Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
THOMAS
It turns out there aren’t a lot of travelers arriving in Madison after eleven o’clock at night. I’m glad I scheduled a car to meet me at the airport instead of waiting until I landed.
After retrieving my luggage, I roll it out the sliding doors and look for the ride that’s picking me up.
According to the app, it’s supposed to be a Tesla.
Imagine my surprise when a man steps out of a giant, retro, black Cadillac—seriously, the car is bigger than some NYC apartments. “Thomas Culpepper?” he calls out.
“That’s me,” I respond while looking from the left to the right for witnesses in case he’s really a mobster who time traveled here from the eighties to fulfill a hit someone hired on me.
Talk about a sure sign I’m a native New Yorker.
Most people would never consider such a possibility, but I worked with a doctor once who operated on a crime boss’s wife.
She didn’t make it and her husband decided to enact revenge.
Long story short, my co-worker survived, but left the city and took early retirement.
When I don’t move toward the car, the driver asks, “You need me to come over there and push your suitcase for you?”
I step forward. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
After popping the trunk, he lifts my luggage and throws it in with the ease of a dock worker used to handling heavy cargo. “I don’t usually work this late,” he tells me. “But I had a fare that took me all the way to Chicago this afternoon. I figured I’d stop and pick you up on my way home.”
“How long did that take?” I ask, while opening the front door to sit in the passenger seat next to him.
“Two hours to get there.” He scoffs. “You’d think they’d just take a train or bus, but some people have more money than brains.”
I pull the seatbelt strap across my shoulder and snap it into place. Somehow, the inside of the car seems bigger than the outside. “I was expecting a different ride,” I tell my driver.
He snort/laughs. “I used to tell folks to look for Adelaide, but I didn’t get as many trips that way. People are kind of snooty these days.”
Even though I would have probably forgone the pleasure of this ancient vehicle, too, I decide to play the diplomat. I pat the fading burgundy leather seat next to me. “I bet this used to be the hottest ride around.”
“It sure was. I didn’t have Addie back in those days though. I picked her up at auction a couple of years ago. Can you believe she only had a hundred and fifty thousand miles on her?”
A hundred and fifty? “Wow, what’s she at now?” I’m hoping he says a hundred and fifty-five.
“Two hundred thousand and twelve! Amazing, right?”
“It really is.” I suddenly worry she won’t have the life in her to get me to Elk Lake.
My driver turns the key on the ignition which roars to life like a tiger waking up from a sound sleep. “Name‘s Kevin Picknell,” he says. “But you can call me Pickles. They’ve been calling me that since the second grade and the nickname stuck.”
“Thomas,” I tell him, even though he already knows my name from my reservation.
“You said you decided to pick me up on your way home. Do you live around Elk Lake?” I don’t really have a deep burning desire to know, but I like to make small talk with my drivers.
It makes time fly by faster. And being that Kevin—I’m not sure I can call another person Pickles—and I will be on the road for at least an hour together, it would be awkward if we didn’t chat.
“I was born in Elk Lake Hospital, and I’ve lived there for my whole fifty-seven years,” he tells me. “I married my high school sweetheart, and we raised our kids in the house I grew up in.”
“That’s a pretty sound endorsement,” I tell him. “I did the same thing you did, but I was born in New York City. Haven’t been married yet and I don’t have kids, but I’ve spent thirty-six years there.”
Kevin turns the wheel sharply and merges onto the main road. “Why’d you leave?”
I give him an abbreviated version of my story. “It’s stressful being an emergency room doctor in the city. I decided to see if I like small-town life any better.”
“Better than New York?” I’m convinced he’s going to offer to take me back to the airport when he adds, “You’re never going to want to go back to the Big Apple. Elk Lake is heaven, man!”
“How’s the pizza?” I ask. “I’m a bit of a snob.”
“We got pizza. It’s pretty good too, but our fried cheese curds are the real prize. Trust me.”
“I’ve never had a fried cheese curd,” I confess.
Kevin stares at me in shock before slamming on the brakes to keep from rear-ending the car in front of us. “That’s like telling me you’ve never had a beer or a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“I’ve had both of those,” I assure him. “Cheese curds just aren’t a big thing in New York.”
Shaking his graying head, he tells me, “Your first meal out in Elk Lake needs to be at the diner on Main Street. Order the curds with all the sauces and then you gotta tell me which is your favorite.”
“Tell you? You want me to call you or something?” I don’t normally stay in touch with my drivers. In fact, I’ve never done that.
“Nah.” He waves his hand to the side. “Just come over to my house.”
This is getting weirder and weirder. “To your house?”
“I live next door to where I’m taking you. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Thought I did. You know, that’s why I decided to pick you up on my way home.”
This has been an odd interaction and I’m not sure my mother would approve. Even so, it’s not unwelcome. In fact, I think I just made my first friend in Elk Lake. “Well, then,” I tell Kevin, “I’ll do that.”
