Jack (chapter 5)

Boise.  Somewhat desolate and kind of boring.  Sorry, Idahoans.  It has been my shift to drive the past five hours and we just dropped off Joseph and Mary at a ridiculously ornate house backed up to a small creek.  I think someone has some money and wants to show it off.  I have no problem with that except for the fact that so much of the world doesn’t even have clean drinking water and even closer to home, there are children born into houses without food all the time in every city in the U.S.  So I get the fact that you have money and I’m cool with you spending it on decorative rocks as long as you are spending the equivalent on the poor.  Thus ends my rant on that.

Valerie mumbled a short goodbye and Mr. Peter James said goodbye just long enough to make sure that all planes were still grounded.  He volunteered to take over driving just as dawn is breaking over the horizon.  We stop ever so briefly for breakfast at Sonic.  Mr. Peter James is irritated and the urgency in his demeanor is increasing with each hour that passes.  I wonder what could be so important in Miami that he can’t stand to miss it.  It can’t be business; there is a different kind of urgency when it comes to business.  That kind of urgency exposes itself in the forehead and the shoulders, with the occasional clenched fists and red ears.  His urgency is more deeply embedded in his body, behind the nose and under the eyes.  It creates a kind of breathing that is trying to recover from a great blow to the stomach while maintaining pride and dignity.  His foot steps with purpose and determination.  Hesitation causes pauses which slow the progress and creates shadow where only light is permitted.  This is why Mr. Peter James has zero tolerance for Valerie.  I wish my reasons for intolerance were as viable.  I just don’t care for her.  But here we go; the three of us for about three days’ worth of driving in this van.  Is it too late to go back to Portland?

I suppose it is.  I sit in the front next to Mr. Peter James and continue to conjecture what is in Miami for him.  I’m afraid to ask because then I would feel the obligation to reciprocate the information.  I would probably lie.

I could give you the details of the trip, but I’m sure you would be as bored as I am and would stop reading before things get interesting, so I’ll hit a few highlights for you and leave the rest to your imagination.  Please make that as exciting as you want because it would be far more enjoyable than what actually happened.

Hour #3: Valerie is complaining about how uncomfortable her seat is for the thousandth time this trip.  Mr. Peter James responds, “If you don’t like it you can walk for as long as you want and then your feet will hurt far worse than your rear-end ever will.” 

She stops complaining, but Mr. Peter James continues:

“There’s no way I’d ever let my daughter go on like you do about the blessings that you have in your life, which you see as curses.  You have the goodness of a friend to get you to your destination.  You have air conditioning and a cushion.  You have the opportunity to be college-educated, clean drinking water and indoor plumbing.  My word, darling, you have got to change your perspective on life or your sense of entitlement will completely undo you.  Life is hard and frustrating.  Get used to it and make the most of it.”  His nose is stern and hard.  I knew he was serious already but this makes it more intense.  I wonder if I can breathe.

“You complain to me when you have everything in the world a good family, a great job with the NFL making money like you will never see and then having everything stripped from you because you made a lousy decision.  One that you knew was wrong when you made.  And then finally getting back on your feet and asked to come and visit your kids because one of them is graduating from college.  You finally get to see them after ten years and the shit for brains take that away from you in the wink of an eye because they aren’t making enough money.  So we will make it to Miami by Saturday and you will be grateful for the things that you do have while you are in this van.  Damn it.”

Valerie was on the verge of tears, I knew not because I looked back to check but because I could hear the sniffs.  I didn’t venture to look at Mr. Peter James either.  I just continued looking out of the front window, praying that I don’t ever make him mad.  He picks up the speed of the van a little; I’m certain it is because he sees nothing but an image of his son in front of him.  At least now I know and I didn’t have to lie about my own destination.

Hour #6: The past three hours have been spent in almost absolute silence, which was compounded by the lack of interesting scenery.  We stop at a gas station.  I practically jump out of the van and run into the store.  The oppression in the van was getting close to unbearable and typically I revel in awkward situations.  They’re what makes life interesting and worth paying attention to.  But in this van the awkwardness and tension was confined and stifling.

