The 'Good Book' Says

THE 'GOOD BOOK' SAYS

by

Albert Woods

At one time, the only place to go on a Saturday night was Dan's Diner up by the freeway - or ‘The Dude’s Joint’, as us kids all called it. By eight, the place would be packed, jukebox pounding, drinks flowing non-stop, and dollar bills queuing to be crammed into the cash registers. There were other places to go, of course; but the ‘Joint’ was the 'in' place. Dan was on our wavelength and, besides, his parking lot was hidden behind trees and high shrubs, which meant that the evening might only begin in the bar - if you know what I mean.

We seldom drove away til around one in the morning. Most of us lost our virginity there. I know I did; to some pesky old boy from Maine; a good for nothing trucker who never did come back with that ring he talked about.

I was born and raised in the town. It’s a church community; Bible Belt, people say: all honest God-fearing folk who get together every Sunday to sing his praises. We were brought up to love of our fellow man – well some, you’ll understand - and have respect for property, the other god in our lives.

The cops approved of Dan. He ran what they called a ‘clean operation'. The kids never fought or popped pills in Dan’s, but they always had a good time. There was something about the man that made you want to please him. Sometimes, he would come round from behind the counter and boogie with us chicks. It was funny; all he could ever do was the 'twist'; still, we didn't mind. Then he'd stand some of the guys a round. If he thought any of them were underage, he would raise his eyebrows when they asked for liquor. Mostly, they'd settle for a Coke, or milkshake, and Dan would throw in an extra measure to show that there were no hard feelings. His age made no difference to us - he must have been fifty, at least. He was a regular guy.

Something was for sure; Dan's business thrived. It was as though a shift system operated. Throughout the day, truckers stopped by for jumbo breakfasts or lunchtime steaks. Some of them were big ugly brutes who'd roll in just looking for trouble; but Dan's straight talking, and amiable countenance, soon had them eating out of his hands - as well as his bumper bowls. The same thing would happen with the Angels in the evenings. It was inexplicable, and great for business.

One time, there was a Halloween bash. and a real cross-section turned out; all ages, all types, yet not one incident. A couple of patrol cops dropped in for their evening snack and ended up dancing with some freaky looking trailer trash girls. The Angels sat there cheering approval and one, the second-in-command I think he was, stood the cops a beer. I'd seen the same guy knifing a Puerto Rican once. It was strange all right; strange, but good - if you know what I mean.

It didn't last.

** ** **

Dan's coolers had worked overtime that summer. Day after day of blistering heat created a fantastic demand for chilled drinks and ices. The supply company was sending two, sometimes three, deliveries a day, beginning to look upon Dan's as a prime outlet in the region. Arnie Gelder, the area sales rep, had the best figures on the firm. His commission was soaring; and it looked like he could, at last, afford the down-payment on a condo at the south end of town, thanks to Dan.

With his typical foresight, Dan had rented out a couple of the fields behind the diner to mobile-homers; and their business, alone, would have kept the wolf from the door; but with the ever-swelling crowds from town, he was fast becoming a wealthy man.

Daisy was Dan's wife, and his right arm in the enterprise. A lot of their success had to be due to her cooking. She believed in good fresh food, getting up at the crack of dawn and spending all morning in the kitchen preparing the day's supply of pies, flans and other mouth-watering specialities. Such was the popularity of Daisy's dishes, other eating houses in the area had actually asked her to supply them too. There was no percentage in that, Dan reckoned. He had a sound business head.

Every night, after closing, Dan and Daisy would sit in the back room and enjoy their hard-earned supper. While she was preparing the food, he'd count the day's take. They often talked about the times when it had amounted to no more than a hundred to a hundred and fifty bucks, or so. Now, it was always ten times that, and frequently topped the two thousand mark on Saturdays. That, of course, didn't take account of the bonus from the one-armed bandits and pinball tables that clattered away, constantly.

Sometimes, they would talk about their retirement plans, when Daisy would have a quiet laugh to herself - knowing Dan would never give up. He'd go on til he dropped.

It’s a crying shame she was right about that.

The prolonged heatwave was starting to break up at last and, that Saturday evening, the first few drops of rain spattered the windows. Although the weather stations had given out warnings, nobody really noticed it at first. We were all too busy talking and drinking; but later, a flash of fork lightning crackled overhead and we rushed over to look out. Then the sky opened up; the rain belting down in coin-sized drops. It was the real thing, and a big cheer went up. Some of the wheat bosses and their farmhands actually hugged each other. Dan knew just how much that rain meant to them, even if it might cause a temporary dip in his own trade. Typically, he stood them all a celebratory drink.

