Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins.
(Originally posted on the Jittery
Episode 25
Rich could never be too cautious or trusting. He stayed at the lake for five days. Then he drove toward Enid’s home in Vincent.
At first, he thought he might call instead of just showing up. He wanted to be certain the Social Security card had arrived. Then he hesitated. If he called, Enid might alert the police. They might be waiting for him. He felt comfortable trusting Enid, but he reasoned it was within the realm of possibility.
It was midday when Rich pulled up in front of the open bay door at Enid’s garage. Enid came out with a big smile and a solid handshake.
“Well, as I live and breathe,” Enid said.
Rich smiled broadly and matched Enid’s firm grip. A thought raced through his mind. I made a terrible mistake in our phone conversation. I told him my alias. He’s the only one who knows.
“How have you been, Enid?” Rich asked.
“Fit as a fiddle,” Enid said. “I thought you were going to call.”
“I was,” Rich said. “But I was so close, and I didn’t see any phone booths along the way.”
“Let’s have a glass of iced tea and a sandwich,” Enid suggested.
“Did you get my Social Security card?” Rich asked.
“I'm certain I have it,” Enid said. “A piece of mail came from the Social Security Administration a couple of days ago.” Enid walked into the garage. “It’s back here.”
Rich followed him. Enid opened a cabinet door under his workbench and removed an envelope. He handed it to Rich. Rich opened it, pulled out the card, and slid it into his wallet.
“There ya go,” Enid said. “I created a man out of thin air.”
“Iced tea and a sandwich,” Enid repeated. “And if you want to, spend the night.”
Rich smiled. “It all sounds good, but I shouldn’t stay here any longer than necessary. Every minute I’m here is another minute you could put yourself in jeopardy.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Enid said.
“Enid,” Rich said, “the truth of the matter is that we may never see or talk to each other again. I hope not. You’ve been a good friend.”
“I understand,” Enid said. “Don’t let your hope fade. Don’t get too comfortable with the new you.”
“There is no certainty when a person is on the run,” Rich said. “When I reach the next intersection, I can’t even tell you for sure which way I’ll go.”
“Do your best to keep in touch,” Enid said. “I don’t expect to know where you are, and I never want you to tell me. If, for some reason, you are apprehended, I don’t want you to ever think it was me. And you’re right about not being here too long. Somebody may recognize you. It could happen. Just as easily as you stumbled on this place by good fortune, the next car down the road could be a deputy from your hometown on vacation, or somebody who just happens to recognize you. Sometimes, it’s a chance in a million.”
“I see you’re working on another car,” Rich said, nodding toward the open garage door.
“A Packard,” Enid said. “Belongs to a Lutheran pastor down the road a ways.”
“Black is the perfect color,” Rich said. “Ought to put a little white strip on the top to match his collar.”
“He’s a real strict one,” Enid said. “But I’ll run it by him. On second thought, maybe I do it in whitewash. If he doesn’t like it, it will wash away. Then again, I should tell him it stays until he pays for the brake job I did six months ago.”
“Enid,” Rich said, “if I don’t pick up and go, you’ll have me staying the night.”
“Yeah, lad,” Enid said. “You should get on your way. And no matter what, keep me in mind with a call. I think I’ll wonder every night if you’re good or not.”
“For sure,” Rich said.
They hugged quickly. Rich climbed into the truck. He started the engine, gave a nod, and drove away.
Getting someplace fast held no interest. He headed west. He drove along the neglected state highway, its cracks covered with strips of tar like snakes. The grass and weeds turning brown and yellow along the roadside signaled the end of the growing season.
I will grow my hair and beard, he thought. Properly done, it can change the appearance of the shape of my head. That’s the first thing people observe. He rubbed his face. I have a good start.
Soon, he crossed the state line into Illinois. He entered a town named St. Anne and stopped for gas. The attendant began filling the tank.
“Where ya from in Indiana?” the attendant asked.
“North of,” Rich said.
“I’m from Indiana,” the man said. “North of where?”
Rich remained quiet.
“Lafayette,” the man offered.