“I’ll do you one better,” he says. “I’ll go to the diner with you and walk you through it. You know, if you want.”
“That would be great,” I tell him, not quite sure if it would be or not. But now that I know my driver and I are neighbors, it probably isn’t a bad idea.
Kevin and I spend the next forty minutes talking about an array of topics that cover everything from his stance on the trans movement (judge not lest ye be judged, he’s decided) to his deep-rooted hatred of the Chicago Bears—they’ll never be as good as the Packers.
Apparently, it doesn’t matter that the Bears have won more Super Bowls.
The Packers have beaten the Bears in every encounter they’ve had since 2011, so that’s the end of that. The Packers have his heart.
As soon as we pass the Welcome to Elk Lake sign, Kevin says, “Welcome home, Tommy.” It seems he’s decided to use my childhood nickname, which honestly doesn’t bother me. My sister and dad still call me Tommy.
Kevin proceeds to give me the scoop on every building we pass. “That’s the Elk Lake Lodge,” he says proudly as we pass a large hotel set back in the woods. “It’s owned by some fancy pants billionaire from Chicago, but he’s a good enough guy.”
As we approach the intersection at Main Street, he points down the road to the right. “The diner’s on the left. Movie theater is across the street.” Turning to the right, he adds, “Grocery store is two blocks that way.”
“How many grocery stores are there in town?” I ask him. I shop at the Red Apple in my neighborhood, but D’Agastino’s, Zabar’s and Fairway are close-by options. They all have their specialties.
“One,” he tells me. “But we got two cheese stores, a bakery, and the diner. There’s also a pizza place, a pub, a couple other restaurants …” He pauses for a beat before adding, “The bait and tackle shop on the lake serves the best tater tots in the state.”
Note to self: Even with such a glowing recommendation, resist the urge to order food at the same place they sell fishing worms.
“It sounds like I’ll be well taken care of,” I tell him.
Kevin makes a sharp left before taking the first right.
“We’re here.” He pulls into the driveway of the house I recognize from the realtor’s photos.
The white two-story Cape Cod-style house looks like the picture-perfect starter home for a young family.
All it needs is a swing hanging from the oak tree in the front yard, and maybe some flowers in the window boxes that adorn the first-floor windows.
Kevin jumps out of the car and gets my suitcase from the trunk. I join him after a moment. “I’ve never lived in a real house before,” I confess. “You know, with a yard and everything.”
My neighbor’s face contorts into a look of pure horror. “That’s not good, Tommy. People need grass. It’s a scientific fact.”
I side-eye him to see if he’s teasing me, but he looks serious. “I should probably find a gardener before spring then,” I tell him.
“What for?”
What does he mean, what for? “To mow the lawn?”
“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, you don’t hire a gardener to mow the grass. If you don’t want to do it yourself, you get a neighborhood kid. I’ll make you a list,” he offers.
With a nod of my head, I reach into my coat pocket for my wallet. Before I get it out, Kevin tells me, “You paid on the app. You’re all set.”
“I was going to tip you in cash,” I tell him. “Cash is king for tipping, am I right?”
“You know what’s even better?” he asks. “Taking me out for my favorite cheese curds. You can pay.”
“That sounds like a fair deal.” I reach out and shake his hand before pushing my suitcase to the front door of my new place. Leaning down, I lift the doormat and search for the key that’s supposed to be there. It’s not.
“No key?” Kevin calls out.
I turn around and shrug my shoulder. “No key.”
“Try the flower box under the picture window,” he suggests.
I walk across the grass to check, but there’s nothing but dirt inside. “Nothing.”
Kevin holds up one finger and runs across the yard next door. Walking inside, I hear him call out, “Shelly! I need you!”
A short red-head walks outside in a fuzzy bathrobe. Her hands are on her hips as she admonishes, “Is that anyway to say hello to me after you’ve been gone all day?”
Her husband leans down and kisses her cheek. “Hi, honey. Sorry. I just brought our new neighbor home from the airport. He can’t find the key Judy was supposed to have left for him.”
She peeks around her front porch to look at me. Then she waves. “I’m Shelly!”
“Thomas Culpepper,” I say.
“Call him Tommy,” Kevin tells her.
“It’s under the fake rock next to the porch swing,” my neighbor yells. “Everyone and their brother knows to look under the mat if they want to break into a house,” she yells.
And now they know about the fake rock on the porch, but I don’t mention that. I simply find the very unrealistic-looking plastic rock and pick it up. Opening it, I pull out the key and hold it up in Shelly’s direction. “Thank you.”
“No problem, honey. I’ll see you in the morning. I’m going to bring over some muffins for you.”
Kevin runs back across to my driveway and gets into his car. As he pulls out, he rolls down the window. “We’ll set up dinner soon, okay?” Then he waves and takes Adelaide home.
To be honest, I haven’t spent much time wondering what my neighbors were going to be like in Wisconsin. But if pressed, I don’t think I would have ever come up with a duo like Pickles and Shelly. So far, I’m not disappointed.