Hour #12: I have been driving and I like the way the time passes when I drive. It gives me time to clear my head.  I try to contemplate the case, but remember that I have nothing new to ponder.  So then I just try to seem lost in thought so no one will talk to me.

Hour #14.5: We hit a prarie dog or two.

Hour #18: We decide to stop for the night.  We are about halfway to our destination and Mr. Peter James and I are struggling to stay awake on the road no matter how much we sleep in the van.  Valerie has mostly remained silent until now.  But as soon as Mr. Peter James has disappeared she tries to sway my view of him, “He didn’t have to get so mad at me.”

Has she really been stewing over that this whole time?  I completely forgot that he had said anything to her, although the resulting silence was much welcomed.

“Jack? Do you think he’s still mad?”

I shrug, “I dunno.  Ask him.”

“But I don’t know if I can.  He hasn’t said much to me all day since then.  And then he snapped at me when I said I had to stop to use the restroom.  I mean, I know he wants to get to his son’s graduation, but it isn’t my fault that the planes were grounded and that we are stuck in this van.  I’d rather be in Miami right now too.”  She pouts and looks on the verge of tears.  She has definitely been holding this in for many hours.

“I’m sure he’s not mad at you.”  Seeing that the tears are slowly subsiding, I continue, “Just let him be and it’ll be fine.  We all just need sleep.  Now go to your room.  We’ll get up and go early in the morning so we won’t keep him any longer than we need to.”

The tears have dissipated without rolling.  Victory.  She half smiles and then hugs me.  Fail.  I wait exactly three seconds before pushing her away and turning to my room.  I don’t care if she cries now.

Hour #25: We are back on the road.  Mr. Peter James and Valerie have apologized to each other.  She is chatty again.  Maybe I should have given her different advice.  At least Mr. Peter James looks less likely to kill somebody.

Hour #30:  Shoot me.

Hour #34:  Seriously, please shoot me.

Hour #39:  I consider desertion just as Valerie falls to sleep.

Hour #41: The adventure really begins.

Jack (chapter 4)

            I trudge behind Valerie and her swinging blonde hair.  She is attractive enough to be tempting but there is something dishonest in the way she walks - heavy and bouncy at the same time and her hips sway with the over-exaggeration of a hippopotamus.  Her loose fitting skirt and tight tank top emphasize this.  I am almost positive that her boobs are fake as well.  In spite of her less than honorable gait, her smile is genuine enough to make her harmless.

            We approach the parking garage crammed full of cars, trying to get out and continue their journey by the road instead of the air.  Rage is at a height comparable to Everest; I could only imagine what it must be like in places like Los Angeles and New York City.  I smile to myself quietly enjoying the chaos.  It had been a while since I have experienced so much frustration from outside of myself.  I think the last time I did was when I went to a rally protesting the Gulf oil spill, as if protesting it would actually fix the issue.  I smiled to myself then too.  I went for the sheer joy of observing. 

            As I was listening to one man screech to a halt after his ten feet of actual movement and there curse out of his window at the car that had been stopped there the whole time, we come upon a man that was bigger than an bison (I would know because I saw more than I could possibly count on a family vacation to Yellowstone).  I believe I jump a little when approaching him.  He does not smile and he could very well harm me, a lot.  I give him my most serious and unassuming look, hoping that he will trust me or at the very least not kill me. 

            “This is Mr. Peter James.  He is my best friend’s uncle and has gotten this van for us.”  Oh, she’s talking to me.  Then she turns to Mr. Peter James and introduces me as simply Jack.  She keeps smiling, obviously not realizing the size of this man.

            I nod and try to hide the fact that I am just trying to remember to breathe.  He nods as well and opens the back door.

            A low rumble comes from the man’s mouth and I suppose it’s his voice saying something about a couple coming too, some coworker and his wife who need a ride just a day away, so they wouldn’t be with us for very long.  He then looks at me and asks, “You going all the way to Miami?”  I nod again.  I think this man has scared the voice out of me.

He smirks a little and remarks, “You don’t say much; I think you and I will be alright.”  He’s right, on both counts.  The one problem is that Valerie talks enough to keep anyone else from saying anything.  She’s been going on for a while now about how she is dreading the ride and how long it is going to take to get to Miami and can’t imagine why air traffic controllers would ever need to strike and couldn’t just anyone go up in the tower and tell people to land or takeoff.  It couldn’t possibly be that complicated.  In all her ramblings, she’s right about one thing, this is going to be a very long trip. 