“Is that right?” Rich said.
“Where in Indiana are you from?” the man asked again.
“South Bend,” Rich said.
“Ha,” the man said. “Funny you’d say north of.”
“It’s north of, isn’t it?” Rich said.
“So is Chicago,” the man said. “But folks from Chicago never say they are from north of Indianapolis. You ever been to a little hot spot called The Rusty Nail?”
“I said I was from there, as in that was the last place I stayed,” Rich said. “I’m from Wyoming.”
“Cowboy country,” the man said. “You live on a ranch?”
“No,” Rich said.
“What did ya do?”
“If you don’t mind,” Rich said, “I’d just like to get a full tank and be on my way.”
“Just trying to make conversation, that’s all,” the attendant said.
“Is there something that bothers you about me, or do you do this with all your customers?” Rich asked.
“That looks like seven-fifty,” the man said.
Rich pressed a ten-dollar bill into his greasy hands. The man tucked the ten into his pants pocket and counted out the change.
“Thank you,” Rich said. He started the truck and pulled away.
Rich was near the edge of town when a police siren caught his attention. He looked in the side-view mirror. A police car was behind him. Rich pulled over. The policeman came up to the window.
“Driver’s license and registration.”
Rich said nothing and handed over the license and registration. The policeman examined them.
“These are all new.”
“That’s right,” Rich said.
“That’s kind of funny,” the policeman said.
“Officer,” Rich said, “did I break any laws?”
“The attendant back at the gas station said you drove away without paying.”
“Well, he’s lying,” Rich said.
“What reason would he have to lie?” the policeman asked.
“I’m from out of state,” Rich said. “It’s my word against his. He figures I’ll pay something just to get out of town and on my way.”
“Look,” the policeman said. “I may have to hold you. We have a mayor’s court. That means I can get the mayor to come down to the town hall. I don’t know how he’ll rule, but he will impose court costs, a fine, and you’ll have to pay what the attendant said you made off with. Or maybe the mayor likes you. It looks to me like it’s the guy at the gas station’s word against yours. Which means a trial later, and you post bond.”
“Can I have a moment to think this over?” Rich asked.
“Sure,” the policeman said. “I’ll go back to my car and contact the mayor, give him a heads-up.”
The officer stepped away. Rich sat in the cab. I have a clean title. I have a clean license. And a birth certificate to boot. That guy back at the gas station just wants to give me a hard time—funnin’ an out-of-towner. But then again, maybe the policeman is in on it along with the mayor. They have a fish on the hook. Maybe they are acting on information, and this is a plan to detain me to see how I check out. Maybe somebody identified the Jeep at Enid’s and is trying to delay me long enough to run my plates. If I give the cop the money the attendant says I owe, will that make it appear I’m guilty, or just eager to get out of town?
Rich stepped out of his truck and walked toward the patrol car. The policeman met him halfway.
“Did you get a hold of the mayor?” Rich asked.
“He’s already at the town hall,” the policeman said.
“I’ll meet you there,” Rich said. “In the meantime, can you stop at the gas station and close it down?”
“Why would I do that?” the policeman asked.
“I want to check the money received for the day against what the attendant has, along with the gas that has been pumped.”
“That seems a little extreme,” the policeman said.
“I didn’t like the nosy questions that guy was asking, and I told him as much,” Rich said. “He didn’t like how I responded to his rudeness, so he’s trying to make me pay twice.”
“He said you threatened him, too,” the policeman said.
“Do what you want to do at the gas station,” Rich said. “I’ll see you at the town hall. Just give me directions.”
“Go back to the gas station and turn left. The town hall is three blocks on the right. And I’ll keep your driver’s license.”
“Not unless you give me a receipt,” Rich said.
“What?” the policeman said.
“A receipt,” Rich said. “If you don’t have a form, I have some paper, and you can write out a simple one. I don’t want my license misplaced.”
“I think you are trying to make this as hard on me as it is on you,” the policeman said.
“No,” Rich said. “It all goes back to that lying pump jockey. When this day is over, I’ll be long gone, and you will forever look at that guy as a worm.”
