Globusz^® Publishing 

THE TRAILWAYS BUS STOPPED IN front of the terminal and a tall, slender man stepped down to the sidewalk. Looking up the street, he mentioned to the driver: “I have never seen a bus station next to the City Hall and jail before.”

“Convenient, I guess”— replied the driver. “That’s Billy Bob Foster’s world. You need to steer clear of him. Real clear.”

“How’s that?”

“He’s the town sheriff and likes doing his job, if you know what I mean.”

The man looked around and then asked where he could get something to eat. The driver told him: “If you just want a snack, the Rexall Drug Store is just around the corner. If you are looking for the best hamburger in town, just walk down Main until you reach Hall Street. Turn left, go one block and you’ll see the Tastee Freeze on the right. It’s where most of the teenagers hang out. If heaven doesn’t have burgers like that, it might be worth stayin’ here!”

He thanked the driver and began to walk and it wasn’t long before he began to question the bus driver’s directions. He became concerned when he started down the street and it looked like a residential area with big houses that must have been built at the turn of the century. He made a left and began to walk straight up a hill, houses still on both sides of the street. At the top of the hill he came to First Street, which looked more like a highway. It appeared to be the main thoroughfare through town bypassing the downtown business section. He looked right and, sure enough, there was the Tastee Freeze on the other side of the highway, about a half block away. He picked up his pace. The long bus ride from Atlanta had made him hungry.

He walked though the parking area and realized it was like all the old curb service hamburger shops, circa 1950s. Two waitresses, or as they were called, carhops, were taking care of all the cars as they came in. One of the carhops was a pretty blond and every boy in the place wanted her to wait on his car. Jim thought the world never changes, at least down South anyway.

He walked through the front door and took the first empty booth on the right, which seemed rather strange, as the place was really crowded. After a few moments, a tall brunette appeared and said: “What can I get for you?”

“A large Coke, two hamburgers medium well and fries, plenty of catsup.”

“Coming up! Do you want those served to you here?”

“Yes, why not?”

“You’ll see”— she replied with a chuckle as she walked off. He relaxed and began to look around. He thought to himself, The South never changes If the small towns could just get rid of the power-hungry parasites, the South would be heaven on earth.

As he was enjoying his surroundings, a couple of teenagers came up to the jukebox. They had pooled their money so they could get the maximum number of songs. Everyone was calling out his or her choice. He thought, Normal as normal can be. When the first record began to play he quickly realized why no one wanted the booth. The teenagers in the back of the room watched his reaction. He seemed to meet their expectations because they began to laugh enthusiastically.

An older woman who appeared to be the owner came over and did something to the back of the jukebox and the music quieted down: “Sorry about that. The kids today want to feel the music, not just listen to it. Normally I don’t care, as it’s just them that suffer. That wall over there protects me and my cooks. Goes without saying you’re not from around here.”

“I just arrived in town an hour ago on the bus from Atlanta.”

“You got family here?”

“No, I’m not even sure I’m in the right place.”

“The right place? How’s that?”

“A friend of mine told me about a small town near here where everything is owned by one family. He said the family wasn’t liked much; however, they provided the jobs and no one openly complained. I need a job. I hope I’m in the right place.”

“Mister, you’ve described Blue Ridge to a T. You are talking about the Foster family. Foster’s Lumber Mill employs over half the town. The Fosters also own or are part owners of the bank, department store and most other business in the county. About the only thing they don’t control is the post office. Sandy, the lady waiting on you, has a husband who used to work at the mill in Ellijay, ‘til his accident anyway.”

“Wait! Thought you said the Fosters were in this town.”

“They are. The Foster’s mansion takes up the whole block just across from Hackney’s Cleaners. Can’t miss it. I’m Bonnie by the way. This is my place.”

“I’m Jim Cole. Nice to meet you.”

“Well, Jim, hope to see more of you. I need the business, Lord knows. These teenagers are great but they are always low on funds you might say.”

“Thanks for turning down the jukebox.”

“Don’t mention it. I was just looking for an excuse. Your predicament gave me one.”

I found my town — Jim said to himself— now I need to find a job and my targets.

The waitress brought his Coke and food: “Anything else, mister?”

“Yes, could I have some ketchup?”

“Oh, sorry about that. These kids keep stealing the bottle off the table because no one usually sits here.”

“And now I know why! I’m Jim Cole. Bonnie said your name was Sandy. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir! Nice to meet you, Jim! She told me you had just arrived from Atlanta. Good place to be from. Can’t stand large cities.”

“Oh, Atlanta’s not bad, depending on...”

“Well, you seem to be at home in this one-horse town for whoever knows why.”

Smiling, Cole said: “I should be. I was raised in a town just like it next to the South Carolina border. We even had a single family there that owned the town. Nothing much has changed in this world. The family in my town was the Carters. My town was a little different, though. The Carter family had a son that Boss Carter was having a soft spot for. Sonny was his name and as far as the Boss and the law were concerned he could do no wrong.”

“In this town his name is Craig, Mr. Bob’s pride and joy. More or less he thinks of himself as a ladies man. Mr. Bob brags he probably has more grandchildren than anyone in the county.”

