23
Windows down, the Johnston evening air rolls in, uninhibited, effortless, and wise. The cloth seats of my Saturn are still warm from baking in the afternoon sun and the countryside is bathed in those descending hues of orange. A premonition chill sweeps my skin, a call to arms. There’s something on the horizon, something coming. There’s a real change brewing, I just know it. As the familiar landscape of rolling green and brown passes through my eyes, the future is illuminated through mysterious messages, hidden in shimmering leaves of maple trees just begging to change color in fall. In due time, they’ll spin their way down. They’ll crown the Midwest with beauty and I’ll catch a few in my hands, all the while listening for the whispered plans of God. Everything is feeling alright. The farm field air holds promise. I’ve showered and changed. I don my grandfather Bud’s old cowboy hat and my oldest pair of boots.
There’s something about a cigarette in the car and not caring about the cigarette in the car. It’s like Grandpa’s old truck where I took so many rides as a kid. Grandma and Grandpa would light up and send the rings all along the dash. They’d float back to whomever was along for the ride.
Thumb tapping on the steering wheel, listening to The Smiths, I glide into Johnston. There are a few families on Main Street walking toward the center of town, likely to enjoy dinner at one of our restaurants, perhaps Brady’s Super Club or the Junction Steakhouse. After, they’d probably take in the evening entertainment at our small-town square. Under the shelter of a humble domed pavilion, performers would float through Johnston and play a set or two. Townspeople would gather, share a few drinks, dance, or sit back and enjoy. Their children would run about all wide eyed and wonderful, playing games alongside the ancient train tracks, and peace would enter their hearts. I wonder who’s playing there tonight. Performers rotated between local average bands, comedians, collections of poets, and even your rogue historian or two. You never knew what you were gonna get, but they were all sincere and wholesome around here. There weren’t many places purer than the town square of Johnston on pavilion nights.
I have a buddy Pat who is a true vagabond musician. He stops by every few months or so and stands up on that stage with an acoustic guitar and plays the most heartbreaking folk ballads you’ve ever heard. Sometimes he’ll play all night long. Bearded and large, tattoos covering his arms, he bellows a raw, broken voice out to the universe and the collection of onlookers who always wait patiently for him to come through. I never missed an opportunity to see Pat when he was in town. He gave himself fully. I drive past the square and see a few people already milling around together. A father holds his son’s hand as he skips. God, I hope I’m not missing Pat. I grip the wheel. I have other plans tonight. I’m heading to Jimmy’s Place convicted by changing tides.
From my corner booth, cowboy-hatted, I can watch all the other players spin their tops. The brim casts a perfect shadow down my face, the type you see in all those classic western films. Sometimes I dream up this vision of myself, like I’m a real Butch Cassidy on the loose, brave and smooth as can be, strapping up and picking out target after target in a long line of noble adventures.
Tonight, I have eyes on everything. The beer goes down easy, and romantic visions surround me. There’s two middle-aged men, Don and Baxter, sitting at the bar having Bud Lights and chatting. They run Mick’s Grocery and are often found together, an enigmatic pair. Baxter has a real entertainment bent about him, the kind who never misses a chance to tell a good story, and Don, red faced and joyful, is always willing to laugh. Everyone in Johnston loves these two. Saul serves them, when necessary, but never looks in my direction unless I go and stand before him.
“Another one, Cash?”
I nod.
“Yeah, yeah.”
And that’s that.
There’s a family shooting a few rounds of pool, rotating around my table, and thoroughly enjoying themselves. The father is dog tired, rubbing at his eyes whenever a free second hits, but smiling all the way. I admire him. I find it remarkable how a man can work all damn day in the heat of industrial hell and still stumble out and find the necessary energy to play pool with his kids. He scratches at his five o’clock shadow with oil-stained fingernails. Perhaps he’s a mechanic. He hands his wife the pool stick, and picks up his young son. The wife has puffy blonde hair, curling and reflecting the table light. She too has a smile bright as the sun and her kids, outrageous in their love for her, grab at her dress and jump around like maniacs. Watching those three kids bounce all around, adoring her, desperate for her attention, I’m reminded of the heaven-like power and grace of mothers. She must be dog tired too, raising that bunch. Instilling in them hope and joy and righteousness. Her daughter hugs her left leg as she lines up her shot. She strikes the cue and the eight spins to the pocket. She winks at her husband then rotates around the felt, her daughter clinging all the way. She’s the best of them. The husband finishes his drink. Many beers down and counting. On it goes.
