Land Run. Mark Graham
Jake, Marty found the arid landscape along their way interesting. It was going to be a long, quiet ride. It was June now, and already the official color of town was brown—brown buildings and brown grass. This was only slightly offset by the rust-brown leaves that colored the scrub-oak trees. The land was flat, and Marty was taller than half the trees about. Yet, there was something about this land, these people, and its history that Marty loved. It was hard, self-reliant. And in summer, with the heat, people melted—not a lot, but enough. He never did know how the town got its name. No one ever saw a willow tree and only the ditch down Hays-Barton Road could double for a spring. And even then it had to rain pretty hard to not have it dry up by the end of the next day.
Willow Springs kicked it in high gear at the start of summer. They passed by armies of little league teams engaged in battle, and each war lasted until it got dark. But Marty had traveled enough to know his town wasn’t like the typical small towns around the country. Willow Springs just kind of sprawled out with houses popping up here and there. There was no town square and courthouse, no monuments or cannons. Aside from the occasional remaining house, no structures tied this community to a staunch past. Though the town was older than the state, it was a young state. Oklahoma became a state in 1907. That fact had not greatly impacted the culture past thirty miles from Oklahoma City. Willow Springs had all dirt streets until 1960, and they got their first and only streetlight in 1987. Some of Marty’s older friends could still be seen shopping at Barrow’s Grocery Store packing pistols in leather holsters on their sides. And people still smoked anywhere they darn well pleased. That was the character of Willow Springs. The folks did what they wanted, and they never wanted much.
Marty and Jake rode the rest of the trip in silence. Finally, they were a mere cloud of rusty dust blowing through a clearcut off Brumley Road. They pulled up to the cattle guard gate. But the man didn’t have cattle or family. He was alone there with his recently messed-up right foot. He never told anyone how he got hurt, so Marty had to choose from three different stories he heard of the accident. He liked the one about his having a bowling ball fall on his foot. It was impossible, of course, because bowling implies leisure. This man was single and self-reliant his whole seventy-two years. As they carefully climbed the three steps of the front porch, Marty wondered at what he might see, at just how bad his foot was going to look.
“Who is it?” A voice boomed from inside.
“Pastor and me, Marty.”
“Come on.”
Both men winced at each other once they entered the room. The smell inside was incredible and like nothing Marty had ever experienced. The man enveloped by his recliner, looking like just a small head at the end of a runway of legs. Marty could tell that Jake wanted to throw up, needed to throw up. And he was real glad his pastor was a talker like this man was. It seemed to him that Jake was conversing almost manic-like as a way to keep from puking. Like the opposite of holding his breath but with the same goal. But maybe, he thought, after the long quiet truck ride, he was just bustin’ at the seams to chat.
“We’re real sorry about your foot. Is there something we could do for you?” Jake asked.
But Marty was already at it, picking garbage off the floor. The man’s dog had destroyed the kitchen. The trashcan was on its side, and the contents were strewn all over the kitchen and into the living room. Every part of the trailer had piles of poop lying about indiscriminately. The carpet was visibly damp with urine and some other liquids, probably from the kitchen. The stench was unbearable. The man had either built up a tolerance, Marty thought, or lost his senses.
“Don’t worry none ’bout that, Marty. I can’t let Sam out as often as I use to. Not his fault.” He found energy enough just then to lean down to pet his dog.
“No problem,” Marty replied.
“You got food, pastor?” the man asked.
“Uh…” Jake squirmed a little in the torn, green, vinyl chair. He was careful to avoid rubbing against the duct tape.
“Ruth would have brought chili, Marty. Ruth gonna visit sometime?”
The men talked longer than Marty liked, but he could not think of a way to leave gracefully. Finally, he just stood by the front door until they noticed him. They never did, but eventually they were asked to leave because the man said that Sam needed to get some rest.
Marty hoped the trip back would be as quiet as their coming but could tell that Jake was uncomfortable. He looked over to see Jake start to say something and stopping himself several times.
“Here’s the thing. That was just awful, Marty.”
“What’s that?”
“Everything. The smell mostly. What was that?”
Marty just nodded.
“I’m not judging the man, not really. It’s just that he didn’t even seem embarrassed. I don’t get him.”
Marty nodded again.
“I don’t know him like you do. But you had to smell that.”
Marty nodded one last time, and they rode for nearly fifteen minutes in silence before he spoke.
“He sure does love that puppy.”
There was a plot of land off the main stretch of Mustang Road that Cort Johnson needed to check out. He was a board member of the newly formed industrial trust committee for Willow Springs. The town had formed the committee in an attempt to focus efforts in attracting new business to town. The city manager and a handful of very important people were going to lock in land for sale to prospective businesses with plans to encourage early stage development through tax incentives and other such stuff that only Cort and a couple other folks knew about. Cort tolerated Willow Springs. He only recently relented to the idea that he might one day live and die in the same place he was born. He often thought of just moving one town over, to Stible, just to make a kind of statement. His wife, Jules, loved Willow Springs and was obsessed with bringing culture to the town. She opened and closed a boutique, a tea room, and art gallery—none of which ever took root. Now she was in negotiations with her husband’s bank to fund a children’s theater group. Cort found life too complicated and chose long ago to just focus on his ledgers. Just keeping everything in the black was his loftiest ambition. And without other talents or hobbies known to him, work became increasingly enticing.
As he drove by the land site, his cell phone rang. It was Jules, but he answered it anyway.
“Yep.”
“I called the bank, they said you left early,” she said.
“I got to meet Ted and some guy.”
“Fine,” she said.
“I’ll be home right after but probably going to eat there.”
“Eat where?” Jules asked.
“Spurs, Jules,” he replied, “I know what you are calling about, and I don’t have an answer yet. The rent on that place is high.”
“You know this town needs entertainment. Some of these girls will be pregnant in three years if they don’t get an outlet, something positive.”
“Honey, you really think three matinees of Oklahoma is going to replace condoms?” Cort was tired. He was going to mention the Barrow Rodeo that went all summer long but remembered that something seemed to happen there every Tuesday night. Often, it would be something he would read about in the paper on Wednesday mornings.
“Stop talking like that, Cort. I’ve really prayed about this and know it is what the Lord wants us to do. If you would pray about it, you might be more enthusiastic too, maybe even nicer to me.”
“Yeah. Look. Don’t go there. I don’t pray. I work. Someone has to work. God, or whatever, has his job, and I have mine.”
There was silence on her end of the