« « 14/06/2009 Image – Beerday, June 14th, 2009

The Searcher

Contributed by Rivka Jacobs on 15/06/09

The highway is alive tonight
Where it’s headed everybody knows
“The Ghost of Tom Joad” by Bruce Springsteen

The heat of midday wafted off Washington Street, stirred up some dust from the side of the two-lane road, and fluttered some napkins on one of the tables. Christopher Hatfield sat slouched in one of the wood-slat chairs, across from a nearly full glass of amber-colored German lager that had been left by a previous customer. The customer had abruptly departed without paying.

“Hatfield, get your boney ass back to work,” his boss, Mike Jackson called to him from the Campfire Tavern entrance.

Chris Hatfield sighed and rose to his feet. He shook his head and wiped his forehead with a forearm. His long brown hair didn’t move in the warm, stifling breeze, and small strands remained stuck to the back of his neck. There were no customers now, in this little outdoor area of tables and umbrellas that fronted the bar.

Chris Hatfield, part bus-boy, part waiter, mopped the table with his cleaning rag. He carried the glass into the building. He set it behind the bar. He tried not to make eye contact with his boss.

Several midday drunks were draped around the place, sitting at the counter or in the booths to the right. Mike Jackson peered at his teenage employee as the latter hurried to haul a plastic tub of dirty barware, through the swinging double doors, to the dishwasher in the rear.

“You let another one get away without paying?” Jackson called after him, and brought a fist down on the counter top. “I’m taking it out of your pay.”

What pay, Chris Hatfield thought, not looking up as he delivered the tub. He had never felt so hopeless, so trapped, so out of place. He hated this job. But family connections had gotten him the position just after he graduated from high school.

Back in front, he swabbed the vinyl tops of the empty bar stools, winced as more honky-tonk country music spewed loudly from the small stereo speakers above the mirror on the wall. He absently glanced out the large window to the right of the main entrance. He saw a man walking towards them. “Hey, customer, I think,” he yelled.

Jackson moved to the door and stuck his nose out. He locked eyes briefly with the approaching stranger as the man — tall and thin, dusty, his skin deeply lined and tanned by the sun — slipped into one of the seats at one of the umbrella tables, pulled out a cigarette, and lighted it.

Hatfield squeezed by Jackson’s apron-wrapped beer-belly blocking the threshold, and almost skipped to the stranger’s side. “Can I get you anything, sir?” he said as politely as he could.

The man looked up and into Chris Hatfield’s blue eyes. Chris felt like he was being held by the neck. He felt like someone had paralyzed him. He couldn’t breathe. Then it was over, and he was standing there, as if nothing had happened. He gulped air. “What … what … do you … uh … do you want anything?” he said in spurts, trying to sound calm.

The stranger drew on the cigarette, holding it casually and expertly between fingers. He leaned back, rested one ankle on the other knee, tilted his head up so that his green eyes caught the afternoon sun directly. He didn’t squint, he didn’t blink. “A cool bottle of beer, any kind, and a clean glass will be fine,” he finally said. The voice was gravelly, but the tone was pleasant.

Chris Hatfield remained anchored, as if studying this man was the most important thing in the world at the moment. He felt an intense urge to sit down, to talk to him, to find out where he had been, what kind of life he’d led. He had met only a few people in his entire life who were not from West Virginia.

The stranger let a small, knowing smile play on his mouth. He put his book of matches back into the breast-pocket of his unbuttoned, blue-plaid work shirt. He wore a dark blue t-shirt underneath. “Beer, a cold one,” he repeated, and reached up his left hand, and snapped his fingers. “And an ashtray, too.”

Chris, startled, re-focused and apologized. He hurried to bring the man his beer and one of the tavern’s dingy plastic ashtrays. As he headed outside once more, he noted that Mike Jackson was busy with a lady-friend in the booth at the farthest corner of the room.

Feeling more relaxed, free of Jackson’s scrutiny, Chris served the stranger. He then glanced over his shoulder to make certain no one was watching, and quickly pulled over a chair from a neighboring table and sat beside his customer. The man didn’t seem to mind, and in fact continued to sport that slight smile as he poured a small amount of beer into the glass.

