumbling among the audience by this time.

"So, as I stand here, prepared to close my case, I realize I could go on like this for another hour listing numerous other serious issues, like our dependency on foreign oil, environmental pollution, over population, loss of valuable farmland as well as wildlife natural habitats from ongoing urbanization, illegal immigration, and inadequate health care. All are problems that our country should have dealt with yesterday. But after a while, it's human nature to start blocking bad things out of the conscious mind. Only so much troubling information can be assimilated and dealt within a short period."

"So, I will call a halt to my ranting after mentioning what I personally consider to be our nation's greatest problem, by far. I believe our biggest problem is partisan politics. Because of partisan politics, it is very unlikely this country will resolve any of the critical issues I've just told you about. With partisan politics, there is no room for compromise. It's win at all costs. Ideas or policies proposed by the opposition are confronted and defeated, often including legislation or ideas one party has previously championed. It's often similar to the psychology adopted by sports fanatics where the only objective is to win. Sports fans don't get to play in the game. They don't get the trophies or the accolades, the parades, the fame, or the money. In the end, all they can say is their team won. The real players get all the good stuff, just like the wealthy ten percent in this country who are the real players also get all of the good stuff. The rest of us non-players in this game of partisan politics get to momentarily rejoice that our candidate won and then scurry around to pick up the leftover scraps dropped from the big table where the real players, the corporations who finance and direct the two main political parties, regularly feast. That's about all I've got to say for now. Thank you."

I looked around expecting to see Cecil coming to replace me at the speaker's stand to begin his rebuttal, but all I saw was an obviously puzzled old man sitting there giving me what might be referred to as the thousand-yard stare. I'd seen it a few times before in my life, like when guys came out of a muddy hole in Nam and found the world had been blown to hell and realized that somehow, amazingly, they were still alive— definitely in shock, not functioning, and without all their faculties, but alive.

## Chapter Thirty

The return trip from Topeka the following Wednesday did not resemble the previous broken air conditioner, hot air blasting in my face, torture session that I had experienced on my previous trip. This time I traveled in style. Junior Junior completely surprised all of us by going over to Salina two days earlier and buying a brand new Chevy pickup loaded with all the bells and whistles. Upon returning to Jonesboro, he tossed me the keys and told me to take a couple of days off to go play golf with my buddy, Carlton. He felt sure that the way everything was so well organized at the diner, he and the two ladies could take care of the business. If anything came up, he would contact me via the new pickup's speakerphone.

Now don't get me wrong, I like the idea of getting away to play golf with Carlton, especially, considering that a certain lady gave me the cold shoulder following my much commented on performance at the Great Debate. But, like so many times before in my life where I'd been brought into troubleshoot and reorganize a failing business venture or manufacturing process, I harbored misgivings at being told that, in essence, my services were no longer needed. I realized that was part of the deal, but again, down deep, it kind of pissed me off. Junior Junior was effusive in his display of gratitude and later refused to take back the new pickup truck keys, inferring that it was mine to use as I pleased or maybe mine period. In a very, very nice way I was being told again, "Thanks for doing such a great job, but we can handle it from here." I became irritated at myself for caring. I'd had this discussion with myself many times before. I chose to be a nomad. I'd told myself that I didn't want to be tied down or depended upon. I wanted to be free to move around unencumbered. This begged the question, _what the hell is the problem_?

Eventually putting that issue aside, I did appreciate creating at least temporary distance between the investigation currently going on in Jonesboro and myself. To say the community was in an uproar amounted to a gross understatement. Accusations and rumors came from all directions. Fortunately for me, only a few people knew or suspected I had anything to do with it. All but one, I believed, would keep their mouths shut. That one person, though, made me more than a bit nervous because that person was Big Bob Buford. By all accounts, he was nowhere to be seen since the moment the investigators from the State Attorney General's Office, along with members of the Kansas Bureau of Investigation, arrived in town the previous Monday morning. Other than the geezers disagreeing with me vehemently regarding, to their way of thinking, my ridiculous assertion that the current and soon to arrive Boomer contingent of senior retirees was beginning to take more of the, already spent for other purposes, Social Security Trust Fund, they carried on as normal. Even with the shocking revelation of the local City Hall investigation, they soldiered on displaying their usual harmless and nonsensical partisan right wing ignorance without directing anything other than their customary easily discredited religious, political, social, and environmental viewpoints in my direction.

My presence at the diner would not be needed for much longer, if at all, because the cavalry had arrived to, hopefully, cleanse the community of its crooks. The workers and the plant owner were possibly finalizing the paper work to make investors out of the plant employees thereby saving their jobs. Big Bob may have done the town a favor and fled to South America along with the rest of his clan. Mary June and Mr. Brazzi were enjoying one another's companionship, taking me out the running for a relationship I'd started to get nervous about anyway. Still, I harbored some disconcerting level of concern regarding not having further cause to be a temporary resident of Jonesboro.

While I pondered this conundrum, I took notice of the plush appointments offered by my new ride. My personal comfort while on the road during the hottest part of the Kansas summer was now assured through the vehicle's automatically controlled heating and air conditioning system. The system self-adjusted automatically in relation to the surrounding temperature and humidity changes. Of course, the cruise control, tinted windows, the plush interior, stereo system, smooth ride, and complete absence of road noise rendered the driver redundant except for the single issue of keeping the truck on the hard surfaces. Other than that, it was easy chair and elevator music time. For a moment, I allowed myself to grouse over the designers not having come up with a system relieving the driver from the single responsibility of actually having to keep a finger on the steering wheel to guide the vehicle. I emerged from my mental wanderings barely in time to take note of a prominent highway sign announcing my planned exit point from the interstate was only a few miles ahead.

It went without saying that I harbored fond hopes of finding no surprises upon my return to Jonesboro. I'd experienced a very enjoyable day with Carlton golfing at his club and wanted to avoid any unpleasantness if at all possible. I still couldn't figure out why I hit the golf ball so well. I hadn't picked up a club since I couldn't remember when. Yet I broke ninety, which bested Carlton's score by three strokes. He swore up and down I must have been practicing or how else could I have gotten off the tee box with such regularity? I swore I had not, though I also could not give a good reason why I made so many putts from over eight feet away. I ended up assuaging his angst by suggesting we delay the actual exchange of funds until the dust settled over a few more planned outings. Carlton also enjoyed hearing my responsibilities in Jonesboro were most likely to diminish, expecting me to be available for golf more often. Carlton even broached the subject of me taking over various responsibilities relating to his rather wide-ranging business ventures. I told him I would take it under consideration, just to shut him up.

I still wondered what surprises might be awaiting my return to Jonesboro. Who else might be lying in wait for me? Preacher Roy? I doubted it, as he was somewhat standoffish as a result of my brazen announcement that politics came before God. He had come up to me afterwards at Mary June's and begrudgingly given me a mild thumbs up. The Sheriff had agreed with everything I'd said. Mary June's apparent new beaux, Dom, also waxed eloquently on my performance. Chief Barley informed me I'd done a real good job. The plant employees had even waved to me on the way out. I guessed I could take their gestures as a mild affirmative. I'd caught a glimpse of the plant owner and the plant superintendent heading for the door. They didn't look my way, but they didn't give the appearance of being put off either, so I decided I'd take that as a good sign. Poor Cecil, though, never recovered. He eventually returned to the speaker's stand in an obviously perplexed state and absent control of his wits. Several times he'd tried to begin a sentence, only to shake his head and stop. Finally, after babbling something about hell, fire, and damnation, the principal went over and put an arm around his shoulders and gently led him back to his chair. By that time, I suspected the man wasn't even aware of anyone else's presence. Right after that the principal thanked everyone for coming and officially ended the obviously not so Great Debate. I waited for him to come over to where Cecil and I sat and give us both the customary "Good job and thanks for coming." But instead, he simply rolled his eyes and walked off the stage, leaving a still babbling Cecil and me sitting alone. When I left the building, Cecil still sat alone on the stage, talking to himself and shaking his head.

Basically, the only other individuals whose opinions may have mattered were Junior Junior who I knew stood in my corner; Flo, who could give a big hoot since she had her eyes on a new man who fit all of her stringent qualifications of romantic companionship, meaning he had a pulse; the Mayor, who everyone knew by now was barricaded in his barn/bunker for the duration, though reportedly willing to transact new business if the person came out to his barn and risk getting mugged by his hounds while he frisked them for weapons; and lastly, Mary June. Basically, she acted the perfect hostess at the after party to everyone but me. She did offer me coffee and pie, but after that, not even a glance. I spent most of my time politely responding to the other guests' supportive comments while my brain tried to fathom what I'd said that was so terribly wrong.

Fortunately, the after party did not last long, and I was glad. Being a closet egomaniac with an inferiority complex, I secretly craved attention, especially, from my peers. Because one of my most valued peers, Mary June, had not given me any strokes that night, I decided to investigate the obvious cold shoulder matter at a later date. I'd wait until we were together on more favorable terrain, although, that idea made no sense because as an outsider in Jonesboro, no favorable terrain existed.

The after party did not end up a total bust as every person present made good use of the rare opportunity to have an actual conversation with Junior Junior. I intentionally listened in on practically every conversation that Junior Junior participated. I found out my employer was not a dim wit after all. He held is own in polite conversation much to the obvious delight of every person he chatted with. The fact that Junior Junior actually possessed a functioning brain and could speak coherent sentences amazed the entire group.

