The Forgetting-Part 3 - Pure Pulp
by: Stanislaus I. Skoda
(c) Sam Skoda
Part 3
"Is
this the man?" Sheriff Tolland asked as Jerry came
around the front of the
truck.
"That's
him," Jerry Fowler said, hitching up his pants, and
stomping
over to stand beside Tolland, removing his Deklab logo cap with the
flying
ear of corn on it from his large head and adjusting his
thinning hair. The two gazed
at the character whom Jerry had brought
from Jody Silvermores house, looking in at the
slouched man who
peered out through the dusty windshield. His hair was rumpled,
his
clothes unkempt, his face worn and beaten, confused. He gazed about
himself,
unsure, out the window, listlessly, blankly.
"You
said over the phone that he
gave Miss Silvermore a scare,"
Tolland asked. First the tragedy of Glenn Standoff, and
now this
fellow.
"Sure
enough." Jerry informed him, recalling the hurried
whispered
phone conversation with his young
neighbor.
"How
so?"
"Ah,
mumbling to himself, talking of things
weren't there, head pains,
sweating a lot, that kind of stuff."
"What
did
he say?"
"He
talked of how he had something to sell. That's why she let him in
the
first place. Said he'd been travelling for a long time, wanted to
know if
there was a river nearby. Lots of nonsense." Jerry
related.
"How
was he
on the way over?"
"Fine,
just fine, like he is now. Tired like, mumbled
something about
selling electric lanterns."
"Why'd
she let him
in?"
Jerry
exchanged a glance with Tolland, giving time and weight to his
reply.
"Ms.
Silvermore, she's one of those people who are willing to listen
to
others..."
"
Always can use more folks like that. Well let's see him
then,"
Tolland opened the door and Jon stared out at him, a human
blank.
"Mr.
ah, Fontaine, I'm Sheriff Tolland, would you mind stepping out of
the
cab for me?"
The
man shrank at Tollands' authoritative voice, then
straightened
himself up with a quick nervous glance, his eyes never once resting
on
the Sheriff who addressed him.
"That's
right, Fontaine's my name," he spoke,
watching something
invisible creep along the ground. "Selling's my game, I can
sell
you a fine pair of... of..." he rubbed his forehead, heavy with
worry
lines.
"No
Jon," the Sheriff explained patiently. "Would you please
just get
out of the cab."
"Oh
yes, no trouble, no trouble. Just let me get my suitcase
and show you
a few things, I'm sure you'll be interested..." Jon exited
the
truck, dragging his dilapidated briefcase with him. He swung it up
onto the
hood of the truck and began to open it, scrambling at the
locks. Tolland stopped him
with a hand on his shoulder.
"Thank
you, but that won't be necessary. I would
simply like to ask you a
few questions if I may."
Jon
stopped. He looked
puzzled. He wondered if this man did, or did not
want to buy anything. He began think
that Tolland might be a hard
sell, like those folks from Stull, that town in Kansas.
Or that group
in California, in the desert.
"Would
you mind coming this way
with me," Tolland said, indicating the
police station with a wave of his hand. "I can
offer you some
coffee, if you'd like."
Never
say no to a potential buyer,
Jon thought, and accepted, moving up the
steps into the low, squat brick building.
Tolland followed him,
giving a nod to Jerry as he passed by.
"Thanks
Jerr,
maybe you can let Miss Silvermore know not to worry. I don't
think she was in any
danger."
Jerry
nodded in reply, watching the hunched, furtive man with the
strange
suitcase enter the building. As the Sheriff held the door open for
him, Jon
looked back, holding Jerry's eyes for a moment. Jon's face
was out of focus,
wobbling a bit like hot asphalt on a sunny day.
Jerry rubbed his eyes, disbelieving,
thinking he should get those
damn cataracts checked out.
Tolland
led Fontaine, who gazed about at the public service messages taped to
the
walls and bulletin boards, inside the small brick police station.
Jons head bobbed
about like a figure whose head was attached to a
spring.