“Something you want, boy?” the stranger finally said, after sipping some of the beer and touching his mouth with a sleeve.

“Who are you? Where did you come from? You’re not from around here. You’re not like the people from around here.” Chris Hatfield swept his arm around as he said the last, indicating the long stretch of road to the north and south that fronted miles and miles of old bars, frame and mobile homes, boarded-up shops, a few cinder-block businesses, and lots of dull spaces filled with brush, trees, and overgrown fields.

The stranger sipped, followed the arc of Hatfield’s gesture. “I’ve been this way before,” he said placidly. “That bait and tackle shop down the road a bit … when did it close? I remember them, a nice buncha people.”

Hatfield restlessly moved in his chair. “I don’t know, before I was born. It was there when my papaw was a kid.”

“Maurice Hatfield,” the man said, his green eyes wrinkling up a bit with some good memory.

Chris Hatfield’s eyes widened, his mouth came open. “Uh, yeah … uh, you knew my papaw?”

The stranger set down the glass, but didn’t refill it. He reached into his shirt pocket again, took out another cigarette, lighted it. “Yup, I met ‘im. I was here in West Charleston some fifty years ago. He needed my help, and I was here, and I helped him.”

Chris straightened, physically moving backwards. “Huh?”

“It hasn’t been easy for you, Christopher, I know. You’ve never accepted things as they are, you’ve always looked at the truth underneath. You feel stuck, frozen, like you need to do things to help people, to fight for justice, to be a hero.”

Chris Hatfield brought his brows together, looked sideways at the stranger.

“It seems like you’ve always been waiting for something.”

Chris Hatfield abruptly felt tears stinging his eyes.

The man pressed the end of his cigarette into the ashtray. He ran a hand through his graying blond hair, cut short around his ears but full and wavy at the top. He turned his jade-like eyes on Chris again.

Chris felt like electric currents were moving through his body, out the soles of his feet, into the cement below, deep into the earth. He stared back, unable to speak.

“You have work to do, Christopher,” the stranger finally said, rising to his feet while moving his chair back with a slight scraping sound. He looked north, along Washington Street. “Thanks for the beer, ” he said as he put a five dollar bill on the table. Then he paused, added, “And enough money to cover that previous customer who ran off.”

Chris Hatfield remained seated, feeling drained. He looked up at the man. “What … what kind of work…?” he asked, his voice thick.

The stranger had already begun walking back to the roadside. He looked over his shoulder, waved at Chris, and shouted, “Hard work. The hardest there is.”

Chris remained seated as he watched the man disappear in the distance into a shimmering pool. A mirage caused by the summer heat on an old asphalt road, Chris thought. He felt weak, he had a headache.

Mike Jackson came bundling out the door, panting, “God dammit, not another one … oh ….” He came to a halt as he noted the two five dollar bills on the table.

Chris bent his head into his hands. “Tell me you saw him too, okay? That guy?”

Jackson shook his head, took the entire ten dollars and put it in his apron pocket. “Yeah, whatever. Some old bum, an old bum with money. You know what, Hatfield, I don’t think this job is working out for you. I owed your mom a favor but you’re more trouble than you’re worth. Give me the apron, and get your ass out of here.”

The young man stood as if in a trance, untied the red, stained cloth wrapped around his middle, and handed it to Mike Jackson, who glared at him.

Christopher Hatfield began walking toward Washington Street, then turned northward. He moved with deliberate and easy steps along the side of the two-lane highway.

Mike Jackson scowled as the boy’s figure receded. He shouted, “What about your car? Your car’s over here, in the parking lot. You don’t live in that direction. Where the hell are you going? You been drinkin’ or usin’ drugs? There’s always been somethin’ wrong with you. What the hell is the matter with you? Don’t make me call your family ….” Jackson quieted. A feeling of unease grew into fear as Chris Hatfield’s form became a white light that merged with billows of silvery air rising on the horizon.

After a moment Jackson picked up the stranger’s used bottle and glass, and gazed at the smashed cigarettes in the burned and pocked plastic ashtray on the table. “Damn …” he said out loud.