“I've got a receipt book in my cruiser,” the policeman said, stepping back. “Nah, forget it. This is between that guy and me. Let’s just get this over with.” He handed the card back. “Here’s your license.”
Fifteen minutes later, the policeman sat between the gas station attendant and Rich. They sat in the town council room in front of a long folding table. Behind it sat the mayor, a large man with bulging red cheeks and a sour look. He called the court to order.
“Okay,” the mayor said. “What’s the complaint?” He looked at the attendant.
“This guy comes in acting all smart—”
The mayor interrupted. “Being smart is not against the law.”
“All right,” the attendant said. “I pumped seven-fifty in his truck, and he took off without paying.”
“Sir,” the mayor said, looking at Rich. “I assume you are the defendant. Officer Conner gets his gas free, so let’s hear what you have to say.”
“I gave him a ten, and he gave me two-fifty in change,” Rich said.
“So this is over seven-fifty, is that right?” the mayor asked.
“It’s the principle,” the attendant said.
“And you’re back here based on principle,” the mayor said, looking at Rich's license.
“That is a good assumption,” Rich said.
“Why don’t we just split the baby?” the mayor suggested. “Pay three-seventy-five, and I’ll waive the court costs.”
“Your Honor,” Rich said, “I’m still out three-seventy-five.”
“Better than seven-fifty plus court costs,” the mayor said.
“I can prove I paid him,” Rich said.
“You have a witness?” the mayor asked.
“No,” Rich said.
“Nan’s Diner is having the fried chicken special today,” the mayor said, checking his watch. “I want to get there before all the white meat is gone.”
“Some people like to doodle on their money,” Rich said. “Sometimes they do it to see if the bills ever come back to them. They use a special mark only they would recognize. The ten-dollar bill I handed the attendant a little while ago had glasses drawn on Alexander Hamilton. If the complainant has that ten-dollar bill, he must have gotten it from me.”
“Howard,” the mayor said, “I see you've got a wad of money in your shirt pocket. Let’s see it.”
“Your Honor,” Rich said, “he put it in his back pocket.”
“No way,” the attendant retorted. “I keep all the money I collect for gas in my shirt pocket.”
“If it is as Mr. Chase says,” the mayor said, “you are a thief and a liar, and you wouldn't keep it with the station’s money. Stand up, Howard. Officer Conner, go through his pockets.”
The policeman removed a ten-dollar bill from the attendant’s back pocket. Without examining it, he handed it to the mayor.
The mayor looked at the bill. “Funny, I don’t remember Hamilton having glasses. If it were a hundred-dollar bill, I guess an argument could be made that Franklin wore them, but not Hamilton. Howard, what do you say?”
Howard said nothing.
“Mr. Chase,” the mayor said, turning to Rich. “I’m sorry for this inconvenience. Sometimes there is inconvenience in the pursuit of justice.” He turned back to the attendant. “Howard, you will pay court costs. That’s ten dollars. I’ll be keeping the spectacled Mr. Hamilton. You filed a false police report. I’ll give you a court date for next Tuesday. There will be additional court costs, and I have the discretion to fine you up to two hundred and fifty dollars. Out of respect for Mr. Chase, I’ll deduct fifty dollars. That leaves you with two hundred, plus the ten-dollar court cost. Two hundred and ten dollars total. Please appear with the cash or your checkbook.”
“I don’t have that kind of money,” Howard protested.
“I hear the stamping plant is hiring on the second shift,” the mayor said. “I’ll put in a good word for you.” He slapped his hand on the desk. “Court is adjourned.”
The mayor handed the license back to Rich. “Is that your camper out front?”
“It is,” Rich said.
“Have a safe trip,” the mayor said.
Rich drove out of town. It felt good to clear my name, he thought. Maybe I should have stayed and cleared my name back home. Maybe I should have had confidence in the system. Then again, maybe I would be in jail right now. After all, how many times do you actually see Alexander Hamilton wearing glasses on a ten-dollar bill?