I figured that by the time I got back to town I'd gone over in my mind just about everything I'd gotten involved with recently, but one small matter still piqued my curiosity. It involved my quick encounter with the fellow Viet Nam vet following the previous Thursday night debate. He, like most everyone else who bothered to come up and talk with me, told me I'd done a great job and totally agreed with me. Then, right as I expected him to turn and walk away, he leaned forward and whispered in my ear that he had something important to talk with me about and would appreciate getting together for that cup of coffee we had spoken about earlier.

As I thought about that incident, I was hard put to imagine what it might be he wanted to talk about that required him to whisper in my ear. To top it off, he brought the matter up again the following Monday at the diner as he was leaving. He mentioned getting together, but this time, he actually proposed to set a time when we could meet without being interrupted. I told him the earliest I could imagine would be the coming Thursday, late in the afternoon, right after closing the diner. He agreed with the proposed meeting time, then paid his bill and promptly left the diner. To my knowledge, he hadn't been back to the diner since. I realized I had likely read much more into the matter than it deserved, but given my recent penchant for getting myself so deeply involved with anybody's and everybody's troubles, I wondered. The last thing I needed or wanted was to get involved with another local problem. My dance card was filled.

My thoughts returned to the present when the Jonesboro city limit sign came into view. I looked forward to a hot shower and a quiet evening in the recliner in my loft apartment. I did not know what was in store for me at the diner the next day as related to diner work specifically, but I knew something or somebody would show up with an issue needing to be urgently dealt with apart from my scheduled meeting with my vet friend. Speaking of problems, I determined the matter with Mary June must go to the top of my list. Not for one more day did I intend to put up with the cold shoulder I'd been getting since the debate. I would make her tell me what I did that was so wrong.

No sooner did this thought cross my mind than the side street leading to Mary June's mother's house came into view. Without hesitation, I hit the turn signal and headed for Mary June's for a showdown. My watch told me the time neared 6 p.m. That meant Mary June would most likely be home preparing supper for herself and her mother. Probably not the best time to barge in unexpectedly, but I did not want or plan to go through another day putting up with her negative attitude. I guided my shiny new ride to a stop in front of Mary June's residence. Her old VW sat in the drive confirming my prognostication regarding her whereabouts. I rang her doorbell and stood back determined to force Mary June to tell me what had happened. I wasn't kept waiting long as I detected footsteps from inside. The front door swung open revealing a surprised Mary June.

Being a man on a mission, I wasted no time. "I think we need to talk. May I come in?"

At first she seemed surprised, but then she stepped back, opening the front door wider to allow me entrance. I went inside waiting for her to close the front door and point me to a place where we could talk. Point was all she did without uttering a word. I obeyed and quickly walked into the living room and sat down in one of the armchairs. Mary June followed me into the room and sat directly across from me in an exact replica of the chair I sat in – assuming the living embodiment of the Sphinx.

I'd had enough, "Okay, what's going on? Why am I getting the cold shoulder? All I did was get up there and tell them what I believed the problem was. What else did you expect me to do? You yourself told me to tell the truth. You said they needed to hear the truth."

Mary June did not respond immediately, and when she did it was not with her customary confident tone.

"Will, do you really believe that we're all just a bunch of simple-minded consumers who are, in actuality, being led around by the nose by big business? That for the most part, the members of the two main parties consist of nothing more than a bunch of distracted twits? That each party is equally guilty of blatant political partisanship?" asked Mary June.

She had put the ball back in my court. I did make several strong and incriminating statements during my little rant and was now being called out. Did I mean what I said in the heat of the moment?

"Not necessarily as individuals," I responded, "but collectively, yes, I do believe that. And I believe the record backs up my statements. There is only one effective party in this country and that is corporate America. The rest of it is merely a charade. If things go on as usual, in the end, changing administrations at the first of the year will not alter much of anything. Ultimately, the distribution of wealth in this country will continue to flow to the ruling elite. The majority of the people will go on arguing among themselves about the hot button social issues, while the material wealth is carried out the back door and loaded into a limo."

Gone was the self-assured and confident look I came to expect from Mary June. Her face was now void of the sense of purpose I'd always seen before. Now, all I detected was doubt and maybe even confusion. This was not the same self-assured Mary June I had gotten to know. All of a sudden a frightening thought occurred to me, _Once more my big mouth has ruined a relationship_.

"I'd like for you to go now, Will," she said.

## Chapter Thirty-One

The next morning I watched the text scrolling along the bottom of my small television screen, and I could hardly believe my thoughts. _This thing might actually go down_. I felt surprised that I even entertained such a idea. _But this is the United States of America, the most powerful nation in the history of the world_ , I countered defiantly, refusing to give credence to my fears.

No matter what morning news channel I flipped to, they all reported the same thing. Many of the largest financial companies in the country, as well as the world, were failing and several large banks had folded or had been absorbed by surviving institutions. Only days before Fanny Mae and Freddy Mac, the two largest insurers of home mortgages in the country, were taken over by the federal government in a desperate move to salvage a dying home mortgage insurance industry. All this happened because a bunch of Wall Street swindlers figured out a way to get nearly every financial institution in the country to lend money to broke people with no jobs and absent the credit histories supporting any ability or proclivity to repay such ill-advised loans. Essentially, if you had a heartbeat and could make an "X" on a loan document, you got a home loan. Even more ridiculous, all that toxic crap immediately got bundled into various exotic investment vehicles, assigned a top rating, and sold to the public through brokers or retirement fund managers along with any other scam that could be utilized to get this swindle into the hands or portfolios of maybe the most gullible humans on the planet. I'd personally decided, based upon a cursory examination some years before that my personal financial well being was of no particular concern to the Wall Street hawkers of investment vehicles catering to the narrow-minded adherents of free market capitalism. As an individual stockholder, I realized I sat at the bottom of the pile. No matter what, everyone else got paid or bailed out before me. Basically, I existed as nothing but an unsecured creditor. The only way for me to make any money was to try to time the market and sell my stock somewhere close to its peak during one of the mostly contrived economic upswings, thereby incurring a significant tax liability, or choose to employ one of the various tax deferred retirement vehicles that kept a person's savings perennially exposed to the marauding market swindlers posing as fund managers.

The DOW fell like a rock. It had lost almost three thousand points over the last few months. There was no telling how low it would go. I suddenly thought about how all this might affect the ESOP deal at the plant over in Justice City. _Damn! This could get real bad_. No sooner did this previously unthinkable idea crossed my mine than one of the talking heads overpopulating the cable news industry glibly announced the Federal Reserve had requested Congress pass a seven hundred billion dollar bailout to ensure the survival of the country's largest financial institutions.

I had to laugh at the balls these financial swindlers displayed. Having been exposed as liars, incompetents, and outright swindlers, they were back asking for more. They claimed that if their scurrilous institutions weren't saved, the whole country risked going down with them. These guys had giant-sized testicles. Practically every word out of their mouths now underlined the stupidity of the investors as well as the taxpaying public. Though almost ninety percent of all stocks in this country were controlled by a mere ten percent of the population, it would be up to the unwashed masses, the owners of the ten percent of all securities, along with regular taxpaying, non-stock owning wage earners to bail these arrogant ass holes out. And my money said, the crooks would pull it off.

My thoughts were abruptly drawn away from the circus I'd been watching and chuckling about on the television to the loud rapping on my apartment door. I hurried to see who was in such immediate need of my attention only to find an obviously perturbed Flo outside my door.

Before I had time to say a word, she started right in, "Will, you got to get your rear end over to the diner real quick. We got a big crowd this morning, and as much as Junior Junior is trying to help, the poor man is well-past his pay grade when it comes to handling a crowd that's getting more unruly by the minute!"

Not waiting for a reply, Flo turned and headed back down the stairs. I looked out over the crowded parking lot and quickly noticed that more vehicles were present than usual. _Why the increase in business this morning?_ I asked myself as I turned to go back inside to switch off the coffee pot along with the television so I could go over to the diner before Flo came back with a skillet to further press her point.

The first person to spot me as I walked through the front door was Junior Junior. The immediate look of relief on his face said it all. All the tables were full with many customers having to set aside the dishes left by earlier diners. Also, the food bar looked to be running short of several items. I nodded to Junior Junior and went to ask Flo where she needed help first. She told me clearing the tables and dealing with the huge piles of pots, pans, and dishes in the back would be a good start, so that's what I did. Not for an hour after I'd gotten all the tables cleared and the dirty dishes to the back, did I bother to look up from the dirtiest water I'd ever seen in the diner's sinks. Taking inventory of my immediate area as well as the activity in the dining room, I realized we were making headway. I took a peek out front and saw that the diner still looked almost full, but that the pace had slowed appreciably. The food bar was restocked with the last pans of sausages, biscuits, scrambled eggs, and cinnamon rolls. If we were lucky, we might just make it. Flo, Mary June, and even Junior Junior looked to be moving at a more normal pace.

Upon further examination of the dining area, I noticed Junior Junior actually going among the tables chatting with some of the customers while he refilled their cups. Most of the individuals he chatted with seemed to be too amazed to join Junior Junior in the usual diner banter and merely smiled and grunted unintelligible replies. This didn't seem to bother Junior Junior. He happily plodded along filling up one customer's cup after another

I suppose I had to admit that the geezers seemed to be the least impressed by the appearance of Junior Junior's suddenly outgoing personality. Upon further thought, I also had to admit they in no way constituted any significant part of the city of Jonesboro's brain trust. Possibly, they may have simply thought Junior Junior had experienced a bad day that had lasted the last five years. The one thing that stood out to me the most was the presence of the plant superintendent, Jack Fletcher, along with a couple of the guys that I knew to be part of his advisory committee. I instantly recalled my thoughts of earlier that morning when I pondered the possibility of the financial industry upheaval having a negative impact on the ESOP.

Having made eye contact with the group, I made my way to their table. "Morning gentlemen, we don't usually get to enjoy your company so late in the morning. Everything going well at the plant, I hope?" As the words came out of my mouth, I regretted mouthing the outright invite to bring me into another problem.

"Matter of fact, they're not, Will. Got a minute?" answered the plant superintendent.

I knew the three men must have taken notice of the disappointment expressed in my now dour countenance. "Yeah. Sure. I've got a few minutes before Flo comes over and hits me with a skillet. What's going on?" I responded.

As usual, the two younger men deferred to their elder. "Some issues have come up of late, Will," responded the plant superintendent. "Sorry for butting in unannounced this morning, but we decided we'd like to get your take on a couple of things that are going on."

I expect my surprise at his abbreviated response must have been obvious. "Going on where, in the economy, the stock market, at the plant, with the ESOP deal, in Jonesboro, in the world?"

"I suppose all of those, Will, but I expect we should start with the economy. As you are aware, the stock market is taking a beating. That means our 401k's are now worth less. Work is also starting to slow down at the plant due to the lack of new dealer orders for inventory. Seems everyone is scared, and they are cutting back. We're beginning to wonder if this deal with the ESOP is still the right thing to do. We'd like to know what you think?" The two younger men nodded their agreement.

I couldn't help but tell myself that this amounted to a pretty tall order for a guy emerging from washing pots and pans for two hours still wearing the same dirty apron tied around his waist to respond to. I realized I needed to choose my words with caution. These guys risked a large part of their life savings on the ESOP deal. It was no time to be flippant. I needed to either think long and hard about my answers or keep my mouth shut.

I decided I had to be completely forthright with them. "Guys, if I could answer that question it would make me one of the smartest men in the world. Right at this moment, the absolute 'best and brightest' on Wall Street are scrambling to cover their own asses. These are insiders, mind you. So it stands to reason that if these guys can't figure it out, the rest of us are screwed! These same best and brightest are right at this moment attempting to force the citizens of this country to bail them out, and I expect they are trying to jump ship themselves. But to give you my completely unprofessional opinion, we may be getting close to the point where it's each man for himself. I assure you that right at this moment every broker and wealthy investor in the country is trying to cut their losses and head for the hills until this market finds a bottom. So that begs the question, do you guys want to hold your current positions in your 401k's? Should you move it to cash and wait until the market bottoms out? Or, and this is a big or, do you exchange whatever value you presently retain in your 401k's for ownership in a manufacturing plant? I don't know the answer to that question, and as I said, the people who are supposed to are right at this moment running for high ground with your bail out tax dollars."

I could see my response gave them no relief at all. Still, there were no simple answers to this growing travesty of justice. These guys still had options, maybe not the ones they wanted, but they had options. I knew from experience that whoever stood up and said "Trust me, I know what to do," was going to end up the bad guy. These men were frightened, and they were looking for assurances, but I had none. The facts were that until now the prospect of swapping their 401k's for ownership in their own jobs made sense. Now it may not, especially if the reason sales were falling off was due to the recession the country looked to be sliding into or due to more foreign competition that had already decimated much of the country's manufacturing landscape.

"We don't know what to do, Will. Help us. Please," was the reply from one of the two younger men, the fear in his voice obvious. I realized my admonishment to suck it up and make a decision based on the options I'd just presented had fallen upon deaf ears. These guys were not financial managers. Their skills dealt with assembling machinery and farming, and no doubt they were good at both, but to glibly tell them to make decisions relating to assuming ownership of a multi-million manufacturing plant was silly.

I urged myself to keep my mouth shut and not to get in any deeper. This was not my problem. Hell, I was obviously going to be out of a prime dishwashing and floor moping job myself in short order.

"Tell us what you think, Will, please," came the plea from the plant superintendent.

I had a bad feeling about this. I knew if this turned out bad, I would be the one to get the blame. Still, a part of me had a hard time walking away. My deep down, blue collar up bringing pulled hard on my conscience, and I could feel my resolve beginning to weaken.

"Okay, here's what I think you should do, if you still have any interest in taking over ownership of the plant. First, move your 401k funds to cash, today if you haven't done that already. Secondly, make every effort to find out the real reason for the fall off in plant orders. Make the plant owner provide documented support in the form of sale orders supporting the plant's continued viability. Actually, this should already have been done. Next, talk to the dealers personally and ask them what they are expecting in the way of business in the near as well as in the distant future. And if necessary, tell the plant owner you are going to need an extension on the closing date, especially if the information is not forthcoming immediately. Do this today. Any questions?" There weren't, and the three of them hastily headed for the door.

Looking around the diner to ascertain my next move, I observed things now moving more smoothly. Flo even wore something resembling a smile on her face as she inspected her tip jar that looked to be filled with greenbacks. I then, out of habit, searched the room for Mary June and spotted her cleaning up around the food bar. Her dour countenance told me she was of the same surely disposition as the previous afternoon. Junior Junior, to my astonishment, stood behind the register carrying on polite conversation with a couple of departing customers that acted as if they were talking to a man arisen from the grave. Having received a nod of approval from Flo, I decided to make my way over to the counter and have a word with him.

"Morning, Will," said Junior Junior as I neared the counter. If smiling and saying good morning to every customer turned out to be the deciding factor in whether Junior Junior could run a profitable diner, then he was going to be a successful man. Still, I intended to take a look at the past week's reconciliation statements that afternoon after everyone had left for the day. Until then, I planned to help out wherever I could.

For the most part, the rest of the day went as usual, except for a couple of mid-afternoon phone calls I received. The first one was from the plant owner asking me what the hell I was doing trying to screw up the employee buy out deal. The guy sounded in no mood to listen to my reasoning relating to the employees needing to perform some extra due diligence in light of certain troubling information, and he told me so. The second call was outright spooky. The caller did not provide his identify, but I'm almost sure it was Big Bob talking with a cloth over his mouth. The caller told me I had stuck my nose into something that was none of my business, and he intended to wait until things cooled down, and then someone would pay me a little visit. He did not elaborate further, but I assumed he was being facetious by using the term visit, also his tone of voice _creeped_ me out. Talk about making friends and influencing people— I was on a roll. At the rate I was losing supporters, I figured after a few more days, the locals might go searching for tar and feathers. Carlton's kind offer started to look like a good idea after all. If that didn't work out, I still had my RV parked on the scorching hot Texas coast.

What started out as a day with nothing much scheduled but the mysterious meeting with Jim Handley, the fellow Viet Nam vet, had suddenly gotten very busy. Considering how my day had progressed so far, I decided not to waste time anticipating our topic of discussion. I hadn't come close to predicting any of the events that had risen so far that day. I decided to bide my time at the now deserted diner, and also, take a look at the week's reconciliation sheets, along with the bank deposit slips. Surely, as simplified as the forms were now, even Junior Junior wouldn't be able to screw them up.

Boy was I wrong. It looked as if Junior Junior started out attempting to fill out the forms correctly and break down the receipts by category, as per the simple example forms I'd designed. But obviously, all the adding and subtracting and transposing numbers from the register tape to the reconciliation forms became too much for him. He had obviously become frustrated and went back to simply stuffing all the money, except enough to get started the following day, into deposit bags along with an estimation of the amount enclosed, and forgot about it. I found bags containing the three previous days' receipts piled in a box below the front counter. I thought about it for a few minutes and then calmly put everything back as I found it. The man had somehow managed to survive for years before I came along, and I had neither the interest nor the heart to try to make him into something he did not want to be. If he wanted to pile his money under the counter, what business was that of mine?

I looked at my watch and saw I still had an hour before my scheduled 5 p.m. appointment. I didn't want to go back to my apartment, but there wasn't anything for me to do at the diner. I could see my time as a diner employee coming to an end, and that was okay with me especially since what I, at one time, considered to be a long shot option, relating to where I might settle down and get involved in life, continued falling apart by the numbers. I took a quick inventory of the things that weren't going so well for me right then in Jonesboro. My friendship with Mary June, one of my staunchest supporters, was heading south at an accelerated pace. Next, all the work I'd put into turning the diner around looked to be for naught, and I soon expected to be out of a job. Someone, most likely Big Bob, left me a half-ass death threat because he knew or suspected I played a part in the investigation. In my latest attempt to help the plant employees, the plant owner put me at the very top of his excrement list. Preacher Roy wasn't pleased with my performance at the debate where I'd loudly proclaimed his Boss had no plan to help us humans get out of the big mess we had gotten ourselves into. This made up an impressive list for a person residing in the community for less than three months. I took relief in knowing that nothing was left for me to get mixed up in or for anyone else to get mad at me over anything during the short time, I suspected, I would stay in Jonesboro.

As I'd looked up, I observed Sheriff Slaybaugh's cruiser pulling up to the diner front door. He'd remarked more than once of late how much he appreciated my coming forth to help the citizens of the county. _Finally, a reason to expect some positive feedback_ , I told myself as he'd exited the cruiser and headed for the front door.

"Afternoon, Sheriff," I called out before he'd completed his passage through the front entrance.

"Afternoon, Will," came the quick reply.

"Got time for some coffee? I got a fresh pot," I told him.

"I'd appreciate that, a fresh cup sounds good. I'd also request a few minutes of you're time, if you would permit it?" came the reply from the Sheriff as he removed his Stetson and commenced to wipe his brow with an oversized handkerchief.

"Sure thing," I replied as I hurried to get clean cups, along with the pot of hot coffee sitting atop the counter. I knew from the tone of his voice this was not a purely social visit. Something else had come up, and one thing I did not need right at the moment was _something else_.

I soon joined the Sheriff at a table. "So, what's new? Has someone I don't know come forth with a new complaint regarding my activities of late?"

The Sheriff smiled as he helped himself to the coffee. He kept smiling while he doctored up his fresh brew from the carton of cream I'd also delivered to the table. I'd learned early on that the Sheriff preferred real cream.

"Will, how are things going for you lately? I've heard Junior Junior is back and has jumped in to help out. Are things still going well at the diner?" The Sheriff took a long sip of his coffee as he finished his two-part question.

This was looking bad. The Sheriff did not skirt an issue, so his actions told me something came up. "You may as well lay it on the table, Sheriff. I can sense something has come up relating to my presence here."

The Sheriff took another long sip from his cup and then set it down. "You're right, Will. I'll get to the issues."

_Issues_? With everything going on, we now have more issues? I must have been walking around in my sleep because I had no inkling as to what else I might have done to upset the community.

"Will...have you heard about the new Evangelical Church located over in Justice City?" asked the Sheriff, before calmly taking a sip of his coffee.

"Yes, I have. Preacher Roy has mentioned it from time to time. I don't think he is all that impressed with their overall message or their inclination to pass judgment on people so off-handedly."

"Them's the ones," replied the Sheriff. "And they surely do use up a lot of time and energy letting everyone know what they think about folks' personal thoughts and actions. I sometimes am amazed how certain people can completely do away with the many shades of gray and view life in purely black and white terms."

This particular comment caught me by surprise. I'd never suspected the Sheriff of possessing anything other than a no-nonsense, purely linear mindset. It never occurred to me he knew "shades of gray" existed. I said nothing, hoping not to delay his revealing the new bad news to me.

Not receiving a reply to his previous personal observation relating to generally depressing colors, Sheriff Slaybaugh continued, "Will, it looks as if this particular church group has learned of your recent comments at the debate where you said something to the effect that people came to this country to be free of religious persecution as well as from religious fanatics and that we were being distracted by all this talk of value issues and finding our way back to the promised land. Do those phrases ring a bell with you?"

All the while the Sheriff was telling me the source of the problem, I unconsciously started to massage my temples as if that would make this newest headache go away.

"Yes, I remember," I answered while massaging my aching head. "You know, quite frankly these nuts are starting to take on all the irritating qualities of a bad case of hemorrhoids. There must be a lotion or salve out there somewhere that will make them disappear, don't you think?"

The Sheriff laughed at my observation before he answered, "I think I'll just hold my opinions on this subject to myself since I've got to live here amongst them. If learning that they think so poorly of your ideas is bothering you, you're really going to appreciate it when I tell you they are trying to get a permit to hold a protest march in front of Junior Junior's diner this weekend, probably Saturday morning."

Okay, where's that list of people who I recently determined are mad at me? I need to add about five hundred more people to it.

"As I understand it," continued the Sheriff, "one of their representatives is trying to locate the Mayor to get permission to march in the streets as we speak. But I understand the Mayor is holed up at his barn with his dogs and a shotgun, so that might become a problem for them. I'll try to keep you up-to-date as I find out more about what's happening. I wouldn't worry about it too much. Lots of folks around here aren't that fond of their particularly aggressive form of religion anyway. I know for a fact, Preacher Roy isn't very fond of them."

Listening to the Sheriff go on with more details relating to this bunch of dimwits' shenanigans made my head hurt even worse. More and more, the prospect of finding a need to absent myself form this community's petty affairs appealed to me. I wasn't usually a person to feel sorry for myself, but I was beginning to get the feeling of being put upon. If one more thing—

"Oh! And one more thing," said the Sheriff. "I've brought along with me the most recent edition of the Justice City weekly paper. You might be interested in an article included in this week's edition. One of their reporters did some checking on your background down in Texas and has come up with information that claims you are registered to vote there as an Independent. The story goes on to say that if that is the case, then why did you falsely represent yourself as a Democrat at the recent debate? I personally don't care one way or another, Will, as I think I have a pretty good handle on your personal character, but you might be prepared for some back lash from some of the other locals, if you know what I mean. Well, I've got to be moving along. Thanks for the coffee, Will."

I sat there speechless. I had somehow, very stupidly, opened myself up to serious amounts of flack from religious zealots as well as political partisans from both parties. I was doomed. I just hoped there wasn't a handy supply of tar and feathers around somewhere. And worst of all, Mary June! If she was mad already, she would be belching fire soon. _So what's it going to be— fight or flight?_

As I looked up I caught a last glimpse of the Sheriff exiting the unlocked front door. In a near panic, I headed in that direction to secure the premises until I could figure out a plan. I needed time to think. But that was not going to happen, because right as the Sheriff started backing out my Viet Nam vet friend pulled in for our appointment. Considering the new complications recently tossed into the middle of my ridiculously screwed up life, I'm sure I would have dived under the counter to avoid our scheduled meeting, but eye contact had been made, and I was stuck. I came near to praying that the man heading for the diner entrance did not carry with him another impossible problem for me to deal with. I felt the perspiration beginning to drip from my forehead. At times like this, I lamented not having an irrational belief in an ethereal entity like so many others did. An infusion of their delusional bliss at this moment might help. Instead, I simply stood there like a sacrificial lamb awaiting my next visitor's plea for me to jeopardize both my mental and physical well being for the sake of the team, that for the life of me, I could not remember having joined.

"Afternoon, Will," came the greeting from the next supplicant who most likely intended to request nothing much of me excepting maybe what little was left of my life and sanity.

"Afternoon Jim," I replied half-heartedly. At the same time I spoke those words, my addled brain fought off a recurring vision of me striding along side Dante in the Divine Comedy as he neared the gates of hell. I saw myself looking up to read the inscription carved above the entrance, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." But it was too late for me because I already stood inside. My journey through the nine circles of suffering was well under way. Only here in Kansas, they called it Jonesboro.

My newest visitor and I stood facing one another for a time before I finally regained my wits and suggested we take a seat at the nearest table. Once seated, I watched Jim busy himself checking out the entire diner interior.

"Are we alone?" he asked after finishing his inspection.

"Yes, we are," I responded.

"Good, because what I've got to say to you can't go beyond the two people in this room, okay?" added the speaker.

_Here it comes. One more screwed up story about some rural idiot who shot out all the street lights when they were fifteen or who painted the 'F' word on the water tower thirty years ago or maybe it was really something evil like_ —

"I was the one who stole Barley's hub caps," he blurted out.

I'm sure my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. This didn't make sense. This guy was an old man, and old men don't steal hubcaps off of police cars. The evil deed had occurred several years ago, and even if one stretched several to mean, say ten years ago, that meant one of the few local citizens whom I'd not yet categorized as at least partially wacko, stole hub caps as a senior citizen. _I really got to get the hell out of this place, and quick._

"And why do you feel the need to tell me about this?" I calmly inquired.

"Because my conscience is starting to bother me something awful, and I want to give them back," he informed me in a pleading voice.

I didn't want to seem rude, but I felt more mentally exhausted by the second. "Then go ahead and give them back," I responded, stating the obvious.

"I can't. If I do that, I can't run for city office next term like my wife says I should. So you see, I need some help getting them back to him without the Chief finding out who did it."

If I ever got out of Jonesboro alive, I determined would write a book about my experiences in _la la_ land. People couldn't make up stuff like this. I would call it "Jonesboro Place" or "Confederacy of Dunces in Jonesboro" or better yet "Gone with the Jonesboro." I saw a Pulitzer Prize on the horizon.

I decided to make one more attempt to help the man. "Well, have you considered simply putting them in a box and sitting the box on his porch some night or maybe even mailing them to him without a return address?"

"Won't work! Barley's got both the station and his house covered with cameras since the watermelon incident happened a few years ago. And the Postmaster has a memory like a computer. He knows who mailed every package for the last five years."

"What do you mean watermelon incident?" I asked somewhat meekly.

"I mean I had nothing to do with it, and I have an iron clad alibi saying I was out of town fishing that weekend and, therefore, couldn't possibly have been involved," he countered.

I could see my visitor becoming uncomfortable with my line of questioning. "Okay, two more questions, and then I'm done. First, why did you do it? Second, what is it you expect me to do?"

"I did it," he replied leaning closer, "because that ass hole gave me a ticket for running glass packs on my '65 GTO. And secondly, I want you to give them back for me."

"You mean, you want me to simply walk into his jail and tell him, 'Here are your stolen hubcaps that I mysteriously found in a box sitting on a curb.'"

"That's right, that's all you need to do," replied my self-satisfied visitor.

"But how am I supposed to know who the hub caps belong to?" I pleaded.

"Oh, don't worry! I'll put a note in the box saying who they belong to," answered my now confident conspirator.

My head really started to hurt. "Then why didn't you do that so I wouldn't actually know who the real hub cap pilferer was?"

Jim, the hubcap thief, sat for a moment pondering my last inquiry. "Oh crap. I should have done that, shouldn't I? Well, too late for that now, isn't it?"

"So now," I responded in a near pleading tone, "if I simply walk in there and refuse to divulge who I know to be the culprit, I become an accessory."

"Oh crap. You're right! So what do we do now?" he begged.

" _We_ don't do anything. You do whatever you choose, but leave me out of it."

"But I told you Will, I can't run for city office with this skeleton hanging in my closet. I've got to purge myself of all those past indiscretions so I can proudly serve my community."

How could I argue with such solid reasoning? "Well then, what the hell! Sure, I'll drop'em off on my way out of town."

## Chapter Thirty-Two

I looked at my watch and saw four minutes had passed since the last time I checked. I'm not sure why I felt so nervous. Everything was proceeding as planned, meaning the Sheriff would pick me up and give me a ride out of town before the evangelicals arrived to do their righteous picketing chores later in the day, which I fully expected to be the last Saturday I ever spent in Jonesboro, Kansas.

The Sheriff, upon hearing me announce my plan to depart Saturday morning, graciously volunteered to pick me up at 9 a.m. to help me get on my way. So I cared less if the holier than thou picketers came to the diner and picketed all day long. My tour of duty in Jonesboro neared completion and, given the present circumstances, I felt a sense of relief. Where only recently I'd been showered with cookies by practically every mother and wife in town and thanked profusely for rescuing the diner, as well as revered for saving local jobs at the Justice City plant, I was now looked upon by some of the same people as a trouble making outsider. Things went pretty much all to hell following the debate debacle. I expected that when the picketers found out I'd left town, they would probably join with some of the other town folk and turn it into a celebratory parade. As much as I'd tried to convince myself this amounted to nothing more than a big mistake, and in actuality, I was the one who'd been wronged after trying so hard to help the residents of the community. Somewhere deep inside a little voice told me I'd screwed up again, as usual.

The plant owner had called back one last time to inform me he intended to consult with his attorneys to see about suing me for causing the deal to fail. He did somewhat back off his threat when I let him know I'd been informed about the unprecedented drop in dealer orders which he hadn't revealed to the employees until I pressed them to investigate the matter further. The earlier mild uproar among the non-evangelicals regarding my performance at the debate looked to be gaining steam. While many of the locals such as the mostly addle pated geezers moved on with their lives fearing their brains might explode from having to deal with so much new information conflicting with their long established nonsensical right wing dogma, others had not.

Mary June became even angrier after hearing the news I wasn't a Democrat. I tried to explain my side of the story by reminding her of my earlier strong opposition to my forced participation in the debate in the first place. But in the end, she was right. I had perpetuated my original lie to Preacher Roy first told on that fateful night during the ride back to the city from the roadside stop. From reports I received later regarding our rather loud meeting that took place Friday afternoon in the diner kitchen, citizens of the community now knew whom to turn to if they ever needed a backup if the town's tornado warning siren ever needed repair. I had no idea the woman could yell so loud. And from what I surmised, what bothered her most was my inference that she, in some ways, came off as partisan as the nuts on the right. She did not appreciate my position that essentially both parties mostly busied themselves by hotly debating the so-called social value issues, while the real players from corporate America carried away the store. Mostly, she regretted my callously casting aside what she thought of as our special friendship. In the end, I gave up and admitted defeat. Just one more Christmas card I wouldn't have to feel guilty about not sending.

Preacher Roy also disappeared after the debate. I guess this surprised me the most. Sure, he held strong religious convictions, but he'd always come across as a fair-minded individual to me. _But then again_ , I reminded myself, _the man did bludgeon me with a hard roll of sausage a few months back_. But still, his absence surprised me, and I felt sad he had not come by the diner to say goodbye.

Junior Junior, meanwhile, thanked me again for turning the business around and assured me he would, henceforth, carry on in a more professional manner. All the while I listened I couldn't help but notice bank deposit bags containing the previous days receipts piling up beneath the counter. Maybe the diner would survive his natural business incompetence, or maybe not. The world would not be any worse off if the diner went back to its old way of operation. Meaning everyone either avoided the place altogether or got back into the habit of griping to anyone willing to listen to their complaints about the bad food and service. That's what I expected to happen if the two ladies left. But I doubted it would be a complete failure since Junior Junior, no longer the silent recluse, now jabbered away like a parrot. People, although still amazed at the transformation, remarked that they wished he'd go back to being quiet again. They now claimed the guy talked not only an ear off but also a leg. Even the geezers started commenting on his verbosity. It kind of made me feel good knowing someone else would continue raising their hackles once I disappeared. On a personal level, I expected to miss the easy opportunities the geezers presented me to smack down the incessant right wing neo-con horse crap they religiously toted from their home radios and televisions to the diner on a daily basis.

After checking my watch one more time and seeing that my ride would be arriving momentarily, I checked to make sure the few items of clothing and personal articles I owned were safely stored away in my new backpack I'd picked up at the volume discount store over in Justice City some weeks earlier not knowing at the time I would be making use of it so soon. I'm sure a slave laborer in some Asian backwater shithole made it, but what the hell. If things continued to disintegrate in this country, employers might soon be paying similar wages to the locals, allowing us to once again compete on an international level. Of course, that entailed the disappearance of ninety percent of our middle class and our standard of living descending to an unheard of level in the western world. But to the proponents of unfettered free market capitalism, it was merely part of the natural progression in the organization of all the necessary components of commerce. It represented corporate America's version of Darwin's "Origin of the Species," which postulated that evolution must be defined as the survival of the fittest. _Now don't get off on some rant because you've got enough other stuff on your plate right now_.

Flo, sure enough, did not disappoint me by going soft about my leaving. She merely informed me it was nice working with me, and she felt real sorry that having gotten my man tool shot off in the war, I had missed the opportunity to enjoy the company of a real woman. If only the rest of the world spoke as straight forward, I felt it would be a much better place. I can deal with candor much easier than obfuscation. Just tell it like it is, and then let's get on with it. Some hurt feelings all around, sure, but oh the joy of the welcomed sense of clarity.

_So what is there left for me to do?_ I asked myself, gazing around the clean room. I always tried to leave a place at least as clean as I found it. _To bad that only applied to real property and not relationships. Get over it. This is what you do. You hang around long enough to get most everyone out of joint from telling them how things really are, and then you leave. So what's new? Just get over it_.

As if on queue, I heard car tires rolling over the loose gravel down below. Taking a peak through the crack in the door, I confirmed it was my ride out of town. My chauffeur did not bother getting out of his cruiser to announce his presence, nor did I wait for him to. Taking a last look around the apartment to satisfy myself nothing belonging to me lay about, I walked out the door closing it behind me and descended the stairs heading for the next uncertain stop in my life's seemingly unrequited journey. Across the lot, the usual Saturday morning diner crowd, including the geezers, went on with life as usual. I did wonder who the geezers' new target of mild ridicule would be. Off hand, no new candidate came to mind. I knew it wouldn't be the diner staff since they were all locals. Plus, it was so much easier to make fun of outsiders.

"Morning, Will," said the Sheriff as I opened the cruiser door.

"Morning, Sheriff," I replied surprised to have detected a slight quiver in my voice. _Now don't go getting maudlin_.

The Sheriff did not hesitate to put the idling vehicle in gear and head back to the main street, only yards away.

"I hadn't asked," said the Sheriff, "but are you heading east or west this time?"

Without hesitation, I told him my destination lay to the west.

"West huh?" he answered, sounding surprised. "I'd expected it would be a little late for you to be heading for Montana. I thought you would be heading south where you could stay warm this winter."

"That is where I'm heading, but I want to make a stop at a place west of here before I make the turn south," I told him.

"Sure enough, so what town we heading for then?" he inquired.

"No town, Sheriff. I want you to drop me off at the rest stop where you did before. I want to spend some time there reflecting on the mess I've created here, and then I'll hitch a ride over to the next county seat and catch a bus heading south. It's a nice early fall day, and I'm hoping I can clear my mind of a few things if I sit there awhile. I expect it sounds kind of silly to you, and maybe it does to me too, but for some reason that's what I feel I need to do."

The Sheriff thought about it for a short time before responding. "That's fine with me, Will. I'm just sorry about the way this whole thing is ending. By the way, I'm convinced you've had the town's best interest in mind all along. Sometimes people are just set in their ways and find it hard to look at things differently. I suppose I'm most surprised about Mary June's reaction. I figured she'd be in your corner all the way. And I have to tell you I've never had much truck with that plant owner. I know more than one fellow who has come away from dealings with him with a bad taste in his mouth. The diner is doing better than ever since you got involved. I only hope that Junior Junior can keep it running half as well as you did. And finally, after the dust has settled with the investigations that are underway regarding the Bufords, I'm going to make sure the folks around town know it wasn't that goofy Mayor who got things started. I just want you to know you've got a friend here if you ever pass through this way again. If you do, and I can be of any help, let me know, okay?"

I very much appreciated the Sheriff's polite comments. It certainly differed from the conversation we'd had on our first trip to the rest stop a few months back. I tried not to paint the entire world with the same broad strokes because even though for the most part it existed as a violent and uncaring place, there were places where humans thought about more than making a buck and weaseling their way into heaven.

The Sheriff's polite comments encouraged me to seize the opportunity I'd hoped for. I still needed to deal with that small matter of giving back Police Chief Barley's hubcaps sitting in a box back at my former apartment. The ones entrusted to me by my Viet Nam buddy.

"Actually, Sheriff, there is one thing I might ask you to help me out with. I've recently come into possession of a certain set of hubcaps which I've discovered belong to the local Police Chief," I began.

"You've got Barley's hubcaps? Where'd you find them?" asked the suddenly invigorated Sheriff.