Mr. Peter James asks if I would mind him putting me on the driving list because it would be nice to break up the driving between two drivers.  Valerie seems a little hurt by not being asked and to make sure she hasn’t been ignored interjects, “I’m not really comfortable driving big vans.  I have a little BMW that I drive around and couldn’t possibly figure out how to park something so large.”  That is a load of crap.  This is a minivan, almost too small to even be called that.  But I concede to Mr. Peter James that I would be glad to share the driving responsibilities with him and proceed to thank him for allowing me to tag along with them.  He tells Valerie to stay with the van and the two of us go to the line at the car rental counter.  I look at the length of it and think that it will be at least an hour before we will be helped.  Fortunately, however, Mr. Peter James is something like a gold-class member so he gets to jump ahead of everyone else in line.  He carries power well, never even giving an apologetic glance to those furious individuals waiting in the line.  I keep my head down, hoping to avoid the glares and stares.  I don’t carry power well and that’s probably because I have no experience with it.  We flawlessly add my name and are able to leave again in under five minutes.  I glance up once to see a young child hanging on his mother’s leg.  He’s obviously tired and ready to be somewhere else.  The mother pushes him off with a furious shove.  He looks at me for relief and the mother follows his eyes to me.  I catch the anger behind them briefly, just long enough to notice that I had even averted my gaze from the ground and that is where it should return.  I follow Mr. Peter James like a wounded puppy who has found someone to give him water, however crude the bowl may be.

We reach the van and the couple approaches about twenty minutes later, annoyed by the frustration of waiting for their luggage but more so by the fact that they had kept a stern business man like Mr. Peter James waiting.  He doesn’t seem so bothered.  We pile into the van with our bags.  I volunteer to take the very back.  Being far away from everyone and conversation is the ideal spot for me.  I fall into the seat and brace myself for several days of driving.  I think about the small boy and the anger he was having to endure.  My thoughts drift to the girl from the case.  She would never have pushed her son from her leg no matter how obnoxious he may have gotten.  The father would never have let her, even if he had read the thoughts in her mind to do so.  I’m tempted to take out my laptop and stare at the picture further, but I know that it would create questions among my fellow passengers, so I sidestep that conflict.

The couple was introduced as Joseph and Mary Garrett, how biblically profound.  I wonder if their children are saints.  They are both professionally dressed in suits.  I wonder how long it might take for the generations to accept my outfit of jeans and a t-shirt as the norm for business personnel.  I can see it happening.  That is, most people will probably end up working from home over the internet anyway. 

Joseph sits in the front seat next to Mr. Peter James, while Valerie and Mary sit in the middle seats.  The men sit in the front talking sports.  The women sit in the middle getting to know the simple facts about each other.  I can’t really hear the conversation going on between the men so I listen to the women.  I find out that Valerie is actually a student at FIU where she is involved in a sorority, but doesn’t hold any kind of officer position; I’m not surprised by this in the least.  She doesn’t have the personality to lead.  She doesn’t currently have a boyfriend, which she makes sure I can hear.  At first I’m annoyed because I know this means she’ll be trying to impress me constantly, but then I see the positive in that she won’t be rambling incessantly about how amazing her boyfriend is.  I’m not always a negative personality.  She’s changed her major a few times and in the list, I’ve lost where she has actually landed, for now.  She was in Portland visiting her parents for a week this summer.  She currently works at some clothing store, which is the only store that she’ll even think about buying clothes from. 