The
sheriff
escorted the stranger past the small jail cell, merely an
adequate holding room for
the drunks and small-time thieves who often
passed through, or if they were a local,
passed out. Jon paused as he
went by the bars, than on into a small room where he sat
in a chair
which Tolland indicated.
"You
ever get that boy,
Dillinger?", setting his suitcase on the
table.
"Dillenger?
John Dillinger?"
Tolland stopped, momentarily confused.
Dillenger was ages ago.
"
Yeah,
Dillenger, bank robber fellow, you know, public enemy number
one!" Fontaine made a
rat-tat--tat sound and made like he was
shooting a tommy-gun. Tolland stared, than
caught himself.
"
Well Jon,a G-Man got him, Marvin Purvis I think, shot him in
the
back, in Chicago."
"I
met Purvis once, We ate breakfast together. Fella
wasn't too happy I
thought."
"Purvis
killed himself, almost sixty years
ago."
The
sheriff sighed, facing the individual across from him. Breakfast
with
dead people was it. Looked like he'd have to call around, over
to
Danmeyrburg, the big hospital center up there. He might just have to
drive him
up there himself. Dammit all... another thing to make the
pastoral small town life
disappear in the haze of a busy schedule.
They didn't get many crazies wandering
through here, had that
homeless guy staying up in the woods by the rail station last
year...
he'd moved on though. Hadn't seen him since. No, this guy was
different,
couldn't take care of himself. Amnesia? he thought. It was
a possibility, but the guy
seemed pretty sure of his name, just real
confused.
"
Can you tell me Jon,
where you are from?"
Jon fiddled with his hands, as if trying to say
something, but
stopped.
"I...
I've got some things to sell, vacuum
cleaners..."
"
Do you know anyone, a friend of yours maybe... can you remember
how
you got here?"
Jon
fidgeted. The sheriff was a hard person to
please.
"
How old are you?" the sheriff slowly began writing down notes
in
an official ledger.
"Oh,
45." was the reply. Jon opened his briefcase and
began to root
about in it, searching for something. Tolland stared at him,
taking
in his features, a hint of sadness seeming to wash over his face. He
is a
crazy, Tolland thought. There is something wrong with his
hard
wiring.
"Hey,
you might like this sheriff, what do you say?" Jon pulled
out a
breakfast cereal box, faded yellow, large action writing letters
spelling out
'Wheaties' streamed across the front. Below the words
was a picture of a clean cut
30's style gentleman, a wide grin on his
face, and smiling 30's clean cut kids
gazing up at him with
worshipping eyes. More words were inscribed on the box.
"Marvin
Purvis eats Wheaties, and Junior G-Men should too!"
"Where'd
you
get that Jon," Tolland asked, upset by the box. It didn't
seem... right, somehow,
like it was some kind of printed joke.
"I,
sell it, I sell these. why, I got a
whole series of them. Buy the
lot, I can get you a good discount!"
"I
can
buy them myself in the store. And these look rather old. Why
should I buy your old
ones when I can get fresh Wheaties with Micheal
Jordan on the cover, not some old,
whoever."
"But
these are sealed fresh, in this, this plastic thing, keeps them
fresh
forever..fresh forever!." Jon thrust the box at Tolland, gazing
earnestly
into the sheriffs' face.
"See,
I sell these! I sell
these!"
Fontaine
was obviously becoming agitated, Tolland thought, leaning back
slow
and easy into his chair. Just get the vital information, then call up
the
Danmeryburg hospital and see when they can come and collect him.
Meanwhile, keep him
calm.
"Where
are you from, Jon?" He tried asking again.
"I
move
around a lot. I'm a travelling salesman. My home is the road,
hotels. My job is to
bring the product to you, the consumer." he
sounded like a
textbook.
"Where
were you born?"
Jon
took a moment at that
question, thinking, than lifted his head.
"Can't
seem to recall, now...
somewhere in the sticks, at least, that's what
mother always
said..."
"Out
in the boondocks?" Tolland rephrased jovially, thinking back
to
a certain 1950's song he had heard on the am oldies channel.
"No,
the
sticks."
"Okay,
the sticks. What exactly are you doing here in Shrewsbury? Are
you
staying, passing through, have relatives here?"
"Well,
I mean, the
bosses, you know, always want me to sell, that's my job
you know, the bosses... they,
but I been travelling a long time and,
but Shrewsbury... I think, maybe I'll settle
down... just have to ask
the bosses, get their permission and
all."
Yes,
Tolland realized, ok. Definitely signs of some kind of paranoia,
and
his syntax is breaking up. Could that be the schizophrenia?
"What
bosses
are those?" he asked, putting aside his notes. Now he
really just wanted to examine
this personality in front of him, see
just how far Mr. Fontaine was gone into
delusion.
"Who
are they?"
Fontaines
face froze at the question, small
tics working their way across his
cheeks as he tried to speak, gagging on the first
few words. They
rolled out of his mouth with the texture of a dripping
slurpee.
"The,
them, it, I, well, Mr. Sheriff, you, you're the
boss..."
"No,
I'm not your boss, Jon, I thought I was your client. You were
trying
to sell me a box of old corn flakes."
"They
were Wheaties, and a good
deal too! But no," realization dawned
upon Jons' face, his tangled brain drawing from
some intact portion
an awareness, a brief light.
"You
are all my bosses, you
want me to sell this too you, because you want
to buy it from
ME!"
"Buy
what?" Tolland sensed the rise in the man's anger and
frustration
that anxiously worked its way in waves across his face,
rippling the tightness of the
muscles.
"This!"
Jon screamed, leaping from his chair, thrusting the
apparently
unsealed box of cereal at Tolland, its' top bursting open,
scattering
moldy, broken brown wheatie flakes all over Tollands desk and
his
pressed grey uniform. The crazed individuals hand began to
shake
uncontrollably, spewing nervous explosions of more and more wheaties
across
the desk, spilling onto the sheriffs lap. A plastic wrapped
toy bounced out, hitting
him in the face.
"That's
enough, Mr. Fontaine, sit down now! Calm down NOW!"
Standing,
the flakes cascading off him in streams, Tolland swiped the box
from
Jon's hand, pushing the man forcefully back into his seat.
Fontaine
sank dejectedly into his chair as suddenly as he had exploded from
it,
muttering incoherently, plucking at his briefcase, arranging and
rearranging scraps
and objects distractedly, his eyes vacant. Tolland
relaxed and sat back down, pulling
the tiny wrapped toy out from
where it made an impression on the seat of his pants.
Examining the
object for a second, he saw it was a junior G-Man's badge,
imprinted
shiny plastic with the words G-Man on it, followed by the word
Detroit.
He slipped it into his pocket and looked back at the slumped
figure of Fontaine, an
unearthly exhaustion consuming his face. It
was time to call the hospital.
Jack
hurried towards the bar, looking at his watch and
swearing. Damn, he
was almost half an hour late for that beer with Peter. He glanced
at
the Sheriff in front of the police station, talking to some weirdo,
as he
scooted up the steps to the bar.
"Jack!
Glad you could make it," Peter
slapped him on the back
sarcastically as he came in. He'd known Jack for a few months
now,
had met him on an early morning workout run. A friendly enough
outward guy,
popular with all the girls in town, but he wasn't really
much more than a drinking
buddy. He didn't have the kind of
conception of a future that Peter really liked in a
good friend.
Wiping
the sweat off his forehead, Jack sat with a
sheepish grin, ordering a
tall dark.
"Sorry
man, I was just helping
Cindy, and.."
"Yeah,
heard it all before," Peter said, stifling an
exaggerated yawn.
"You're in love again, right? Come on, what's up with
Janine?"
Jack frowned, saying nothing. It wasn't that he was being rude,
Peter
knew, he could actually see the tiny, slow cogs in Jack's brain
trying to
deal with his infidelity.
"Don't
worry about it, man, drink
up."
"Didja
have to wait long?" Jack asked in a surly tone, sipping
his
beer.
"Yeah,
but I had a drink with Gresham. Well, he had
coffee..."