"I'd hoped you wouldn't ask me how I came to have them. And I'm also hoping you will simply return to my former living quarters where they presently sit as good as new in a big cardboard box and pick them up and return them to their rightful owner. What do you think? I guess I'm looking for someone to help me rectify a silly prank that's obviously gone on far too long."

The Sheriff looked straight ahead never displaying any indication of his thinking. I sincerely hoped I hadn't misjudged the man. An actual crime did occur. Maybe it did happen many years ago and the perpetrator happened to be a decent person who got drunk and did a silly thing, but it was on the books as a crime. I started to get a little nervous.

Finally, the Sheriff spoke. "I'll tell you what. I've had a hunch about who did it for a long time. So I'm going to mention some initials to you. If you recognize them, merely keep quiet, and we'll forget about this matter completely. Regardless, I'll retrieve the items and make sure they are returned to the rightful owner. Agreed?"

I hoped I understood what he intended, which I thought was that if the initials he stated were the same as the ones I knew to be the culprit's, just keep my mouth shut and the matter would be considered closed.

"Deal," I said.

"J.H.," he replied.

"There's the rest area right up ahead," I said, after observing a prolonged silence.

"Dang if it isn't. Good eyes," said the Sheriff implying the matter was closed.

Nothing had changed about the place since the last couple of times I'd been there. I did notice the over all affect the hot summer sun had on the nearby vegetation. Everything looked mostly brown and desperately in need of a couple of good soaker rains. The big oak tree still dominated the bleak and lonely site, offering a brief respite to a weary traveler. That's where the Sheriff headed.

Arriving back at the rest stop it almost seemed as if everything had come full circle and all that happened back in Jonesboro was some kind of crazy dream. This was my real world and where I belonged, not involved in the trifling affairs of a bunch of squatters who having finally gotten somewhere else, dug themselves in deeper than a tick on a lazy hound dog.

"Well," I said as soon as the Sheriff turned off the ignition. "Like Yogi said, 'It's like déjà vu all over again.'"

The Sheriff laughed and said, "Well pardoner, I'm glad you and I got past that last meeting we had right here this past July. There's a lesson there somewhere, and one of these days when I retire I'll try to figure it out. But I do feel safe in telling you that I'm glad I got to know you. I think you're a damn good man, Will Clayton, and you're always gonna be welcome in my county. I'm disappointed things turned out like they did back in town, but have no doubt about it, someday most of those folks are going to remember your name and what you tried to do. Hell! I'll even bet that when they find out it was you who spearheaded the whole investigation into the Buford brothers' schemes, you'll be back to being a local hero again. And though I, for sure, can't recall all the stuff you went on about in your debate speech, I certainly recall agreeing with a lot of what I heard. And you know what? Overtime, as things begin to fall apart in our country, like you've talked about, they, too, will see that a bunch of snakes were stealing us blind while we all sat around arguing about what the good Lord wants us to do to ensure that others live, think, say, and do like we think they all should."

I was almost embarrassed by the accolades being shoveled my way by the truckload. I'm sure that the Sheriff saw the gratitude in my face. Still, I really didn't know what to say. This was new territory for me.

"Thanks, Sheriff...that means an awful lot coming from you," I told him as I extended my open hand. "If you're ever in Texas, look me up."

"You can count on it, pardoner!" he answered griping my outstretched hand.

Standing alone moments later, only the dust settling back upon the arid landscape gave evidence of the Sheriff's departure. Things were back to normal. As that slightly unsettling reality attempted to find purchase in my consciousness, I moved towards my customary spot atop the lone picnic table I'd come to know so well. I possessed no real notion of how long this latest visit might last or exactly what I expected to accomplish by being there.

_You're not on a schedule anymore. No one is expecting you to be someplace, so just relax and let the feeling of freedom sink into your consciousness_.

I sat there on the table in a semi-meditative state for a lengthy period attempting to purge my brain of all the commotion surrounding my life for the past months. I no longer owned responsibility for other people's problems and expectations. Once more, I became the nomad wandering the countryside at my own pace. I took heed of nothing but those issues pertaining directly to me and the few square feet of earth I occupied at the particular moment. Lines of verse written by Longfellow, my favorite poet, came to mind.

Midnight! The outpost of advancing day!

The frontier town and citadel of night!

The watershed of Time, from which the Streams

Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way,

One to the land of promise and of light,

One to the land of darkness and of Dreams!

_This is where you belong_. Soon, this newest failed episode in my life would likewise be cast into the _Streams Of Yesterday_ , along with all the other wreckage bearing witness to my life's sad journey.

_One to the land of darkness and of Dreams!_ This brought to mind a place where all doubt and disappointment would disappear. Humans needed to possess a reason to live. Not merely to exist. Yet, that's what I did— I existed. Traveling from place to place, staying long enough to get people riled up. Only this time, in spite of my best efforts, I'd created a bigger mess. A profound weariness descended upon me. I knew this feeling well, and excepting my most recent failed attempt to pose as a normal human being, I'd given myself little opportunity the past several years to do anything about it.

Looking out from my perch atop the sturdy, weather beaten roadside table upon the vast expanse of emptiness surrounding me, I imagined myself adrift on the ocean. No matter the direction that I cast my eyes, safe harbor did not appear. The thought of going back to my lair on the Texas coast depressed me. But where else was there to go? Maybe nowhere?

The implications contained in those two simple words wrapped around my consciousness so strongly I lost all sense of time and geography. The solution appeared so simple. _End it! Make all the self-induced doubt and anguish go away forever. Why not? What did I have to live for? A new brain wired similar to all the other limited gelatin masses residing in the heads of my fellow humans? I doubt it. World peace? Yeah, right, any day now. Awaiting a disinterested or non-existent God's admonition for the zealots to lighten up on all the religious nonsense and to stop judging; to get rid of all the weapons of war; to share the bounty; to be happy because the here and now is all there is? I wish! Belonging somewhere, with someone? Too late!_

Finally I came back to the starting point— make it all go away. A sudden peace descended upon me. The idea made sense. What did I have to live for?

_Nothing_.

## Chapter Thirty-Three

Three fully loaded vehicles prominently displaying Old Glory, as well as other signage-bearing testaments to their belief in all things apocalyptic, roared past my roadside-resting place. I figured they were on their way to join other enlightened souls in Jonesboro proposing to limit a sinner's right of free speech. What little clarity I'd temporarily gained only moment before while sitting alone on the table was lost. What if those pious nuts saw me sitting, all alone, in the middle of nowhere? Maybe I did harbor nascent thoughts regarding a basic lack of interest in my continued existence, but having a bunch of ignorant, Bible-thumping Neanderthals help me on my way did not interest me.

"Screeeeeeeeeech," the unwelcomed sound of vehicles skidding to a halt assaulted my ears. I'd obviously spoke too soon. _This could be bad_. I looked out over the flat as a pancake terrain for an escape route. Exactly like the time before when I considered possible exit routes after Preacher Roy's truck turned into the roadside stop back in early July, I saw nowhere to run or hide. The next question immediately came to mind. _Why did I decide to come back to this place? Nothing good ever happened to me here._ I'd managed to get myself cornered right in the middle of the most flat and open place in the entire central part of the country again.

The first vehicle arriving back at the roadside stop hurriedly pulled into the lot advancing a short distance before coming to a sliding halt. In short order, the following two vehicles pulled up beside the lead vehicle. All three vehicles faced directly towards the lone picnic table and its single occupant, me. No one made an attempt to exit the vehicles, which both surprised and pleased me.

The occupants in the parked vehicles displayed no signs of their intentions. I, of course, ran through all the usual implausible escape schemes. This time, though, I came to the conclusion that I was royally screwed, sooner than before. The Sheriff, by now miles away, might have been the only human willing to come to my defense. Similar to times in the past when my first inclination to flee proved futile, my fear began to morph into stubborn defiance. If those evangelical, hate-spewing hypocrites wanted part of my butt, well then, let them come and get it. They better bring more than their easily refuted and grossly distorted version of the so-call word of God. There were other books in the Bible besides the five books of the Old Testament making up the Apocrypha. Books even a nonbeliever like me could read and come away with only one conclusion: the God of the New Testament put humans on this earth to help, not to judge. If these people ever got past the Old Testament's 'thou shall smite thee down' pages, they might discover that themselves.

The sound of a car door opening came from the lead vehicle, an older Chevy Suburban, so covered with dust and dirt that any attempt to ascertain its original color proved futile. Soon all four doors of the Suburban opened, and as that occurred, all the doors of the other two vehicles also opened. Instead of strange, evangelical space creatures exiting from the vehicles, there appeared three very typical looking young families consisting of adult parents along with children ranging in ages from near infancy to early teens.

My relief came so quickly it caused me to laugh. For some reason, I'd pictured a bunch of club-wielding Neanderthals looking for red, non-Christian meat. These people looked well fed, well dressed, and well.... rather unintimidating. They were family people and, surely, would not harm me. They might attempt to chastise me severely, but they weren't going to kill me and bury my bones in a wheat field.

"Heathen sinner," screamed a late thirties looking Caucasian male. The shrillness of his voice shocked me back to my senses. Maybe they wouldn't try to physically harm me, but they sure as hell were going to put this sinner in his place. The entire snarling and now hate-spewing group, children and all, surged towards the picnic table I sat upon. I didn't think about moving since I'd earlier realized trying to run away availed me nothing. _Besides they have kids with them. Surely they won't do violence with their kids present_.

