Sign of the Times (448 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 1.5 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Parlor Trick (View user info) at 2005-08-09 09:56:47 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
"Come on, come on." Dale tapped the side of the steering wheel impatiently as the train cars rumbled over the tracks in front of him. The long mechanical snake pulled its heavy load out of town having just received its nightly filling at the grain elevator. The cars passed lazily as if barely awake and oblivious to Dale Anderson's big hurry to get home to the six-pack of Schlitz in the refrigerator.
He and the boys from the city maintenance garage had just had a few beers at Lucky's after working late fighting with the boiler in the basement of the city office building. Dale found himself in a sour mood, more so than usual.
"Come on! Come on you motherfucker! Hurry up!" His fisted hands pounded the steering wheel. Rules of protocol didn't apply in the confines of Dale's 1953 blue Ford pick up and rarely outside of it when Dale was around. The street was empty and the sign at the small corner gas station blinked "Sorry We're Closed." The moon had taken over its shift in the sky over an hour ago and the night settled in.
The last car slithered by and Dale punched the accelerator. He lifted an empty beer can to his mouth and shook the last drop onto his tongue. He tossed the empty can out the window and watched it bounce erratically on the street behind him.
He drove a short distance and turned down the old gravel road and headed out of town towards home. The dinner Betsy had cooked would be warm and waiting in the oven. She knew better than to mention his tardiness. Four-year-old Donald would be sleeping.
Less than an hour eariler, Lyle Smith, flipped the neon "We're Open" sign to "Sorry We're Closed" at Russell's Gas Station where he worked pumping gas, washing windows and changing oil six days a week. Just yesterday he was given a raise from $.75 cents an hour to $.80 cents to reward his four years of dedicated service. Before leaving he restocked the cigarettes and swept the floor. He scrubbed his hands knowing the white bar of soap could not wash away the pungent petroleum odor or the black oil stains now part of his skin.
He took off the blue shirt with his name stitched on the chest and tied it around his waist. Ellie would wash it tonight so he would have a clean shirt to wear when he left in the morning. Seven-year-old Ritchie would be awake, bathed and in his pajamas waiting to see his daddy before bed.
Lyle closed and locked the front door and started off down the street towards home whistling to the moon, kicking stones and thinking of his sweet Ellie as he walked.
Dale twisted the radio dial to full volume and banged his hand to the rhythm Bill Haley & His Comets.
"See ya later alligator...after a while crocodile,
Can't you see you're in my way now,
Don't you know you cramp my style..."
Dale swerved the truck side to side as he drove; fishtailing back and forth and leaving a cloudy dust trail in his wake. The old road was empty on that cool summer night. It was quiet except for the sound of a pick up truck racing over the gravel and the isolated man whistling with the crickets.
As he raced his truck towards the wooden bridge that crossed Crooked Creek, Dale thought he saw a figure on the road some distance ahead. He leaned forward and tried to focus on the darkened image.
Lyle stopped whistling and looked over his shoulder in the direction of the noise. He had been walking along the dirt road and had just gotten to the wooden bridge. He saw the headlights of a pick-up truck moving side to side in his direction. He considered going back for a moment then decided to proceed across. After all, there was plenty of room for a man and a truck to pass over the bridge at the same time and surely the driver would see him and slow down. Lyle quickened his pace.
Lyle was a simple hardworking peaceful man. He never drank, never swore and did his best to avoid conflict. But conflict was heading his way in a cloud of angry dust.
Dale Anderson saw there was a black man standing on the bridge. "Heh! I'll give the boy a scare!" he spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Probably one of those nigger bastards who keeps stealing the batteries from the maintenance garage." He rationalized as he pushed the accelerator a bit further as the truck came to the bridge.
Lyle turned and waved his hand in the direction of the now blinding lights. The truck wasn't slowing. He stepped towards the rail and as he did the flat metal frame of a mirror crashed into his shoulder shattering the bone. The edge of the mirror caught his chin and spun him hard into the railing breaking several ribs.
"Holy Shit!" Dale roared as he watched in his rearview mirror, while the man spun and dropped. He skidded to a stop and the dust settled around him.
"Holy shit..." he said again more quietly as he opened the door and walked back to the groaning man on the bridge.
Lyle Smith couldn't speak. His jaw was badly broken. He fought to control his breathing. He fought to remain conscious. Thoughts of Ellie and Ritchie flooded his mind. Shocks of pain pierced his upper body. He tasted the smooth metallic blood on his tongue.
He heard the man approach him. The truck driver's boots scuffed to a stop inches from Lyle's bleeding face. Lyle Smith stared up into the eyes of Dale Anderson.
Dale looked at the badly injured man. Why was the bastard out on the bride waving around like a madman anyway? Not that a person could even see these black drifters when they're out stumbling around in the dark of night. He didn't have his story straight but figured at least one would be needed when the medics saw the condition of the man before him. It was then that it occurred to Dale that the nuisance on the bridge might recall things differently.
