really wanted was to know more about this woman, this Willa, this editor of a two-bit newspaper in south-central Nebraska.
He knew it was wrong. He knew it would lead to disappointment. And yet, when he thought of thiswoman kicking him out of her office, the feeling inside him was clear and inescapable.
He knew then and there, in a town with only one stoplight, that he was about to get hopelessly, irretrievably lost.
No doubt about it, Superior had once known glory. The streets and sidewalks were wide. Pioneers with big dreams had made them this way. J.J. loped down East Fourth Street toward the center of town. He could not have been farther from East Fourth in Manhattan. The air smelled of earth and crops. He could see the great twin towers of the grain elevator poking up beyond the rail yard. He passed the sturdy red brick post office. A sign said it closed at noon.
It was quaint, all right, maybe even pretty, but J.J. couldn’t imagine why Willa would stick around here. Didn’t she realize it was a losing proposition? This place was just a wide spot in the road. Like so many towns on the plains, all the young people would gradually move away, leaving only the old folks behind. It was death by slow strangulation, life sucked out breath by breath.
A few beat-up trucks were parked in front of the Git-A-Bite Café. J.J. pushed open the screen door and walked inside. Lunchtime. The place was packed and hot, an ancient ceiling fan simply overwhelmed. A man in a plaid shirt with a baseball cap pulled down over his ears left a tip on a small table with a red-checkedplastic cover. J.J. sat down. He ordered a cup of coffee from a waitress who had a pretty face gone flat with resignation.
“Special’s on the board,” she said, banging down the cup.
Nearby, an old woman and a middle-age man were eating. “Can we use that flyswatter over here?” the woman asked the man at the cash register.
“Go right ahead.”
“Jimmy, you go, boy. Get the swatter.”
“Okay, Ma.”
The man stood up, shuffled over to the counter, reached for the swatter, and returned.
“Go ahead, Jimmy. Kill ’em.”
The man whacked the table.
“Did you get it?”
“Yeah, Ma.”
“Good boy, Jimmy. They sure come in lately. You don’t even have to hold the door open.”
J.J. wondered if he still had the appetite for lunch.
“Hey, stranger,” a voice said. “Don’t mind Jimmy and his ma. Harmless as flies.”
A tall man in overalls standing over the table guffawed. “Mind if I have a chair?”
“Not at all,” J.J. said.
“Name’s Righty Plowden,” the man said. “I farm a quarter or two around here.”
“J.J. Smith.”
Righty’s handshake was strong, his palm and fingers cracked and rough. He was easily in his 60s,with a gray beard, and white creases radiating from the corners of green eyes. He wore a stained work shirt, jeans, and boots.
“Hope you’re not one of those vegetative types,” he said. “Not much to eat here at the Git-A-Life that isn’t deep-fried or cut off a cow.”
The waitress materialized, and Righty ordered a cheeseburger and fries. “What kind of cheese?” she asked. “White or yellow?”
“I’ll take yellow.”
“Same here,” J.J said.
As the waitress walked away, Righty leaned closer and whispered, “She vacuums in the nude.”
“No!” J.J. said.
“By golly she does. Or so I’ve been told.” Righty tightened the bottle top on the ketchup. “We’ve got the same number of sickos and perverts that you do in the big city. We just know who they are and we keep an eye on ’em.”
Righty laughed and went on. “So, you’re here about the plane.”
“I am.”
“You gonna put it in your Book?”
“If I can verify it.”
“Where do you want to start?”
“For one thing, is he really eating it?”
Righty stroked his beard. “Can’t say for sure. Never seen for myself.”
“You know anyone who has?”
“Nah, Wally don’t like people coming on his farm. We hear
He knew it was wrong. He knew it would lead to disappointment. And yet, when he thought of thiswoman kicking him out of her office, the feeling inside him was clear and inescapable.
He knew then and there, in a town with only one stoplight, that he was about to get hopelessly, irretrievably lost.
No doubt about it, Superior had once known glory. The streets and sidewalks were wide. Pioneers with big dreams had made them this way. J.J. loped down East Fourth Street toward the center of town. He could not have been farther from East Fourth in Manhattan. The air smelled of earth and crops. He could see the great twin towers of the grain elevator poking up beyond the rail yard. He passed the sturdy red brick post office. A sign said it closed at noon.
It was quaint, all right, maybe even pretty, but J.J. couldn’t imagine why Willa would stick around here. Didn’t she realize it was a losing proposition? This place was just a wide spot in the road. Like so many towns on the plains, all the young people would gradually move away, leaving only the old folks behind. It was death by slow strangulation, life sucked out breath by breath.
A few beat-up trucks were parked in front of the Git-A-Bite Café. J.J. pushed open the screen door and walked inside. Lunchtime. The place was packed and hot, an ancient ceiling fan simply overwhelmed. A man in a plaid shirt with a baseball cap pulled down over his ears left a tip on a small table with a red-checkedplastic cover. J.J. sat down. He ordered a cup of coffee from a waitress who had a pretty face gone flat with resignation.
“Special’s on the board,” she said, banging down the cup.
Nearby, an old woman and a middle-age man were eating. “Can we use that flyswatter over here?” the woman asked the man at the cash register.
“Go right ahead.”
“Jimmy, you go, boy. Get the swatter.”
“Okay, Ma.”
The man stood up, shuffled over to the counter, reached for the swatter, and returned.
“Go ahead, Jimmy. Kill ’em.”
The man whacked the table.
“Did you get it?”
“Yeah, Ma.”
“Good boy, Jimmy. They sure come in lately. You don’t even have to hold the door open.”
J.J. wondered if he still had the appetite for lunch.
“Hey, stranger,” a voice said. “Don’t mind Jimmy and his ma. Harmless as flies.”
A tall man in overalls standing over the table guffawed. “Mind if I have a chair?”
“Not at all,” J.J. said.
“Name’s Righty Plowden,” the man said. “I farm a quarter or two around here.”
“J.J. Smith.”
Righty’s handshake was strong, his palm and fingers cracked and rough. He was easily in his 60s,with a gray beard, and white creases radiating from the corners of green eyes. He wore a stained work shirt, jeans, and boots.
“Hope you’re not one of those vegetative types,” he said. “Not much to eat here at the Git-A-Life that isn’t deep-fried or cut off a cow.”
The waitress materialized, and Righty ordered a cheeseburger and fries. “What kind of cheese?” she asked. “White or yellow?”
“I’ll take yellow.”
“Same here,” J.J said.
As the waitress walked away, Righty leaned closer and whispered, “She vacuums in the nude.”
“No!” J.J. said.
“By golly she does. Or so I’ve been told.” Righty tightened the bottle top on the ketchup. “We’ve got the same number of sickos and perverts that you do in the big city. We just know who they are and we keep an eye on ’em.”
Righty laughed and went on. “So, you’re here about the plane.”
“I am.”
“You gonna put it in your Book?”
“If I can verify it.”
“Where do you want to start?”
“For one thing, is he really eating it?”
Righty stroked his beard. “Can’t say for sure. Never seen for myself.”
“You know anyone who has?”
“Nah, Wally don’t like people coming on his farm. We hear
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