"Fornicator," screamed one of the male children who couldn't have been more than ten years old. "Devil's Spawn," yelled an angry adult female. After that I couldn't make out what the individual group members screamed. The few phrases that I did partly recognize included: Lucifer's Spawn, Jesus Hater, Soulless Sinner, Fuel for Hell's Fire, Beelzebub, Abomination. And I swear, one of the ladies standing off to the side toting a younger child on her hip apparently ran out of biblical name-calling ammo resorted to calling me a Lying Prick.

The barrage of insults pouring forth from these so-called pilgrims who professed to seek out God's word and then go forth and spread it amongst the world's sinners continued. I sat in place somewhat secure in the notion my accusers intended to limit their righteous indignation to mere name-calling. But as the group fed upon the animus created by their own hate-filled screams, they actually began to come into physical contact with my person. That's when I began to get a little nervous.

"Back away," I shouted. "Do not put your hands on me, or I will have you arrested for assault."

That halted their forward motion but not the on-going streams of invectives. The whole group seemed content to merely block my routes of escape as I watched them scream their pious hatred. It became plain to me they were of no real threat to my personal safety but intended only to vent their religious inspired venom towards me as a despised representative of all those who opted for rationalized, intelligent discourse over blind dogma inspired by contrived ancient superstitions.

As I watched their antics with growing amazement, I wondered if my refusal to take the bait and join them in a shouting match that they were most likely accustomed to angered them even more? I was especially struck by the actions of the children who tried to scream as loudly as their parents. These young people had no idea the so-called religious truths championed by their parents would not withstand even the most rudimentary scientific or historic scrutiny. They probably never would. I realized I had a front row seat in witnessing the evolution of the purest form of blind religious hatred.

I had to admit that these pilgrims were committed. Not one individual, including the children, slacked off the least bit. Admittedly, they were, for the most part simply repeating the same nonsensical hate slogans, but they did so with the same amount of vigor. I felt sorry for the children, as they appeared to suffer the most from the ongoing assault. It got to a point where I thought I should stand up and strongly suggest that they take a break for the children's sake. They could all start back in when their obviously weakening offspring got rested.

I wouldn't get that chance. Right as I determined it was time for a responsible adult to act, I caught sight of something off in the distance that changed my mind— a large pickup truck resembling the same one belonging to a particularly unlikable individual who had gone to great lengths to make my stay in Jonesboro unpleasant. The driver slowed almost to a stop and pointed something out the window.

"Get down!" I screamed as I realized a madman aimed a gun in our direction. Not waiting for the unsuspecting protestors to respond, I flung myself towards the several members standing in front of me, forcing them to the ground right as the loud bang of a gun shot rang out.

"Get down!" I screamed again to the few individuals I was not able to knock to the ground earlier. Another loud bang rang out followed by the explosion of both the windshield and the rear glass of the vehicle that was closest to the now prone and screaming group.

I'm not sure how long I laid sprawled on top of the several people I'd knocked to the ground. I looked up as I heard the revving of an engine followed by squealing tires indicating the shooter was high tailing it. As I looked around, I saw a vehicle with its front and back windows blown out plus the very tabletop where I was seated showed evidence of having been hit with a large caliber bullet. A horrible realization came to me. The only way that a bullet hits that table is because several humans were moved out of the way.

"That crazy son-of-a-bitch," I mumbled to myself as I got to my feet with the assistance of the stout picnic table aiding my wobbling knees.

"Oh my God!" screamed one of the women. "Someone tried to kill us!"

"Does anyone have a cell phone?" I asked. "We need to call the County Sheriff."

The individual who first stepped from the lead vehicle, and who seemed to be the spokesman of the group, jumped to his feet. "Why would someone do that? Why would someone want to hurt us?"

His voice verged on becoming hysterical, so I hurried to fend off any such fears. "They weren't shooting at you. They were most likely shooting at me," I told him as calmly as I could. "You folks just happened to be in the way. So, if you have a cell phone, call the Sheriff. I urge none of you to leave. This is now a crime scene, and I'm sure we all will be questioned as to what happened."

"That crazy bastard!" I said quietly one more time as I headed back to my original perch atop the picnic table now bearing the scar of a bullet having torn a chunk out of the tabletop where I sat only moments before. Not one individual said anything about me saving their lives.

Two sheriff deputies soon arrived with sirens blaring. The entire group of way-laid picketers became unnerved by the deputies sliding to a stop, amid clouds of dust, merely yards away from the picnic table. Not once during the time we awaited law enforcement's arrival did any of my fellow crime witnesses approach me. Instead, they huddled together, praying and thanking God for their survival. I, on the other hand, questioned the value of a deity who permitted such an assault on children in the first place.

Not long afterwards, my fears were confirmed when one of the officers informed us we all must go along with the deputies to the station to make official statements. I started to mention I lacked transportation when I spotted a familiar vehicle pulling into the rest stop heading straight for where we stood. It was Preacher Roy's truck, and I felt a sense of relief in knowing at least one individual might put in a good word for me. But then again, I hadn't seen the Preacher since the debate so maybe I was a bit premature with my hope.

Our caravan, consisting of the three vehicles belonging to the would-be picketers, Preacher Roy's truck containing the two of us, county patrol cars fore and aft, headed to the county seat fifteen miles to the west. Once there, we all would under go more questioning relating to exactly what happened.

"Did anyone else see the shooter?" asked Preacher Roy as we rode along.

"I doubt it. They were all much too intent upon telling me what they thought of my basic lack of all things godly," I informed him as I realized for the first time I looked to be the only person to have seen the shooter.

"You say the whole group was standing right in front of you when the shots were fired?" asked my driver as he continued his line of questioning.

"That's correct," I answered anticipating his next question.

"Well then, the bullet that knocked that chunk of wood from the picnic table must have passed right through where those people stood. How come they weren't hit?" asked the Preacher.

I didn't say anything as I, too, considered the full implications of what might have happened if I'd not been looking off in the distance trying to ignore the yelling and screaming.

"You knocked them down, didn't you? You saw what was about to happen and saved their lives, didn't you? That's what you did. Not one of them said anything to the officers about it, not one of them," said the Preacher shaking his head.

"That was a big slug that hit that piece of oak. That slug could have gone through more than one person killing them instantly, and they had to know that. Still, I heard not one word of thanks. I'm sure going to say something to them about their lack of gratitude for your saving their ungrateful, mean-spirited lives, I am!" continued Preacher Roy, obviously having worked up a lather.

"Why bother? If they were grateful they would have said something. Shaming them into saying thanks serves no purpose. I'm just happy none of the children were hit. That's enough for me," I said.

"Well, it ain't right, Will," answered Preacher Roy. "It just ain't right."

"What were you doing out this way, anyway?" I asked him, hoping to change the direction of the conversation.

The Preacher hesitated before answering, "I was coming to look for you, Will. I stopped at the diner hoping to see you before you left town, but I just missed you. I was talking to Flo when a call came in from the Sheriff who was on his way to the Mayor's farm to check on a report of shots being fired at the Mayor's barn. The Sheriff said he had a suspicion as to who was doing the shooting, and he wanted me to get out here to the rest stop to get you to town where it would be safer for you."

"He said he had a suspicion of who did the shooting?" I asked.

"That's right. He didn't say who it was, but I'm thinking I know who it was, and I expect that you do, too. Am I right?" asked the Preacher.

I needed to ponder his part statement, part question, before I answered. I had a good idea who the shooter was, too, even if I did not get a good look at a face. The truck looked very familiar. Even though there was any number of locals who did not care much for my person, I couldn't imagine but a single local citizen who might wish me real harm. Someone had also taken aim at the Mayor's barn or, maybe, even the Mayor himself. That narrowed the field down considerably. Actually, down to a single individual, Big Bob Buford. _But, could the man be that stupid?_

"I expect we are thinking along the same lines, Preacher, but I'm not going to say any names that might bring you into this mess in case you are ever questioned. Frankly, all I want to do is tell the officers what happened and get on my way. My official version as to what happened is that some nut in a pickup stopped and took a couple of shots at us, and for what reason, I don't know."

Before we had time to carry the conversation further, our little caravan passed the city limits sign of the adjacent county seat. We parked at the courthouse. What happened after that became something of a slow motion blur. The local sheriff repeatedly questioned the entire group as to what exactly transpired. My story was somewhat different, I imagine, in that I was the only person to see a vehicle and a driver pointing a gun. My interrogator did verify that Sheriff Slaybaugh took me to the roadside stop. Sheriff Slaybaugh must have put in a good word for me because the overall tone used by the local sheriff changed appreciably afterwards.

My response to his inquiry as to whether or not I could identify the shooter was, I did not see a face, but only that the assailant drove a large, light-colored pickup truck and stuck what looked like a hand gun out the window before firing two shots directly towards the group. The sheriff must also have had a few words with Preacher Roy concerning just how the church group, blocking me from the assailant's bullets, miraculously missed being hit, because right as he ended the questioning, he remarked that he wondered if the individuals harassing me knew how close they were to being killed if not for my quick actions. I didn't respond to his comment, and I don't believe he expected me to.

Ultimately, the authorities satisfied themselves we possessed no additional information and permitted us to leave after making sure we gave them a phone number and address where we could be reached. That caused the officer taking down my contact information to hesitate when I informed him I was heading back to my official residence in Texas, and I could only give him the RV park number. Since my driver's license verified my address, and both Sheriff Slaybaugh and Preacher Roy said I could be trusted, he said okay, but warned me I might have to return to Kansas if and when the culprit was apprehended. I said that was fine with me, fully believing that unless Big Bob proved the complete idiot, which I had to admit might be a distinct possibility, I would never hear about this incident again.