"That
old crazy guy?"
"He's
not crazy," Peter retorted,
feeling his face grow red. His peers
sense of judgement was at times offensive. "He's
just an old
guy, gone through some hard times."
"
Whatever." Peter sensed
Jacks entire lack of concern or interest
in the older character. And when your parents
get old? he wondered.
Will you just slip them into some old retirement home, lock them
away
from the world? Probably not, at least not with what they cost today.
Sliding
in a swivel from his stool, Peter walked to the big front
window of the bar. The last
sliver of sun was descending, bathing the
main street in diffused red. He downed more
beer, gaining strength
from the pastoral, small-town calm of the
streets.
"What
was that?" he said, turning, catching the sound of a
question.
"I
said, your too damn sensitive, Petey. Loosen up a bit! Sitting
around
with all your damn books..." Jack said.
"Books
are the only thing
worth having a relationship with," Peter
muttered under his breath, half to convince
himself, half feeling
ashamed that he agreed, at least in part, with Jacks criticism.
He
looked down at his untied shoe, biting his lip.
"What
you need is a
girlfriend," Jack nodded, looking, Peter suddenly
realized, just like the typical jock
he was.
"Sure,
I'll just get a pair of gym shorts and an exercycle, and my
problems
are over. No thanks. I run, I like to run, I like to be
alone."
"Fine,
" Jack said, standing up, his spandex stretching over
his
well-toned biceps. "I know you care about your studies, I just
think you should
get out a little more. Josie's having a party
thursday. You should show up. At the
very least, there'll be plenty
of free drinks."
"This
town runs on free
drinks," Peter said, wishing he could just
finish up his project here and move back to
Pittsburgh. Why the
vikings had to land here in Shrewsbury, the smallest fucked up
town
east of the Mississippi, was a constant source of regret for
him.
Jack
stood up, throwing some change on the bar.
"Anyway,
I
gotta go. Thursday at seven?" he pointed at Peter, who
continued to scowl. "Fine. I
know a grinch when I see one."
he said, letting himself out the dilapidated bar door.
Peter waved,
watching him disappear into darkening dusk. He sighed and stood
up,
walking to the window. What Jack had said was right, in a way. He
hated that
sense of passiveness that always overcame him when he was
away from his books. Though
it was abind, because when he was
studying, he often wished he was out socializing.
Catch-22, he
thought. It seemed like his life was a network of failures,
linking
together in his memory, becoming stronger and more impenetrable as
time
passed. He turned and gulped his drink, thinking of the stacks
of books, computer
files, and old pictograms that awaited him at
home. Someday, Jack would come running
to him with a problem, Peter
thought; he was predictable in that way. It was going to
be a
scenario about sleeping with the wife of some rowdy backwoods
redneck, who was
going to find out and come a' hunting. Peter laughed
at himself, recognizing the tiny
desire in him to be more like Jack.
It would be nice to have a girl, at least, someone
to love.... his
last relationship had been a disaster.
He
recalled
that young woman he had seen around town, how he'd helped
her with her groceries
once, passed her in the bar. Sheriff Tolland
had told him she was a writer, wrote kids
books, lived up on
Northfolk road. If he saw her this week, maybe he'd get up the
nerve
to actually ask her out to the party. Even though he generally shied
away
from socially lubricating events, it was an excuse, and as they
said, Peter grinned
coolly to himself, any excuse in a storm.
Besides, she just might be the only one
compatible in this po-dunk
place. Returning to the barstool, he sipped at his beer,
watching the
minutes blur into hours. Eventually, drunk, he stumbled, out into
the
refreshing night air. Relaxing onto the bench outside he watched the
town
slowly close up, only a light from Larrangetty's video rental
store next to the
sometimes operational movie theatre the Realto,
remained lit. It was a cool night, and
already the stars were more
clear than they had been in the moisture filled skies of
summer.
Sitting in his shadow, he numbly watched the big dipper. Peter
breathed in
the calm, cool air, enjoying the feeling of being drunk,
the loneliness, and the utter
lack of any pressure to move.
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