Other than them, there’s a couple passersby I don’t recognize, and a few women who work over at the town salon, Jamie and Alexa, who look hopeful, tuned up and lively. Alexa cuts my hair every once in a while, and she always treats me kindly. She likes to joke with me that her and I would figure it out together one day.
“We’ll settle down, Cash, you laugh but we will.”
Alexa got mixed up with this bum named Jeremy a few years back who jumped town after she became pregnant. I remember how heartsick she was then. Young and confused and abandoned. It was really something how Johnston rallied around her, though. Gifts, meals, and hugs, and anything she needed. It was like the whole town was pregnant, and that’s the thing about Johnston. When it comes down to it, the whole town is a family. Anyway, she named the baby girl Autumn, and she’s three now. Sometimes I see her out and about and become so full of pride I nearly burst. I love that little girl in our town. She’s a lighthouse of hope and she doesn’t even know it. Alexa talks about Autumn constantly, and I always listen closely. Three years old. It’s true how the time goes. Alexa adjusts the strap on her bra which lies beneath her cropped tee shirt. It’s subtle.
“We will Cash, I’m telling ya.”
Maybe, maybe one day. For now, I’m afraid I’m looking in another direction. I have a nice long pull of Budweiser and think it tastes more and more righteous by the second.
After a couple hours and a few games of pool, the hum of the alcohol has risen. I’m nodding along to some Talking Heads, and Rose enters on cue. The world is moving, and she’s right there. She heads to the bar and briefly says something to Saul before heading around back. I’m completely fascinated by the nature of their relationship. I haven’t seen them say more than two words to one another but that immeasurable understanding of siblings does seem to exist between them. The Heads sing of backyards, taking off dresses, and rising above the Earth. When Rose comes in again, she has a cardboard box in her arms. She sets it down behind the bar and Saul helps her go about unpacking a variety of essentials, bottles, glasses, and stock. Rose takes the now empty box in her hands and moves to go to the kitchen. I can’t help but admire her focus. She looks so serious all the time. She wears a dark pair of navy-blue jeans and a black plain belly tank which reveals a series of piercings around her belly button. Box in hand, she looks over to my corner and sees me sitting all quiet and alone. She continues to the kitchen and is gone.
An hour later, I’m back in the booth and the place is becoming further deserted. Only a handful of the committed remain. A couple out-of-towners are talking Saul’s ear off, and after what seems like an eternity, Rose emerges again. A bit lighter, perhaps relieved somehow, she goes to the bar and grabs a pint glass and pours. Funny, she fills it to the brim, but for nobody in particular. A perfect pour. She gathers it and swings around the bar opening and as God would have it, heads straight toward me. At last. She nearly floats when she walks. Have I ever seen anyone so balanced and aligned? When she finally sits down across from me, I am naive to her motives. I’m only happy she’s here. One conversation and a beer. It’s a hell of a place to start. She wears a few rings, dirty metal bands, and that same cross necklace, tight around her neck. I love her jewelry. I love how it’s weathered and worn. I’d give just about anything to feel her fingers in mine. She wraps them around her glass, takes a drink of her Budweiser and says, “I hear you can make one hell of an offer.”
“Like to think so.”
“He’s never gonna take it, ya know.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She has another drink, licks a little off her upper lip, and eyes me real inquisitive like, searching for answers. I love her eyes on me, and I return the favor. What assumptions has she made about me? And which is she making right now? We have oceans of life, don’t we all, right beneath the surface, right where we’re conscious and dreaming? Her green eyes flutter a bit as she drinks.
“Don’t you have any other places to be?”
“Not really.”
“You and your friends love it here, huh?”
“Johnston?”
“Jimmy’s, Johnston, all the above.”
“Yeah, yeah I’d say so.”
“What do you love about it?”
“Everything.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Grew up here.”
“In Johnston?”
“Yeah. But, here. Here. Jimmy’s. My father came here every day.”
“Same.”
“I still can’t believe Jimmy’s your dad.”