After the first wave of euphoria, there was a mad rush for the door as some bozos remembered they’d left their convertibles open to the elements. I went along; not that my lid was up; I’m not brain dead. It was simply the attraction of the rain, driving breath into the atmosphere, the dull heavy stickiness giving way to refreshing air. We gulped it down greedily; as we did the booze that followed.

At closing time, the place was still packed; yet nobody complained when Dan stopped serving. What most of us were waiting for was a let-up in the storm though, by now, it was apparent that this wouldn’t be happening for some time yet. Dan and two of his helpers kitted themselves out in boots and weatherproofs. One by one they brought the vehicles round to the front door so no-one need get wet. Typical Dan; a gentleman for all seasons.

What happened, after that, is hearsay; though I’ve got no reason to doubt it. It's just that I wasn't there - being one of the first to get away - so can only relate the story as it probably was. The last of the customers had left, followed closely by the staff. Daisy remembers Dan commenting on the success of the evening. He had yet to count the take but, from the thickness of the wad, and weight of the coin, it would be a record haul; pushing three grand, he forecast.

Daisy was washing glasses when she heard the boom that was too brief and well defined to be thunder. It was followed by the roar of a motorbike engine; throttling hard and taking off, though the poor woman didn’t register that until much later.

Her beloved Dan was in the back room. He was clutching the small area of his head that wasn’t peppered, moaning incoherently. The desk and walls were dotted red; a few dollar bills strewn about. The wretched creature nursed him in her lap, choking on her grief and praying for a miracle. She might just as well have saved her breath. The Lord had obviously used all his mercy ration for that day.

Dan had been dead a good half-hour when the paramedics arrived. The flash floods frustrated their attempts to reach the place. He couldn't have been saved; his wounds fatal from the moment the shotgun opened up. Nevertheless, the two uniformed boys went through the motions; artificial respiration - all that chest punching routine. Futile really; more for the benefit of the widow than the casualty. But that's how folks are around our town. Caring and God-fearing - if you know what I mean.

After Dan's killing, the diner soon became ramshackle; gone were the cars and trucks, the mobile homes and the crowds. It was pitiful to watch a dear memory fading before our eyes.

Daisy - bless her heart - kept on cooking, but her heart was not in it. We all knew that, and understood why. She soldiered on for a couple of months, without complaint; but even she must have known that it could never be the same again; not without Dan. Most of the regular customers drifted away, and the jukebox records never got changed anymore. Only the traffic cops could be relied on to come in for their nightly drink. That's what they let Daisy think, as it was really to check on her. One of them, Bill Moody, had stopped an out of town biker after the shooting and taken a spray of buckshot in his leg for the trouble. He always made a point of going out back of the shop to try the locks. Often, Daisy would go with him and they'd come back with self-satisfied smiles on their faces... oh, there was nothing like that involved, if that's what you were thinking - no; just some private joke they seemed to share.

Then, Daisy fell ill. She'd really neglected herself after Dan went. We warned her that her system couldn't take the work, but she was determined to be with him as soon as possible. I offered to move in and help out. She thanked me, but was having none of it. That was on a Tuesday, I recall. By the Friday they were doing the autopsy. ‘Broken heart' is what they put. I don't know if that figures in any medical textbook - but it was true.

There’s no carnival in our town; only a sort of parade - if you can call it that - on the fourth of July. But the day Dan's Diner came up for auction was something to behold. Buyers flocked in from all over the county, and well beyond. Some were well loaded too; splashing cash around like there was no tomorrow

Arnie Gelder - you remember, the rep - had it in his head to buy Dan's. He'd saved enough to get a mortgage, and was pretty sure he could rebuild the business. Nice guy, but we all doubted it. Nobody could take Dan's place; which was why we were secretly pleased when some national motel chain got it. They would flatten the joint and erect a shiny new forty-four bedroomed rabbit warren. The acquisition was popular with the townspeople, seeing as it would bring some much needed employment; and the scheme was waved through so recruitment of labour could begin without delay.