The Preacher and I stood outside the main entrance to the sheriff's office as the entire group of erstwhile picketers exited the building and headed for their personal vehicles. Both of us stood quietly, observing the group passing by jabbering as they went. I don't know that I had any expectations of outright gratitude from the group, but a slight nod of recognition wouldn't have been out of the question. We got nothing. Not even a look. Personally, I found humor in my having elevated my expectations of some sort of civility on their part. I quickly reminded myself the group merely acted as usual, meaning they dealt only with the judging and condemnation part of God's so-called plan, not with the accepting and forgiving parts.

"I'm beginning to see why you hold religion in such low esteem," commented the Preacher once the group passed by. "I can't even begin to imagine how so-called believers can act in such a callous way."

I looked at the Preacher as I considered his statement. "Have you read any Leviticus lately, Preacher?" I asked with a smile on my face.

Preacher Roy thought about my question for a moment before revealing the slightest of grins. "No I haven't, Will. Once was enough for me. I find my guidance in the more recent stories of the Bible. Obviously, those folks, and much of the world, would be better off if they did likewise."

"Amen!" I answered causing the Preacher to laugh.

"Where you heading now, Will?" asked Preacher Roy once the humorous moment passed.

His question reminded me of the conversation I'd concluded with myself right before the traveling protesters joined me back at the roadside stop. This insane shooting incident changed nothing. I was tired of merely existing, adrift on the ocean, with no reason to expect anything to ever change. I carried the disease of self with me wherever I traveled. It was always something. Someone, someplace, something always failed to pass inspection with me. The same profound tiredness that fell upon me earlier, again, found refuge upon my tired shoulders. I didn't want to go back to Texas. I didn't want to go any place. I simply wanted all the pain to go away, forever. But not right here, and not right now. Somewhere, where I could be alone and where no one would bother me.

I, especially, did not want to involve the Preacher any longer with my personal problems or make him privy to my recent determination to become pain free as soon as possible. I needed to find the local bus station and secure a means of transportation out of Kansas. "I'm heading back to Texas," I answered not knowing if that was true or not. "If you don't mind, could you give me a lift to the local bus station so I won't have to wander all over town looking for it?"

"Sure, glad to. The station is just a half-mile down the road, but there's no need to hurry, as the bus to Wichita won't be leaving for another two hours. I checked on it earlier after the Sheriff asked me to come looking for you," answered Preacher Roy.

"Well, you can just drop me off there, and I'll wait."

"Glad to," replied my old friend.

Minutes later we sat in the local truck stop/bus station parking lot. I was pleased my old friend had come by to see me off, and I found it unusually difficult to get what I expected be our last conversation started. It seemed that about everything that needed to be said, had been. All the rest amounted to mere idle chatter, and for some reason, idle chatter seemed inappropriate.

"How come you're leaving us again, Will?" asked the Preacher before I had time to say anything.

I hadn't expected this line of questioning or any questioning for that matter. I'd felt we were well beyond the asking why stage. The reason for my leaving was because— because of everything, because of some things, because of nothing or because that's what I did. Maybe because I was a loner and I didn't need anybody's help. I was fine taking care of myself, thank you. And finally, because this time I planned to put a stop to it all.

"Because I don't cotton to the idea of getting lynched by one of the roving mobs presently searching high and low for me in Jonesboro or the surrounding area," I answered with a feigned chuckle trying to put him off.

"The number of people who truly want you gone are few and limited to those same idiots who just walked past us back at the sheriff's office without showing the slightest appreciation for not having been murdered by a madman," answered the Preacher. "But since all they do is sit around waiting for the rapture while judging others as unworthy, who cares about what they think? I don't know anyone else who wants you to leave. Some are confused about some things right now, but as soon as they find out you were the one who had the nerve to take on the Buford clan, they'll come around. Although Junior Junior is doing well, he will run the diner into the ground again in a couple of months, most likely. Mary June will come around in due course, also. She will come to understand, just like I did, that you were telling the truth about the politics in this country, and that we are all a bunch of suckers for letting the politicians and their banker bosses keep lying to us. There's also the Sheriff who you know thinks highly of you. There's Chief Barley, the Mayor, and Judge Brazzi and his brother, Dom. Flo must like you since she never threatened you with bodily harm.

We need men like you, Will. You're a leader. A leader who cares even though you try to come on like you don't. Without strong leadership, the small rural communities, along with the small farmers, are going to be pushed aside by the big agricultural-corporations. This is a fight to the death, Will, and you know it."

I didn't know what to say. I'd thought we were past all this. I only wanted to go away. The corporate forces arrayed against the average man, woman, and child be they farmers, factory workers, schoolteachers, or whatever, were formidable. Maybe I'd gotten carried away with my speech about the little guy taking a stand, for reality painted a picture so bleak that no amount of belated effort by the average working man and woman made any difference as to the ultimate outcome. It was too late. Besides, I'd read the book, and I didn't want to end up like Steinbeck's unforgettable character, Tom Joad who goes into hiding after avenging the killing of his good friend by one of the enforcers hired by the rich land owners for demanding nothing more than fair pay for their hard work. Even worse, corporate America had read the book, too, and they now knew how to keep the modern day 'Okies' arguing and fighting with each other over all the ultimately nonsensical so-called social issues, while the real wealth continues flowing upwards to the rich, and the debt is laid upon the shoulders of the squabbling working families.

"I'm sorry, Preacher Roy," I said. "I don't want to go back and watch all those hardworking people get plowed under by the corporate juggernaut that's heading this way. Millions of good people are going to get run over, and I don't want to see it or give them false hope that it can be avoided."

The Preacher thought about what I'd said for sometime before he responded, "Okay, Will, but you know I'm not the kind of man who gives up easily. I'm going to give you some time to think about things, and I'll come and talk with you again in a couple of months."

"You're going to drive all the way to south Texas to hear me say no?" I asked.

"No, I don't expect I'll have to go that far to find you," he replied with a straight face.

"What? What do you mean you won't be going that far?"

"I mean," continued my antagonist, "there is a good chance I'll only have to go as far as Lawrence."

"What are you up to now, you crazy sod buster?" I responded, sensing some kind of trickery.

The Preacher laughed at my description. "I've gotten info from reliable sources reporting that there might be a job waiting for you in that afore mentioned community, that's all."

"Why would I go to Lawrence? Who do I kno—" A crazy thought hit me, and I turned to the Preacher.

Preacher Roy had watched me all the while. "Your friend, Carlton, has been trying to get in touch with you. He has a message for you from your daughter, Annie. Seems Carlton called her and told her about all the good things you've been doing here on the frontier. She wants you to call her. Carlton reported that she purchased an older home close to the university and needs help on how to best renovate it. Here's her number."

My friend passed a torn piece of three-ring notebook paper towards me. The name Annie, along with a number printed in dark pencil stared back at me. I took the piece of paper from him with a shaking hand and stared at it for a long time, asking myself over and again, is this for real? I had hoped for a sign of forgiveness for so long that I'd finally given up. Yet, there was the number written on a torn piece of paper I held in my visibly shaking hand. No longer did my thoughts dwell upon making my way back to my hideout down on the Texas coast where I could play the coward and quietly make arrangements to end a useless life. Now my thoughts, as well as my resurrected energies, were redirected towards the east, to Lawrence, Kansas, where my daughter waited to hear from me.

"Excuse me Preacher, but I've got to see if they have a bus going east this afternoon." I told the Preacher as my shaking hand moved towards the truck's door handle.

"I have a better idea for you," injected the Preacher. "Why don't you and I take a ride in that direction? That will give me time to pick your brain regarding several issues that came to mind after listening to your enlightening argument the other night. I'm especially interested in learning more about this economic Armageddon you're so convinced is coming our way. I've done a little reading relating to the subject of Armageddon myself, don't you know. Maybe we can compare notes?"

I sat back in my chair to consider his proposition. I also took a moment to remind myself of how fortunate I was to have the good man sitting beside me as a friend. If not for decent individuals like him intervening, many more would suffer, and religion in this country might soon become intolerable. "You're not packin' a frozen sausage again, are you?" I inquired, revealing a grin that undermined my phony tone of suspicion.

Preacher Roy smiled and said, "No, but I know where I can get one."

I sat there for a time puzzling over the thought that an avowed man of God, the very God I openly denied to the world, refused to abandon me or judge me in spite of my rejection of almost everything he believed in and devoted his life to. Even more puzzling was my almost instantaneous change of mind regarding the likelihood of my rejoining the fight in Jonesboro along side a lot of good people about to be crushed by the steamroller driven by the criminal corporate culture now directing the government institutions of our once great country. I said to this good man, "You're making it hard for me, Preacher Roy, real hard."

Preacher Roy looked me straight in the eye from behind a smile wider than Kansas. "Just doing my job, Will. Just doing my job."

The end.

THE TWO RIVERS

SLOWLY the hour-hand of the clock moves round;

So slowly that no human eye hath power

To see it move! Slowly in shine or shower

The ship above it, homeward bound,

Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground;

Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower

The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes the hour,

A mellow, measured melancholy sound.

Midnight! The outpost of advancing daylight!

The frontier town and citadel of night!

The watershed of Time, from which The Streams

Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way,

One to the land of promise and of light,

One to the land of darkness and of dreams!

—Henry W. Longfellow