“Well. Wasn’t much of one, to be honest.”
“No, suppose not.”
“Your dad brought you here every day?”
“No. No, I was just trying to be around him I think.”
“Right.”
“Yeah.”
“Is he around now?”
“No, he’s not around now.”
“Not around like mine’s not?”
“No, not quite like yours.”
“Okay.”
We both take another drink as all of my life begins to rise like a tide.
“So, what’s your story?”
“My story?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah, I’m afraid it’s boring.”
“I doubt that.”
“What’s with the hat?”
“What’s with the necklace?”
“Grandma’s.”
“Grandpa’s.”
“Can’t believe Paul Newman’s in our bar.”
“You like Paul Newman?”
“He’s okay.”
“Because, I can be Paul Newman if you want me to.”
“Is that right?”
“ Small price to pay for beauty. ”
“Very good.”
“You’ve seen it?”
This gets her to smile.
“Only about a thousand times. Who are those guys? ”
“Who are those guys?” I laugh.
Is she seriously quoting Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid with me?
“It’s a cool hat.”
“Thanks. It’s a beautiful necklace.”
“Thank you.”
“So. Why won’t Saul give it over?”
“It’s his father’s.”
She shrugs.
“Yeah, well.” I suppose that’s the simple answer. I want more but let it rest.
“What are you doing ’round here anyway?”
“Saul’s all the family I got left. We didn’t really meet as kids.”
“Right. I never saw you around.”
“I was hardly ever here. Saul and I have different mothers, obviously. We didn’t really even know about each other until we were teenagers. By that time, I don’t know, I guess we didn’t care much. I mean, I cared but it was hard. I didn’t see Jimmy as my father, so Saul was just, I don’t know. A stranger.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, but it bothered me. Not knowing him at all. Years past though. We were in Ryland. Anyway. Long story short, my mother had breast cancer and died last year.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Thanks. It was slow, so, we had a while to plan things out at least. She always thought I should visit Saul here. When she died, that’s what I did. Met him and all that. It went fine. I still tried to stick around Ryland, but it wasn’t working. Couple months ago, he said I could come help out with the bar if I wanted and, yeah, here I am.”
She finishes and nods to herself, confirming the details, then takes a long drink. The way she told it all was sharp and quick, bullet point storytelling kept close to the vest, but still, she had shared it with me even though she didn’t have to.
The cold bar air created small goosebumps on her shoulders as she told the story and I don’t remember blinking, moving, or breathing. Everyone has a story in Johnston. Even those who came wandering through for a day or a week or to stay. We’re all wrapped up and gauzed from the battles and storms of life and have somehow found ourselves washed ashore here in the middle of nowhere. To think all around the world people have problems and that life can be brutal on most everyone. We’re in the generation of scattered parents and a blooming new age of odd complexity. I know some would call Johnston simple, but some would be wrong to do that.
“Saul’s had a rough one.”
She’s looking down as she says it. Behind everything she gives, I sense a potent hidden love. A beautiful sensitivity, guarded for survival. We’re more alike than I realized. I imagine Rose as a little girl. I imagine the first time learning of her father and her brother, this whole half of her life, removed and impossible to reach. It was a choice not her own, but one she would embrace before she could comprehend what it meant. All the pain and confusion her parents had caused settled deep into her bones and had hardened there. There is so much chipping away that is needed now. For her and for me and for everyone. All these beautifully broken wanderers. My heart is theirs. Damaged and messed up and still having a go of it. We’re together here, that’s it, that’s the thing. We’re one collective, taking our shot at a wonderful life worth living. We’re winding and walking through the stilled Johnston atmosphere like a family holding hands. We get our soul from the sidewalks, both the long-ago roads and the new ones ahead. We’re instilled with our great something, a hope.
“I know.”
She holds my eyes for a moment.
Do you believe me Rose?
“Well, I oughta go—”
“Okay.”
And I feel as if I’ve known her all my life.
On these old wooden benches, in the far back corner of our bar, shadowed and listening, we are the night. We’re sitting at a table we could have sat at as kids. Another life. She looks at me deeply, straight to my soul.
“Talk to him about that, and you’ll see,” she says.
She spins the cross in her hand, and then leaves.