The Saturday before the dozers were due to roll, Dan's was filled for the last time. Some of the Angels had organised a farewell get-together, in a mark of respect for Dan and Daisy. Typical of those dopeheads, they’d not thought to invite anyone else, but ours is a small town; word soon spreads. By eight, the place was packed to bursting

George Clark, from the electricity company, had stuck his neck out by postponing the disconnection of the mains so that we could have power. A couple of the freezers were still ticking over, though nobody would have used the stuff in them, even if it was OK. Instead, the truckers shipped-in crates of beer, and anybody who wanted to eat brought their own grub. One good thing was that the jukebox worked as well as ever. ‘You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.....’

Dan would have approved. His spirit presided over the gathering. Not once did anybody step out of line. Officer Moody, still in uniform, sat alongside Slug, the Angels' moronic leader. They toasted each other's health, as well as the old days.

Just before twelve, it all went quiet, and Arnie Gelder stood on a stool to call our attention. He needn't have done; we were already listening. With heads bowed, we joined in a short prayer for our sadly missed friends. It was the sort of thing us God-fearing types do - if you know what I mean.

On the stroke of midnight, the place became the property of the South East Coast Motels combine. It was ‘The Dude’s’ Joint no longer.

One of the Angels picked up a chair and brought it crashing down over a table. It splintered like one of those trick props in the movies. Almost simultaneously, a well-dressed woman – the usually prim and proper Mrs. Kyle from the library, I think it was - hurled an ashtray at the bar mirror. I'd always fancied doing that.

Bill and Arnie took hold of each end of a table, swung it backwards and forwards to gain momentum, then released it on the count of three to sail through the plate-glass window. Everybody joined in the systematic wrecking of the place; glasses, chairs, beer taps, cables, all smashed, ripped out and thrown. Doors were wrenched off their hinges, and even some false stud walls barged down. We must have gone on in that way for best part of an hour. Nothing remained intact.

It's funny, you know, but I had no idea we’d be doing that sort of thing when I went along there. I'm sure that none of the others had either. It just happened. By the time we finished, we were all in a state of feral excitement; a sort of animalistic hunger that craved further satisfaction. What happened next gave us plenty.

Moody told two of the Angels to go look in the outhouse. There was something of interest there, he said. A few minutes later they brought in their find. It was a young guy; leather clad, gagged and really frail looking, with his wrists cuffed behind his back, and a sawn-off job stuck through his belt. Bill had lied when he told his police department bosses that his assailant had escaped. He'd got him; and he and Daisy had been keeping the runt on a leash for the past two months. When we saw him, we didn't need telling who he was.

Slug grabbed his collar and dragged him into the centre of the room. The kid said nothing; he was too weak. Ever the gentleman, Bill suggested the ladies should leave. Most did, except the Angel girls and me. I wanted to see this. To be honest, I felt strangely turned on by the whole thing.

First off, several of the men opened their flies and pissed all over the sucker. He couldn't even shield his face from it. Then, somebody had the idea of putting him in a freezer. There was one left out back with its lid still attached, so the Angels manhandled it in. Bill and Arnie tipped out the last few oddments of food, unchained the kid and bundled him into the chest, along with his gun. Slug had found some large containers of spent cooking oil, so that was poured in for good measure. I saw the sheer terror in the boy’s eyes as the lid went down. I happened to be the closest; and must have been the last person he ever saw in his miserable life. That gave me a kick too. We stacked heavy objects on top. Three one-arm bandits did the trick, nicely.

Now, it was time to go. "Too much of anythin’ ain't good for nobody," Slug reminded everyone as he ushered us out onto the forecourt. Besides, he wanted space so he and his boys could splash the gasoline around.

Last out was Bill the cop. He paused by the door, put on his skid lid, and buttoned his tunic. It was real cool, the way he struck a match, one-handed, on his thumbnail, and flicked it in.

Next morning, at Sunday worship, I looked around at the faces to see if the exuberance was still there. I couldn't detect any. The reverend preached about loving thy neighbour, caring for your fellow man, and all that jazz. He needn't have bothered. We’re all God-fearing folk who care very much about our neighbours - if you know what I mean.

But then he told us that the 'Good Book' also says we should love our enemy as well; be forgiving and show compassion towards him; be merciful, ease his suffering. This brought a few frowns and throat-clearings, I noticed.

Still, I knew I was in the clear, Godwise. The bible tells us he’s omnipotent, everywhere - all-seeing. So he’d know it was me who slipped the punk a live cartridge before we shut the lid... wouldn’t he?

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Copyright Albert Woods (2013)