The Codeword – Novella Five - 3. Part 4: Convoy in the Truck

Part 4: Convoy in the Truck

Bobby talks happily as he works.

"You know, really long hair is out, unless you’re in a rock and roll band. No, the new style is to leave it long in the back, only in the back."

"Yeah," I mutter half-heartedly.

He stops, holds my eyes in the mirror, and tells me straight up, "You'll look good in The Mullet."

"Ok. I trust you."

The lingering flash of something across his face says that he hopes I do have faith in him; that I can find something trustworthy in Bobby Strand.

I seem to know intuitively my new barber is gentle. By shades of contrast, that thought makes me consider all the childhood crew cuts I received at the hands of the town's 'other' barber. His shop is next to the post office, and he's a Vietnam veteran with a dark vibe; one who learned 'hair' in the Marine Corp. He is a sad man, and I was mostly always afraid of the earthy energy of manliness this guy exudes – I am partially afraid of men in general, as the ones around me seem so shut-down and liable to lash out in frustration at any moment – but, Bobby is different. He is open, and what you see with him is what you get. Somehow that puts me more at ease.

The other guy is like a light dimmed, but one waiting to flash like gunpowder again. I can feel it when he cuts my hair.

"Did you serve in Vietnam, Bobby?"

"No, I was stationed at Ray Barracks. That's in Friedberg, Germany."

"What was the hardest part about it?"

"Being away from Judas Tree, from friends and family, from loved ones."

He pulls my heartstrings. His 'loved ones' sings of his loneliness for Elvid from that time.

"But," I suggest. "It all worked out, didn't it?"

His fingers stop working. He grins at me in the mirror. "It all worked out perfect. I'm very happy with my life."

As Bobby goes back to cutting, my mood drains to think of 'him' again. I know the other barber is married, but I could never imagine him telling me he's happy with his life. Never.

The only thing I know about him is his deep veneration for the memory of President Kennedy.

When I was small, he charged $2.50 for a buzz cut – which my mom liked for me – and inevitably, he'd take my three singles and place a Kennedy half-dollar in my palm. "He was a great man," the other barber would tell me, and his eyes would glaze over instantly in some unapproachable sorrow. I treasured these coins, and let them stack up on my bedside cabinet. Somehow it seemed wrong to use them as ordinary currency, for say my Wacky Packy bubble gum, or bottles of bubble-making soap – or anything else I might splurge for on my Saturday morning shopping sprees at the Ben Franklin Five and Dime in the center of town. No, nothing as frivolous as that, so I saved them.

When I was about ten, he raised his price to $3.00, and two things happened. One, my stream of memorial coins stopped flowing, and two, my dad began complaining of 'inflation.' He'd send me during summer afternoons to The Country Cafe to fetch two slices of pie. When I'd get back, he'd chide "Three dollars for a slice of rhubarb pie! Outrageous." But his bitter complaining soon melted away in the obvious joy he took in eating the same slice of rhubarb-flavored heaven.

I better not tell him that my mom slipped me a fresh bill this morning, and that Bobby Strand charges $10.00 for a haircut, he'd flip out.

Sitting in Bobby's chair, I am suddenly reminded of the smells and sadness of Ryan McKay's graduation party after the hayride.

˚˚˚˚˚

Stevie and Ryan's moms had competed to outdo one another.

Ryan's house was a modern one, where the living floor was above a full basement connected to a spacious multi-space garage. Most of the entire basement was a wide-open rec room.

When Jodie and I got inside, Gina and the other girls snapped my friend up and left me alone to make my way through the event.

The boys were rowdy and gathered around a foosball and pool table. The girls were spread on the sofas and the TV was on. Music played from Ryan's dad's stereo, and pumped out a smooth country twang.

My nose picked up the unmistakable scents of baked goods just like those available from The Country Cafe.

A flash of laughter and activity led me to the area where the moms had set up two long folding tables. On top of the blue-and-white-check tablecloths, food was laid out in splendor. One whole end of the far table was populated by pies, all kinds of pies! Cherry, peach, apple, blueberry, and something with a small nametag that said 'chess.'

As I was reaching for a plate and the pie scooper, a man's deep voice warned me, "Don’t get any juice now on my Mary's tablecloth. De'ya hear."

I blinked. A thin man with lean and hard features was suddenly on the other side of the table. He was wearing clean denim, head to foot, shirt and jeans, and his lack of a smile told me he was serious.

"I'll try not to, sir."