Dale nudged Lyle with his boot. Lyle opened his eyes wider and tried to speak, his breath shortened. Dale looked at the chalk eyes staring up at him and thought about putting the bleeding man in the back of his pick-up truck and taking him to the county hospital. Instead, Donald Anderson's daddy pushed Ritchie Smith's daddy into the creek below.
"See ya later alligator...after a while crocodile," he walked back to the open door of his truck, and left his mark in a cloud of dust.
The death of Lyle Smith was not front-page or even second page news in Cumberland County. There had been allegations that Dale Anderson had been involved, but the case had never been solved or truth be told, fully investigated.
The police chief, and member of Dale's Tuesday night bowling league, had questioned him over a pitcher of beer and all-you-can-eat fish-n-chips. Dale explained that he had didn't see Lyle on the road the night he was killed. Although he had seen him several times before drinking and stumbling around along the old dirt road west of town. When asked about the broken mirror on his truck, Dale simply ordered another pitcher of beer and said, "Aren't we done with all this nonsense yet?" And the questions gave way to laughter and talk of strikes and spares and the new little waitress at Lucky's Bar & Grill.
It was a time when valuable resources couldn't be consumed by investigating an accident that resulted in a death of a simple black man.
---
Donald sat uncomfortably in the metal-framed chair positioned near the adjustable bed in Room 312 of Cumberland County Hospital. His mother had called him at the car lot where Donald tried to maintain a quota of three sales per week, and told him he should visit soon. He loosened his tie and glanced at the clock. His father lay before him. Dale Anderson's mouth yawned open exposing his thick tongue and silver filled teeth. Donald watched as the chest of the oversized man heaved in and out and in again. The mechanical life hummed and beeped in a language he didn't understand except that his father was dying. Dales heart and liver had opted for an early retirement leaving Dale on indefinite hold pending their last day.
Growing up beneath the storm of his father, Donald had learned to avoid conflict through quiet patience and as a result had grown up to be a simple hardworking peaceful man.
Across the hall and two doors down, quite unbeknownst to Donald, a less peaceful man held the hand of his dying mother.
"No mama," Ritchie Smith fought back the tears as Ellie told him it was time to go.
"I need to sleep, you'll be fine. Just remember what your daddy always taught you...." Ellie's words trailed off and her eyes drifted shut into another morphine induced sleep. Ritchie sat awhile longer holding her hand as he had done so many nights before watching his mother gradually succumb to the side effects of her treatments.
Some months after the night Ritchie's father didn't come home, he and his mother sold the farmhouse on the gravel road and moved into a small loft in the city. Ellie got a job washing dishes at Fritz's diner and little Ritchie, at his mother's insistence, stayed in school and out of trouble.
Something made him turn his head in the direction of the door and the nurse's station.
"Yes, Room 312, Dale Anderson, needs his saline drip refilled." The older larger nurse was directing a younger smaller staff member.
Ritchie felt the cool of his mother's delicate hand and the spark of stifled rage ignite. He recalled his mother's anguished calls to the Cumberland police department. The officers did not, however, find it necessary to search for a black man who didn't show for dinner or story time.
Over the years he had heard the whispered versions of his father's death and Dale Anderson was always given a leading role. His mother, despite her own mourning, had cooled his anger and did her best to direct his attention to the more forgiving parts of life.
Ritchie laid his mother's thin hand on the sterile white blanket and rose from his chair. He followed the numbers down and around the white washed corner until he arrived at the plaque reading 312. He watched a young nurse enter the room and a young Dale Anderson, head lowered, walk out. He starred as the young man in a suit headed down the hall towards the elevators. Ritchie glared into the room and at the old man in bed being adjusted by the nurse. This eroded form could not be the monster that had followed him all these years.
He looked in the direction of the man approaching the elevator. His eyes then his feet followed the younger version of his long-time adversary down the corridor.
Donald pushed the down button, waited, a bell sounded and the doors to the elevator opened. Donald stepped inside.
Ritchie followed, a bull drawn to red. A young black man desperate for an accounting to wrongs that happened years earlier sought to confront the young white man who never felt their impact.
"Doctor Edmond. Code blue. Stat" The intercom interrupted Ritchie's fury. He hesitated. His pace slowed. His eyes flooded with the calming influence of his parents. The elevator doors began to shut.
Donald pressed "Lobby". He looked up with the saddened eyes of a child losing a parent. He saw a man moving quickly towards the elevator then slowing when doors began to close.
Donald leaned forward, extended his hand and held the door.
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Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-02-15 20:04:51 EST (#)
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Submitted by electrictoothsyndrome (user info) at 2005-10-27 10:24:14 EDT (#)
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Horray for the elite 8!