A Realm of Innocence...Prologue
Prologue
Present Day Kansas
In 1952, war hero John Rayson decided to open a small diner for travelers and truckers at a forlorn crossroads known to locals as Cedar Creek. Slim and wiry, John was a dear: light on this feet, always sniffing the wind for something good, and ever hopeful for the best in life. After forty years of doing everything himself, he was more athletic than most of his contemporaries. A gray shock of hair coupled with a rancher’s complexion and eagerness to be helpful were the first things one remembered about John; that and a smile that rarely broke from his face.
Around nineteen and fifty-six, through some discreet politicking with a friend up at the capital in Kansas City, he became postmaster. For his tireless efforts, John received a monthly stipend, a small mailbag once a week filled mostly with junk mail, and a flag pole—complete with a very starched stars and stripes.
By ’57, John cut a deal with an oil company and a shiny new gas pump was installed at Rayson’s diner. If someone pulled up to the pump, John would announce ahead of time with a modicum of pride, “We have only one grade of gas, folks. Premium gas for premium people!” Of the couple of hundred cars that zipped by every day, some would stop—keeping the grill, the diner, and John alive.
Those few who did live in the surrounding area were glad to be able to get a quick fill-up, a rather greasy burger and fries, while dropping off a letter or two. The regulars stopped in out of fondness; they brought the food even if they weren’t hungry. John was a fixture that needed taking care of.
Practically everyone who happened upon the desolate spot for the first time came away with the same impression, often voiced to everyone within earshot. “Who the hell would want to live out here?” After getting out of their car, stretching their legs, and looking around, those less intimidated by the stark isolation—created by the combined effects of a broken down white-washed building plopped down in a place where there were no trees, plants, grass, or any kind of natural habitation—generally asked, “where’s the creek?” Every once in a while, some bright individual usually added, “for that matter, where are the cedars?”
Through some friendly persuasion as well as some free food offered to bus drivers, in 1970 a bus line started making scheduled stops there, adding another little piece of growth that kept Rayson’s family diner in the black.
Ever busy with his plans, John never had love’s good fortune to stop in at his diner. Now approaching a spry seventy-eight years old—his steel blue eyes always beaming with each new day—he never regretted the fact that marriage wasn’t in the cards. When asked if he wished he had a family, he always replied, “The people I call ‘friend,’ are my family.”
Like its owner, the diner was getting old, was in constant need of repair, and was an echo of another era. No one but a few would mourn the two passing into obscurity as that already happened a long time ago. Both owner and establishment struggled to stay alive and both refused to be budged from the Earth. John Rayson was a fighter; usually in spite of the odds. That spirit kept him alive when his entire rifle company was wiped out on the Japanese island of Truk back in ’42 and it kept him and his beloved diner going through nearly five decades of isolation and neglect from a growing nation of freeways, urban centers, and fast-food chain outlets.
Tying an apron on as the sound of a Greyhound bus slowly ground to a stop at the all but barren junction, John fired up the juke box; Hank Williams was first in line. John moved across the few tables, swatting the one near the counter of dust as he did so. This was the bus driver’s favorite spot. Al always sat there—never sat anywhere else. Within seconds, the warble of a record played far beyond its time filtered through the musty air. Satisfied that everything was in order, John moved to the front door and unlocked it for business. A quick glance at the wall clock over the stove reminded him that 2:00PM was a little late in the day for his first customer.
John smiled anyway.
Watching through the tattered and dirty screen door of his establishment as the doors of the bus hissed open, John wondered what he and Al would parley about. It never mattered. John liked to listen to people talk. Anyone who took the time to have a chat and smoke at his diner was someone he usually liked right off.
A full minute went by before he realized that no one was coming out of the bus. Though the windows of the Silver Streak were tinted, there was movement near the driver’s seat. Why didn’t Al come in? It would be a shame if he couldn’t talk to him about the Cleveland Indians—John’s favorite team. Eager for company, he pushed the screen door open and stepped out onto the concrete sidewalk that completely circled his diner.
Pulling a camel cigarette from a crumpled pack, John lit up as he leaned against the doorjamb. Just has he was about to step off into the direction of the bus, he stopped and smiled. As quickly as it appeared, the smile turned into curious interest. A man dressed in an off-white broadcloth linen suit and sporting a crumpled linen hat—he hadn’t seen one of those in years—stepped off the bus and was looking about, as though he was genuinely appreciating the desolate beauty of Cedar Creek. The stranger was smiling and apparently in no hurry to get out of the highway. John knew he would like him instantly; he had a nose for good folk. Anyone who liked it here had to be “a-o-k.”