"Um, you better let me." He took the pie server and made a motion for me to hold my plate close. He spoke while he concentrated on his task. "You a friend of my boy Ryan?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is he a good boy? Does he mind the teachers?" His glare was on me all at once, like I had no place to hide.

"Um, yes. He's always paying attention in class, sir."

"And, your name, boy?"

"Simon."

"Ah. So, I thought as much. You are the Simon I hear about sometimes."

"You do, sir?"

A suddenly weighty slab of cherry pie smacked my plate almost to the level of the tablecloth. I overcompensated and nearly dumped the whole thing back on Ryan's dad's hand. I steadied it just at the last moment.

"Well," he said, none too friendly. "Enjoy that, and the party as well, son."

"Thank you, sir."

I grabbed a plastic fork, and as I moved away, took a breath of air again. I did not realize I had been breathing so shallowly until I could get away from him.

I found a spot on a loveseat set slightly apart from where most of the activity was happening. As I sat down I noticed a heavy looking door, like a solid door to the outside, was behind me and to my right.

I ate my pie, just watching the scene. Ryan and Stevie floated attentively among the various small groups and spoke a few words with open smiles.

Gradually, as my pie slab disappeared too, Ryan came across the room in a meandering arc, and saw me.

He came up to me with a less than enthusiastic grin, which although I know it sounds weird, was all the more genuine-looking than those he had belted out on his other guests.

"Is the pie good?" he asked.

"Very good. I don’t know if your mom made it, or Stevie's – "

"What flavor was it?" He chuckled, noting that my plate was pretty clean.

"Cherry."

"Oh, then that was my mom. It's one of her favorites."

"Then tell her thanks, I really loved it. She should work for The Country Cafe!"

All attempts at a smile slid off of Ryan's face. "I'll tell her you liked it, but – but – my dad don’t want her to work anywhere, so, please don’t mention that to them. Ok?"

I was stunned. I hadn't meant to, to, you know. "Man, I'm sorry – "

His smile was back to cut me off, but it was the fake one. "Don’t worry about it, Simon. I know you didn't. Everything's cool."

A glance over his shoulder caught my attention. I trailed it to the end of its line, and it seemed to linger on an area by the pool table. A few boys stood around there watching Klay take a shot. Jerry looked up and momentarily nodded at Ryan.

My party host turned back to me with some new sadness in him. "Simon, sometimes do you ever get down?"

I swallowed hard. I had not expected anything like that question. "I do. I think everybody does."

"Yeah. I guess…" It seemed like he suddenly woke up from a sleepwalking episode. His whole demeanor changed to one of false cheerfulness. "You enjoy the party, all right? I've got some things to get done first."

Before I could say anything at all, Ryan patted my shoulder and moved to the area behind me. He quickly grabbed something jangly from a hook by the doorframe before opening the door. I saw the space beyond was the garage. He passed through and closed the portal softly behind him.

˚˚˚˚˚

The party went on for an hour.

All of a sudden, I thought about Ryan McKay. Where was he? I realized he was not in the room with us, and I can't say I noticed him coming back through the door from the garage.

I felt a little bit like a covert spy as I stood and stretched all nonchalant. When I was sure no one was eying me, I went to the door and opened it.

The atmosphere on this side of the door was much different. I stepped through and was on the top step of a small landing.

I closed the door to the party behind me, and along with it the noise of music and laughter.

The light level was lower in here, but I became aware of some slight motion. In the cab of a large red pickup truck, which was parked facing the wall separating the garage from the rest of the basement living space, Ryan sat in the driver's seat. Some eerie light from the dashboard added a glow to his face and the arms he used to grip the steering wheel. He distractedly tapped the wheel and his eyes were glazed and staring straight ahead. He did not seem to notice me, in fact, he appeared to be far away from his own party.

I went down the steps and over to the pickup truck's passenger-side door. I thought it would be too rough to actually knock, so I just stood there wondering if Ryan knew I was there. Slowly Ryan rotated his head to mine, and did not look particularly upset to have his solace broken by my intrusion.

Ryan's tall and lean frame – made honest and strong from hard farm work – leaned over the passenger-side seat and opened the door for me. Instantly, country music washed over and around me.

"Get in." Ryan's sadly-grounded and real smile was back on.

"You don’t mind the company?"

"Join me, if you want."

I hauled myself up to the seat and closed the door with a sturdy bang.

The cabin light switched us off into semi-darkness; the lights from the dashboard made Ryan's features burn an eerie yellow as he looked straight ahead. He tapped his hands on the steering wheel again to that 'teach your children well song.' That sweet Country guitar lick at the beginning blared out, but he barely seemed to notice it.

"Watcha doin?" I asked, leaning over a bit towards him.

Ryan McKay shrugged. A moment later his fingers reached for the 8-track player, and turned the volume down. He looked at me, saying, "I'm just chilling, that's all. Listening to some music."

"It's a great party, man. Everyone is having a good time."

He stopped his tapping, closed his mouth and looked like I had stunned him. "Are you?"

Now it was time for me to shrug. I could tell Ryan was down, but I don’t know why. "Did your own party get to be too much for you?"

Ryan's eyes grew large. He didn't say anything.

I distracted myself with thoughts about the truck. I rubbed the dash in a long, smiling stroke. The interior was covered head to toe in red vinyl. White accents appeared on doors and sun visors. I asked, "What year is she?"

"She's a 1980." He partially smiled.

"My dad has a van now, a silver and maroon '79 GMC, but before that he had a light blue Ford pickup truck, a '76. The guy who bought it lives about a mile north out of town, so every time we go to Belleville, I can see it sitting in their driveway. It sits sparkling in the sun about a quarter mile back from the road. I really liked that truck."

"Yeah. This truck is my dad's pride and joy. I don’t know if he'll ever let me drive it."

"After we take some driver's ed, I bet he will!"

"Simon, how much do you think about the future?"

"Immediate future, or long term?"

"Both."

"Not a lot, I guess."

"Maybe I'm not good at handling change. Going to DePaul has me scared shitless."

"Yeah. It sucks that our class has to break up, but I guess it's the way it has to be." Suddenly I thought that did not sound very hopeful, so I added, "Man, don’t worry. There'll be lots of new people to meet, and you'll make other friends quickly."

His hands fell to his side, then he half pivoted on the long seat's crimson vinyl to face me. "From the boys, it's only you and Jerry that are going to Judas Tree High. Thing is…" He trailed off to an awkward silence.

"The thing, is…what?"

Ryan looked unspeakably sad.

A rolling thought gathered itself across his face. He changed the subject. "You like country music?"

"Ummm, some of it. My family occasionally likes to go to this restaurant up in Belleville, and they have tabletop jukeboxes. My dad always picks country songs when we're there."

He nodded dispassionately. "Cool. Like what?"

"Rose Colored Glasses; Rhinestone Cowboy; and that Charlie Pride song, Kiss an Angel Good Morning."

"Wow. Those are all good. See, you know a lot."

I said abruptly, "Do you worry about not making new friends at DePaul?"

Ryan hesitated to answer. "It's not really that. I guess I'm going there because that's what my dad wants, not necessarily me."

"I met your father earlier. He seems nice."

Ryan had a blank look. "You really think that?"

His question was so laid-bare, it started a morsel of truth out of me. "No."

My farm boy classmate shook his head, and a new form of admiration passed across his features. Now at least he knew I was honest when pressed.

"It's me I worry about," I went on. "I'm the one who has trouble making friends. When I get to Judas Tree High, Jerry will be the only boy I know, and I hope I meet someone who actually likes me."

"People like you, Simon."

I stiffened my spine against the red vinyl of the truck seat. "Hey, Ryan, if I ask you a straight-up question, will you promise to answer it straight up?"

"Come on, man. Nothing too serious now. I don’t think I'm in the mood."

I was hurt. "Ryan…"

He rolled his eyes, and his head bobbled on his neck for a moment in sympathy.

"Ok, Simon. If I can help you, maybe you can do the same for me, so what’s your question?"

"Just this: why do none of the boys like me?"

His back drew up into a slowly forming rigid line, and his jaw went slack. It seemed as if he were debating using some form of deflection in his answer. But then, it all relaxed – his body, his face – and I think he told me the truth.

"It's not a matter of liking or disliking you, Simon. You are just…just…so unique. You know that. I'm not telling you stuff you don’t know, but the uniqueness is a little hard to approach when you're just an ordinary guy like me." He suddenly smiled and grew animated, which I realized I hadn't seen from him in a long time.

"I'll never forget," he reminisced, "how in the 4^th grade, Miss Hill made us take our Social Studies class to the gym and forced us to play dodge ball. Do you remember?"

"Um, vaguely."

"Well," he laughed. "I remember. She had us line up, and started beaming balls at us, and said the only way we could get out of line was to name a country of the world."

"Oh yeah. She went one by one, and if no new answer came, she hit us with the ball. First round, no one could leave."

"Yeah! Then second round, she started saying, say a country and don’t get hit. Thing is, all the easy countries went quick, France, Mexico, Russia – but you – you stayed in line, and began feeding names to others. Crazy places, like Zimbabwe, and Yugoslavia. You'd whisper the name to the person standing next to you, and each time, they'd leave, and you'd just get hit with the ball. I'll never forget; you just let yourself get hit time after time so you could help the rest of us.

"Finally, it was just you, and Miss Hill demanded to know one more country, although she knew you had just said twenty in a row." He laughed again. "I bet she thought you used up all the ones you knew. Then you stood perfectly still, and said 'Vatican City,' but Miss Hill hit you with the ball anyway, saying that was not a country. That was wrong of her. She was mad at you, and struck out to punish you for doing what you did."

"Yeah, but I ducked out of that last ball."

"You sure did. You were right, and she was wrong." He cast sad glances between me and the 8-track player. "Simon. I just stood on the other side, behind our teacher who was growing sweaty and angry at you, and do you know what I thought, or what I felt?"

"No."

"I thought, damn! That is one hell of a good kid."

"And that's why nobody likes me? 'Cause I can name countries?"

He looked like he was about to cry. "It's just, maybe you're too good to understand this, but people look at you, and are a bit uncomfortable to realize they are never going to be as smart, or as kind, or as open as you are, and it makes them close off to you. If you ever feel you don’t have any friends, Simon, just remember it's not your fault. It's ours. And, and I hope you can come to think of me as your friend. For the rest of the school year, I promise to be there for you, ok?"

It was my turn to appear like I was wanting to cry; I felt ashamed for every ungenerous thought I ever had about Ryan McKay.

"Ok. It’s ok, and I'll be there for you too, Ryan. Just…thanks for answering my question. I really appreciate it."

"No problem."

"Do you ever feel lonely, Ryan?"

"Yes. All the time, or at least when I'm…not…" He stopped. The 8-track clicked off into silence.

"Hey," I asked him, glancing towards his collection of tapes. "Do you have that Smokey and the Bandit song?"

"Do you mean Convoy?!" he sung out.

"Yeah," I chuckled.

"Boy, do I!"

His hands worked through the 8-track titles in a clackety rumble by the gearshift, where they were arranged in an open case. He pulled up a canary-yellow cassette with a serpentine line of red trucks. He slipped it in with a big grin.

The drum roll that I loved so much started. A man's monotone voice came on sounding like he was on a CB radio, and saying funny 'handles,' like Rubber Duck and Pigpen, and I don't where 'Taco Town' is. Nevertheless, the rhythm was infectious, and soon Ryan McKay and I were bobbing our legs in unison.

The story-like lyrics rumbled along like a semi-tractor trailer through the motionless pickup truck cab, and Ryan tapped out the beat on the steering wheel. I had brightened his mood, and I was glad.

Suddenly, Ryan abandoned the beat; his hand tapping on the wheel slowed, then grew nervous and unsure, before it finally forsook the ongoing musical pulses. He glanced at me, and he was very sad again.

"I don’t want to go to DePaul. I want to go to Judas Tree High, with, you guys."

A tear did actually fall from his eye, but just one. His voice however did not choke up as he went on, "It will be so hard without Jerry."

Looking at the helpless kid sitting in his father's precious truck – his outstretched arms pushing fingers forward to grip the wheel tightly – seemed to be the most perfect metaphor. Ryan McKay wanted to be in the driver's seat of his own life, but was not able to steer it to where he wanted to go.

"I know you guys have grown close since last year, but think of it this way, if Catholic high school turns out not to be the right place for you, you can always come back to where you know you'll have friends, like Jerry, and like me."

Convoy began to loop again.

"Man," I tried to cheer him up. "Don’t be bummed at your own party."

"It's just hard – was hard – to be in there and think of saying goodbye. My dad…he wants to break us up."

As I was trying to think what Ryan meant by that, the door from the rec room slowly inched open. Jerry was on the other side, and the light and noise of the party spilled out and around his shoulders.

He saw me, and for a moment looked like he was about to retreat.

I glanced to Ryan, and Jerry came onto the landing and closed the door behind him. He stood motionless, and I suddenly knew I was in the way of something meaningful.

"Ok buddy," I told Ryan McKay, and waved Jerry over. "I'll catch you inside, and…and…just don’t worry."

I opened the truck door and light appeared over our heads like haloes. I got out and Jerry came up to me with downcast glances.

"I'll leave you two alone, and I'll wait by the door on the other side to make sure you guys have some private time."

As I walked away, I heard Jerry get in and close the truck door.

Without looking back, I considered that the sadness I had just seen writ large across Jerry's face was the same I had seen on Ryan's.