While laughing she acknowledged loudly that there seemed to be an increase in the number of red-headed children in the past five years or so.

Bonnie said: “Mr. Bob doesn’t control the post office. Do you think I could get a job there?”

“Dunno, it’s run by Mike and Mother Barkley. They’re getting higher in years and could use the help, sure enough. They always stop by on their way home. Mother Barkley doesn’t cook much anymore. The Barkleys treat us like family. You cannot help but like them. If you are still here, I can introduce you if you like. Oh! I just had a thought. I just met you! You seem nice enough. You’re not a killer or anything, are you?”

“Not really. I only kill people that need to be killed.”

“Like a soldier?”

“Yes, exactly.” That explanation seemed sufficient.

A while later the Barkleys showed up. Sandy did her cordial best: “Jim Cole, it was Cole wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Cole. Jim Cole.”

“Mr. Jim Cole, this is Mr. and Mrs. Barkley. Jim came in on the afternoon bus from Atlanta and is looking for a job in the post office. Do you think you can help him?”

“I think we just might. We do need some help. Have you ever worked in a post office before?”

“Yes sir, a couple of summers when I was in high school. That’s why I mentioned to Sandy that I’d be interested in any opening you might have. That’s how I earned my spending money. I worked part time, never took a test for the position or anything.”

“Well, — said Mr. Barkley — my missus and I are gettin’ a bit slower. I didn’t say old, just slow. We could use some part-time help. I’m afraid the pay’s not much. We can only afford minimum wage. If you have a skill, Mr. Bob could put you on at the mill for twice that amount.”

“Sir, I have always loved post office work. I have a few dollars saved from an inheritance and as long as the money lasts I would like to work a job I enjoy. When can I start?”

“Why, I guess tomorrow at 7:00 a.m.!”

“Can you tell me where I can get a room — a room that a minimum wage employee can afford?”

Mrs. Barkley looked at her husband and they both turned to Jim and together announced: “If you don’t mind doing a little work on the premises, there’s a small apartment over the post office, hasn’t been used in years. Not since our son went off to Vietnam. Did you go to Vietnam?”

“No, I wanted to but was too young at the time.”

“Our son was a helicopter pilot with the First Cavalry Division. He was killed two weeks before he was to return home. Jeff Larson, one of his soldier friends, came by to see us a few years ago. He said Michael was killed while trying to rescue another helicopter crew. Jeff said it was someone else’s job to rescue them but they were in trouble so Michael went to help. Michael was always like that ? helping others and all. Jeff said eight men owe their lives to him. He earned a Silver Star and a Purple Heart. They say he was a hero. We’re so proud of him.”

“You should be. You raised a wonderful son.”

“Thank you! We’ve always thought so!”

“Mr. Barkley, would it be imposing if I asked to see the apartment tonight?”

“Why not. It wouldn’t” ? Mr. Barkley said. “Sandy, can we have our soup to go? We need to take Jim to his new home.”

“His new home?”

“Yes, it’s about time we let someone move into Michael’s apartment.”

“Well, Mr. Jim Cole — Sandy said — you’ve been in town less than four hours and you already have a job and an apartment. Do you always move so fast?”

“Not really. I guess you’re my lucky charm.”

The Barkleys moved around the apartment and touched the contents with a reverence that came from a long, lost love remembered. Mrs. Barkley suddenly stopped and with tears in her eyes apologized that they should have moved their son’s things years ago. He felt guilty that he was putting the kind couple through this emotional roller coaster. They reminded him of his own grandparents who, in his mind, were the only couple he ever knew that was truly in love. They shared a love that he felt only existed in love stories. His grandparents loved each other to the end. Mamaw died at the age of 85 and Papaw the day after her funeral. It was strange he hadn’t thought of his grandparents in years. In fact, not since they came to the county jail when he was transferred to the prison for boys. They were the only family members to provide him support at the trial. They were unaware he had been set up by his own father to be punished for something he had not done. They loved him with a nonjudgmental love that only came with true love. Jim knew now he had made it easy for his father and the court by his foolish actions as a teenager. He should have listened to his mom and to his sister. That was then and this is now, he thought. Boss Carter was in charge then, and since his release five years ago, Jim Cole took charge and if he played his cards right he should make a wonderful career out of being in charge.

Eventually, Mrs. Barkley found a box and began to put Michael’s things into it. After a few rushed minutes she had removed the little things that had made the room Michael’s. Mr. Barkley told him to feel free to move anything around and if he did not want something to just place it in the storage shed out back: “Here’s the key. There is nothing of value in it except Michael’s Army bag we received after his death.”

Seeing that the visit to the room was very hard on his wife, he looked at Jim and gave him a little wink. Turning to his wife: “Mother, let’s get out of here and let Jim get some sleep. He has a tough day tomorrow with a tough boss.”

Jim sat on the bed after the Barkleys left and got into a bad mood about whether he might have found a town that would force him to adjust his mission in life. Tomorrow will tell, he thought. Tomorrow will tell.