Watching the strange fellow stand there, seemingly oblivious to the world around him, John felt drawn to the man. The more he watched him—impeccably dressed, tall, and born with a face that radiated a warmth that looked like it could heal the coldest of hearts, John began to fidget in anticipation. Might be, the man wasn’t coming in; his thoughts about Al slowly dimmed into the background, replaced by the interesting character still standing in the road.
Unconsciously, John started toward the highway.
With each step upon the cracked and weed-infested sidewalk, John realized that his next possible customer was a someone. He knew a thing about that too, having served a lot of people over the last fifty years. Someone’s always made the grade or were destined to lead where others could only follow. The first time John met Elvis Presley—stopped in for a burger with some friends way back in ’53—he knew that the man was special. Turned out, this Elvis fella did all in the music business. “Someones” were gifted with something the rest of the world didn’t possess. Everyone had a word for it, but John always called it the “glow.” Over the shortening distance, he could tell that this man had just that: the glow.
The next thought that flew gently through his mind was what made a person smile when they became aware of it. Dropping the cigarette onto the dirty walk, he realized just what the feeling was that was fast becoming so over-powering. He felt as though he knew the man and in that knowing, John felt instantly warmed up a few degrees. But his face. Now within range to see the stranger’s strong but quietly gentle features, he at once realized that the man’s face wasn’t familiar. He might forget a name from time to time, but never a face.
The problem was about to solve itself as the man finally noticed John and proceeded on a line directly toward him. John stopped where he was and waited, forgetting all about the record skipping on the juke box, the burning midday sun, and the fact that he was gawking like a child attending his first circus.
Unconsciously sensing that this person was different in a way never before experienced, John took a step backward, though not in fear. Lost in watching the measured and even gait of what promised to be at least an interesting conversation, he didn’t notice the bus close its doors, lurch into gear, and then start down the road. Since laying his eyes on the stranger, he completely forgot about his friend Al.
As the fellow moved within ten feet of him, John felt his anxiety vanish; in its place emerged an amiable feeling of peace. He smiled with a warm nod as the interesting man stopped when he reached the line everyone reaches when they step up to someone. It is an unspoken zone about forty inches away—no more and usually no less—never to be violated unless permission was given with the eyes. It is an area reserved for hugs and affection from loved ones and good friends. John extended his hand. “Hi, friend. Got good food if you want it. Folks generally don’t complain much about the coffee, neither.”
If the stranger replied, John would have to admit later that he didn’t really hear the words, he felt them. It was a feeling of warmth, peace, and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He could say, though, that he would never forget those intense hazel eyes that filled the world around him with tenderness. A tenderness he hadn’t known since he was a boy; a tenderness that ended with his mother’s passing. When questioned about this last point, John would remark to all comers that the man possessed something he’d never seen before…except in a baby.
Two hours after the stranger left, John gleefully piled that week’s stack of junk mail in his front parking lot—always filling more than three huge canvas bags—and dropped a match on it. Lighting a cigarette, he sat back on his haunches and watched as the flames licked higher and higher, attracting the attention of passing motorists. John waved to those he knew, merely nodded to those he didn’t. Watching the flames, their orange light dancing on his face and reflecting the glow he felt inside himself, John started to half mumble a song he hadn’t sung since his momma died.
“Rock of ages…”
Copyright Don Bradley 2008
nine comments:
Very nice!
Hey, the comments work again! Yipee!
Donna - 09 01 08 - 16:18
Definitly rocks..
I have no idea how you flow this stuff out, but it’s great!!
Satish () - 09 01 08 - 16:43
Beautiful!
David - 09 01 08 - 23:45
Thats the kind of story I like!!! You really know how to tell em. Grabbed my attention for sure. Keep it up please.
Lee () - 10 01 08 - 02:22
You really know how to “paint a picture” DB! Love it.
Deborah Hill () - 10 01 08 - 07:20
Very good. A couple grammar/spelling mistakes, but I’m not a big fan of editing either ;)
Keep it coming.
Matt () - 12 01 08 - 08:46
Ah, don’t fuss about editing, I think even if a few mistakes do show up, that gives some character instead of everything being so “perfect”.
Diane - 12 01 08 - 09:45
The rest of the manuscript is being typed up and then has to be edited and all that. Once that happens, I’ll toss a few more chapters up here. Thanks for your nice comments.
DB - 15 01 08 - 11:40
Great story!
Danny () - 15 01 08 - 18:16
No trackbacks:
