Good Works

Good Works

by

Jack Steele

     The man was shaped like an egg, like Humpty Dumpty, and he stood on the freeway between two old suitcases.  He’d taken off his sport coat and put it over his left arm, but he hadn’t loosened his tie.  It was the worst possible place to stand, near the top of a ramp just before a curve, and the worst possible day to stand there.  He didn’t even have a hat, and it was probably already getting close to ninety out there.   

     The freeway ran alongside a cotton field, the cotton long since picked, the stalks plowed under, and just beyond the far edge of the field, behind a high board fence, a neighborhood of small frame houses baked in the sun.  Margaret could see it all as she approached the curve:  the man in front of the flat field, the fence in the background, the rooftops of the houses over the fence, all of it under a sun so fierce that it bleached the sky nearly white.    

     She couldn’t stop, not unless she wanted to have a wreck, so she went on down to the next exit and came back.  He was still there, and by the time she’d pulled over and looked in her rear view mirror, he was already walking towards her.  Not slowly, but not fast either, carrying the suitcases at arms’ length, his body moving from side to side like the needle of a metronome. 

     A salesman, she decided, his samples in the suitcases.  She pulled the trunk latch and saw him stop behind the car.  He put the suitcases down, but then he just stood there.  An old mule, she thought.  Does he expect me to load his luggage for him?  Or is he afraid I’ll drive off with it? 

     She rolled her window down about half way, then changed her mind and rolled it back up.  The freeway, like outer space, had a certain beauty as long as you were safely sealed inside of something.  Otherwise, it scared you half to death.  That racket.  The trucks that rocked the car.  The cars like speeding bullets.  She stared at the man in the rear view mirror, and he seemed to be staring back.  An impasse, and he was right to be cautious.  It wouldn’t do to lose everything he owned.  At the same time, she wasn’t about to get herself splattered all over the freeway for a man who looked like Humpty Dumpty.

     Finally, leaving the suitcases where they were, he walked around to the passenger side of the car.  She rolled down the window and got her first good look at his face.  It was drenched with sweat.  It looked a little like his whole body was melting inside his clothes.

     “Why aren’t you wearing a hat?” she asked.  “You’ll get a stroke.”

     He just stood there, staring at her, meeting her eyes, but in an impersonal sort of way.  He really didn’t care whether he got the ride or not. 

     “What’s wrong?  Can’t you lift those suitcases?”

     He still said nothing, and she began to realize that he wasn’t going to.  Couldn’t or wouldn’t?

     “You’re afraid I’ll drive off?”

     He lowered his head a little, then lifted it, which she took to mean ‘yes.’  At least he could understand her. 

     “I’m not getting out of the car,” she said, “so you’ll just have to decide.  With or without those suitcases, you’re going to die if you stay out here in the sun much longer.”

     He was and wasn’t looking at her.  He made no inspection either of her or the inside of her car.  This man’s living in his own little world, she thought, which shouldn’t be much of a surprise.  No one in his right mind would be where he was in the first place.

     After a couple of minutes he walked to the rear of the car, picked up the suitcases, and started walking back to where he’d been standing before.  Margaret sat there and watched him in the mirror, wondering if she thought his waddle was cute.  Kind of.  It reminded her of that character in Popeye, the fat one who liked hamburgers. 

     She turned up the volume of the Keely Smith tape she’d been listening to.  She adjusted the air conditioner.  She took a sip of scotch from the plastic cup that she always kept between her legs when she drove.  A waddler.  Can’t or won’t talk.  A salesman of God knows what.  No smile.  No hurry.  She scooted herself over to the passenger side and got out.  The back draft from every big truck that passed was like a body block.      

     There was no use calling to him.  This was not a place fit for human beings.  She waited behind the car until he turned enough to see her, and then she motioned for him to come back.  He was so much the same, neither slow nor fast, steady as she goes, back and forth, that she almost laughed.  She stepped to the side and watched him load the suitcases.  A man who waddles, she thought, should turn that chore into a comedy routine.  The weight should carry him backwards, precariously close to the traffic, but he would save himself at the last minute, not by regaining his balance, but by turning around.  That didn’t happen of course.  He’d done this before.  He picked up the suitcases effortlessly and placed them in the trunk.  He didn’t even bump his head on the lid or get his coat stuck when he closed it

     She decided against insisting that he let her get in first on the passenger side.  That in itself could turn into a comedy routine, and besides, it was one thing to not get out of the car at all, and yet another, going too far, to be a horse’s ass about getting back in.  She stayed as close to the car as possible, more or less feeling tethered as long as she grazed it with her hips, and tried to ignore everything except the front door handle.  It was unpleasant.  For the few seconds it took her to get from the rear of the car to the safety of the driver’s seat with the door closed, she felt completely at the mercy of she didn’t know what.  Nothing good.  A hurricane, perhaps.  Being on the side of a freeway was like being on the edge of a hurricane that could suck you into it at any moment.  Or would that be a tornado?  She put her seat belt on, turned the tape down, and put the cup back between her legs.

     “Where you going?” she asked.

     He was breathing heavy and wiping the sweat off his face with a handkerchief.

     She said, “The next town of any size is Robstown.  That okay?”

     He lowered his head.  That nod again.  Was he Japanese or something?  She studied his face for a moment.  No.  His eyes were blue.  Beady but perfectly oval, like most of the rest of him.     

     Robstown was okay with her.  She liked getting out of town.  She did it all the time without an excuse.  Thank god for county roads.  She liked driving on roads that were flat and straight and empty.  You could go fast because you could see forever.  But freeways could be good too.  On the way to Robstown, she could stay in the fast lane with the cruise control on seventy.

     Once on the road, she turned up the volume of the tape, took a sip of her drink, and moved the air conditioner vents on her side to hit her squarely in the face.

     “Those vents over there on you?” she asked.  “You getting any air?”

     He wasn’t breathing as heavy and his face looked relatively dry.  He sat there holding the handkerchief with both hands, staring straight ahead.  Like he’s hypnotized, she thought.  Maybe the freeway had stunned him and he’d come out of it after awhile.  She wanted to ask him if he was okay, but she knew she’d only get the nod, if that.  Change the subject, she decided.  It didn’t scare her that he was quiet.  She liked quiet men.    

     “She’s got a pretty voice, don’t you think?  Face like a mud fence, but a pretty voice.”

     She pulled the cassette case out of the pocket on her door and held the picture of Keely Smith up in front of his face.

     “See what I mean?”

     No response.  She wasn’t even sure he saw the picture.  Leave him alone, she told herself.  They passed the airport.

     “Not much out here but cotton fields,” she said.  “Some people think it’s monotonous, but I like it.  Wide open spaces.  Give me a big air conditioned car and wide open spaces and I’m all set.”

     She told him about the farms they passed, who owned what, whose tractor that was, whose house, whose shed.  A bunch of Czechs, she told him.  These are mostly Bohemian farms.  A peasant culture.  The old guys still smoke corncob pipes and wear overalls.  He could be Czech.  Little blue eyes.  Fair complexion.  Maybe he’s got relatives around here.  Wouldn’t that be something?  She could say that and then hit him on the shoulder in a friendly sort of way, to show how silly she was being and to try to make him laugh.  Or knock some sense into him.  But his trance was formidable, and besides, she wasn’t like that.           

     “You look a lot better already, but you’re not used to this weather.  You’re from up north is my guess, or you’d be wearing a hat.  You know, you’ve almost got to think like an Arab down here.  Cover up.  If you walk around with no hat, you’ll get burned to a crisp.”

     Robstown was coming up too fast, and besides, she was hungry.

     “You had breakfast?” she asked.  “How about if I take you to Kingsville?  I know a place on the way where we can get tacquitos.  Of course that’s everywhere around here, but these are especially good.  Egg and chorizo is my favorite, but you get whatever you want.  It’s on me.  They have tacquitos where you’re from?  If not, you’ll see what they are.”

     Robstown was full of drunks sitting on curbs with quarts of beer in paper bags.  An old cotton town gone to seed.  But these weren’t cotton pickers.  God only knew what they were, or where they came from.    

     “I grew up around here,” she said, not sure herself why she told him, or if it meant anything.  Not too far south of Robstown, the cotton fields turned into grazing land.  Here and there an oil well.  She cranked up the cruise control to eighty, what the hell, turned Keely Smith up a little, and decided not to talk for a while. 

*****

     They sat in the shade of one of the big live oaks between the taco stand and the creek.  He ate four tacquitos and drank two cokes.  He wasn’t a dainty eater.  He took huge bites that made his cheeks bulge, and he chewed laboriously, like a cow chewing cud.  He had trouble keeping things in the taco.  A lot of it fell in his lap, and when he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  She offered him a cigarette, but he shook his head. 

     “Usually, these days, it’s just Mexicans you see on the road,” she told him.  “Real Mexicans, I mean.  From old Mexico.  Wetbacks.  Hope that doesn’t offend you.  Wetback.  Actually I admire them for swimming across.  Takes nerve.  Guts.”

     He hadn’t done anything to make her think he might have taken exception to the word.  She was just making conversation, the first thing that popped into her head.  She stopped herself and looked around at the sun filtering through the live oaks, the trash in the creek bed, the smoke from the taco stand, the telephone man eating in his panel truck, the woman with two little kids at the next table over.  She could feel the cool sweat on her forehead.