Mary listens patiently to the girl chirping next to her.  She keeps a kind smile on her face and nods every so often.  She comments occasionally, saying things like “I thought about majoring in that” and “My daughter loves clothes from that store.”  I can’t tell yet if she is sincere or just congenial.  Eventually, Valerie gets tired of talking about herself and asks Mary a few questions.  Joseph and Mary have three children.  Their son just left for college to pursue some kind of ridiculous physics degree, apparently he’s only sixteen, damned over-achievers.  Their daughter is fourteen and has shown profound depth of knowledge in children’s literature, in fact she has already written three children’s books which have won awards at the national level, again, damned over-achievers.  Their youngest is six and is adopted from somewhere in Africa, how very progressive they are.  They are actually on their way to Boise to pick her up from a summer camp where she has shown great proficiency in horseback riding.  They are now thinking about buying her a horse.  Mary speaks using eloquent terms and small hand gestures.  Her face never strays far from a smile, but never quite ventures into a full grin, although her teeth are perfectly proportioned and as white as fresh snow.  I hair never moves from it place and the perception of perfection remains in tact through the entire trip.  I am impressed but not awed.  Perfection is easy enough to feign; I tried once or twice but never cared enough to follow through to completion.  In spite of all of this I like Mary, she seems to care about her children and encourage them in their various avenues of personalities and strengths. 

As their conversation starts to fall away I think that it is about time to at least fake sleeping before they remember that I am back there and know so very little about me.  I contemplate this too late and Mary turns to me, “So Jack, what is it that you do?”

With my most determined tone, I answer as vaguely as possible, “I work from home.”

“Doing what?”  Valerie has chimed in.  I really hate being questioned about myself.

“Research.”

Mary picks up the fact that I’m not willing to divulge very much and says, “That must be interesting.”

“Most of the time.”

“Ugh.  I hate researching.  It’s so tedious and it takes so long.  I much prefer to state my opinion on things and be done with it.”

“My dear, you can’t have much of an informed opinion without research first.”  Mary has successfully stopped Valerie before she can get very far.  She then turns to the gentlemen in the front of the van and joins their conversation which has remained on sports this entire time.  She is able to join without hiccup and has just as much insight into the sports as the men do.  Joseph is proud of his wife’s knowledge on the subjects and I realize I like Mary because she is well-informed and can confidently carry a conversation with anything from the President of the United States to a rock.  Even more than that she can readily observe when a conversation is not the route to be taken. 

At the rebuke from Mary, Valerie has taken to her ipod and staring out of her window as her way of sulking.  I fall asleep because I truly am tired and realize that I will probably be driving in the next couple of hours.  I pray I don’t snore which would bring unwanted attention to myself.

Jack (chapter 3)

                “You may as well stay asleep, son.”

                I hear the voice but am uncertain who it belongs to.  I yawn and look to my left.  There’s a grinning man in his eighties sitting next to me holding a cup of coffee.

                “Hi. I’m Jack.”

                “Hi Jack. I’m Ed.”

Ed has sincere eyes hidden beneath a mass of wrinkles and sunspots.  And I’m quite certain that each one has been earned with an experience that I will never know or understand.  I wish I could.  There is also a large scar under his left eye which makes it look somewhat droopy.

He speaks again in his raspy voice, “Where are you no longer heading, Jack?”

“Miami.  Although I’m certain my boss will try to find a way for me to make it.”

“Miami.  I’ve never been there.  My daughter tried to convince me to retire there.  I think she just wanted an excuse to visit. I decided to retire here instead.”  He grins.

“She hasn’t visited, has she?”

His grin broadens as he shakes his head.

“Is that where you were heading?”

“To see her?  Yes.”  His smile fades slightly.

“Where does she live? “

“Washington D.C.  Her first grandchild was born last week.  My first great-grandkid.”  He stops and pulls out his phone which he fumbles with.  His hands are incredibly arthritic and his fingers can barely hold the phone and the cup of coffee at the same time.  He pokes around and his chunky fingers press on the wrong buttons.  I imagine he spent his working years as a carpenter.  There are as many sunspots on his hands as there are on his face.

“Confounded phone.  I still can’t figure these things out.”

“Want me to try?”

He hands me the phone but with so little grace that his coffee spills all over the floor.

“Oh dear, let me go grab some napkins for you.”  The voice is high pitched and so quick it was like she was waiting for the coffee to spill.  It belongs to the plain girl from the coffee shop with the embroidered bag.  In a flash she’s gone.

Ed smiles again, “She likes you.”  I stare in disbelief, without a reaction.  “She’s been staring at you all morning.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I have the feeling he’s getting ready to lecture me on the value of love in life.  It’s a shame really because I’ve like Ed up until now.

“I have a lot of regrets in my life, Jack.  The one thing that I don’t regret is marrying my wife and remaining absolutely faithful to her.  I’m not saying this girl is the one for you or anything.  I’m just saying, don’t let it get away from you.”

He did it.  He lost my interest.  I just nod my head trying to respect his age and experience.  He takes the hint and gets really quiet.  I wait a few minutes and wonder what he’s thinking enough to turn and look at him.  There are tears rolling down his cheeks, getting lost between the cracks of his wrinkles.  I feel my own tears begin form, although I’m not certain why.  But before they fully form, I hear the sharp screech of the girl’s voice.

“Here.  Some napkins and another cup of coffee.”  She’s talking to Ed, but looking at me.  It makes me uncomfortable and I look at the ground.

“Thank you dear.  Oh and honey, don’t bother with him.  He isn’t interested.  Your time, energy and youth are much better suited to someone else.”

Her jaw drops and my respect for him restores.

She just whispers, “You’re welcome” and wanders to the other side of the gate.  Her eyes are downcast and it looks like her hair has begun to droop ever so slightly.

I hear the obnoxious tune of a phone.  I know it isn’t mine because I would throw my phone against the wall every time it rang if it had that tune.  It continues in its irritating tone.  All the eyes around me start to turn toward me and I realize I’m still holding Ed’s phone.

“Oh sorry.”

Ed answers and has a conversation about the changes that are being made to his travel.  He ends the call and stands up with some difficulty.  Before he leaves, he turns to me. “Jack,” he stops for a minute, “This scar, under my eye, is from the car accident that killed my wife… sixty years ago.  My greatest regret of all the ones I’ve made is that I was driving.  Don’t be that stupid, son.”

For the first time, I feel badly about making that poor girl in the corner suffer.  Ed’s gone before I can really think twice.  The girl in the corner peeks up at me and I manage a half smile which I definitely regret, immediately.  What is it about old people that makes us trust them?  Makes us think that they are wise and all-knowing.  I wish I could just fall back to sleep instead.  In fact, why did I even wake up this morning?  At least she’s on the phone now.

I look at my own phone.  There are a dozen missed calls from my boss and I’m sure there are as many voicemails cussing me out in various flavors of candy.  I ignore them and try to determine my next step.  People are slowly beginning to thin out of the gates.  The lines have been cut in half.  There are still no planes leaving the ground.  I’m stare back down at my phone, debating calling someone or looking up options on the internet.  I really don’t feel like doing any of it.

I open my computer instead, remembering that I am supposed to be working on the case.  I don’t know that I’ll be able to pull much else out of the information that has been sent to me.

Pictures, official documents, arrest records, mug shots, pictures of drugs, pictures of guns, birth certificates, etc.  Nothing is fascinating except the girl in the pictures.  She mesmerizes me.  Well not her so much but the way she relates to the guy on her arm.  She, on her own, is not all that spectacular, but with him she shines.  It’s almost like she was always meant to be in that place with him.  I wonder if that’s how Ed’s wife looked at him, before her life was cut too short as well.  I try to picture the guy in the picture as an old man and he looks a lot like Ed.

I feel a shadow over me.

“Hey.”

I don’t say anything, hoping she’ll go away.  I most definitely regret the smile.

“Um, hi.  My name is Valerie.  I, uh, got the coffee for the older gentleman that you were talking to earlier.”  She waits for a response.  I refuse to give her one.  So, naturally, she continues, “Listen, I think you were on the same flight as me, going to Miami.  I know someone who has a van rented and says we can ride with him.  A friend’s uncle.  He’s a nice guy.  Just thought, you know, we could help each other out.  Maybe.”

I slowly follow her hands up her arms to her face.  I catch her eyes and know she’s serious.  So I weigh the options.  I could go with her and deal with those hopeless eyes for several days on the road, or I could go back to my apartment and deal with the candy spewing boss who is likely ready to rip my head off and demand that I fly to Miami using a jet pack that I build myself.  It’s one of those rock and hard place conundrums, but I believe I can safely say that a woman will always beat out my boss.  I close my laptop and shove it into my bag.  I think I’m going to get tired of her jaw dropping all the time.