     “I’m trying to guess,” she said, “what you’ve got in those suitcases.  Sorry.  I know that’s nosy.  But I’m guessing you’re a salesman and that you’re carrying samples.”

     She tried to get the attention of those beady little eyes.  It was almost as if he were already dead, and she grinned at herself for being so slow to see that.  A zombie.  That’s what he was.  The living dead.  She wondered how he’d managed to live so long, even dead, with his two suitcases, his sloppy eating habits, and not having enough sense to come in out of the sun.

     When he finished his tacos, he sat there as stiff and straight as a board.  She couldn’t see his hands, but her best guess was that he had them carefully placed, palms down, on the bench.

     “Want any more tacos?” she asked.

     He shook his head.  She’d gotten a cup of ice from the taco stand, and holding it and bottle under the table, she poured herself a drink.

     “Just say the word if you want some of this,” she said.

     One of the little girls toddled over to his side of the table.  He leaned over, smiled, and motioned for her to come closer.  His teeth were mostly silver and the gesture had been a flat wave.  Damned if he’s not a Mexican, she thought.  She waited for him to say, “Ven aca, preciosa,” but he said nothing.  The little girl came close enough to get a kiss on top of her head, and then she turned and ran back to her mother.  The man caught the mother’s eye and pounded his heart with his fist.  The mother smiled at him, and he turned back to the table, as stiff and straight as before.  But if he’s a Mexican, she thought, why isn’t he wearing a hat?    

     She took a sip of scotch, then another, and lit a cigarette.  She was staring at him, but he wasn’t staring back, not reading her mind or even trying to.  He was just waiting.  He’d finished eating, and he was patiently waiting.

     “You know,” she said, “it’s amazing how much luck some people have.  I’m thinking of me, picking up wetbacks all the time, and you, standing out there on the freeway.  God only knows how many wetbacks I’ve picked up, and how many times you’ve done just what you were doing this morning, but here we are, still here, and I’ve never had a bad experience.  Picking up wetbacks, I mean.  Had my share of bad experiences, of course, in life, but not with wetbacks.  It’s one of the bright spots, and I only wish I could keep up with them, check back on them from time to time, see how they’re doing.  But that would be too eccentric, even for me.  I’d really be an old lady then, wouldn’t I?  Or else they might get the wrong idea.”

     She paused long enough to see how even a remote reference to sex might effect him.  Not at all.

     “I know where to take them to find work.  Sometimes I even feed them.  I’ve brought them here before.  The ones from Michoacan think the flour tortillas are pretty weird, but they manage to choke them down.”

     Mexican trinkets, she thought.  Baubles and beads.  A little silver.  Earrings and bracelets.  He gets it all in his home town and then travels around the USA until the suitcases are empty.  Something like that.  Or maybe it’s just samples after all in the suitcases, and he takes orders from stores in Mexican neighborhoods around the country.  Without speaking?  Without a hat?  Or a car?  Or even, apparently, a bus ticket?  Maybe he’s just recently lost his mind.  Gone senile.       

     “When I see wetbacks in the grocery store, I always wonder if they’re my boys, and if they recognize me.  I’ve gotten grins from a few of them, even a timid wave once.  The younger they are, the friendlier.  The old men are more cautious.  They know better how bad things can get if you’re not careful.”

     She would have been happy with the smallest gesture, but she got nothing.

     On the way into Kingsville, she kept quiet and thought through the idea of just driving around the country with him indefinitely.  He’d be like a rubber sex toy, except of course without the sex.  Probably.  You never knew about that, but in any case, a big doll to keep her company, at least for a while, until one of them got tired of it and wandered off.  A no lose situation, really.  He’d be safe for a while; she’d have someone to talk to.  Why not?  She turned Keely Smith down so that she could think better.  But did he want to be safe?  And was she lonely?  It wasn’t the first time she’d asked that about herself, and she’d sure talked his ear off, and had an appetite for more, but so what?  It didn’t pay to just pick up the first thing that came along that took your fancy.  You wound up with things you didn’t want, or need, or even like.  More than you could remember, assuming you wanted to.  Maybe that was why he was out there in the first place.  Owned nothing he couldn’t get in two suitcases.  Not even a hat.  Or maybe somebody just got tired of him.

     She dropped him off in the center of town, in front of a café.  The sidewalks were a good two feet above the street level, and she waited to make sure he could get his suitcases up there.  When she pulled away from the curb, he was looking much the same as he had on the freeway, like Humpty Dumpty, just standing there between his two suitcases.  Still no hat, but at least he’d eaten something and was in the shade.