Looking For America

Looking for America

 

                                      By Richard Geneva

 

The man driving down the lonely country road in his ramshackle pickup truck could have been just about any poor sod-buster down on his luck. What the hell! That part of America was teeming with those deprived unfortunates that worked the land and then ran out of ideas. 

Most of them had bought the land at a knockdown price little knowing what to do with it. Oh! They had read the glossy brochures. They had seen the photographs of the smiling farmers tilling the land and read of record crops for the season. Still, the truth was that some of them fell in love with the idea of being a farmer little knowing what it entailed.

Having bought their plot of soil, they were determined in most cases to make the most of it. The only problem there was the land itself. It looked fertile, but it was not just a question of planting some seeds and then reaping the spoils. Irrigation had to get considered for the dry months, so the location of water should have been the principal reason for accepting a property. Then overuse of land, the rotation of crops so as not to bleed what good soil there was should have been another consideration. But city folks coming out west seldom thought beyond the end of their noses, and very few knew what was needed to make a property work well.

The excellent soil itself only went down a couple of feet. If it became too dry or got poorly managed, then it would simply blow away in mammoth dust storms in the dry, late summer. It took away the hopes and aspirations of dumb-ass dreamers.

Buddy Powell was going west like so many before him, driving out into the wild, open, blue-sky unconcerned where he was going. He had come back from Vietnam the previous winter having seen action in 68 during the worst year of the war. American forces had lost thousands of men killed or wounded. To him, it had been a nightmare. 

Thousands of death conscious kids had left its mark inside his head. When Joey Mendoza, his best friend had been zapped right in front of him, he had never really recovered from the profound shock. Now he had broken out of New York City. Buddy was determined to find what his friend had died for. He wanted to know what this big wide-open country had to offer to him now that he had returned from defending its position in the World. He had gone to look for America.

His mother had died back in the spring after a long illness. She had been the last living relative, and now he was alone in the World. He was alone in many senses. Alone on the highway, lonely inside his head and alone in his dreams.

When they had let him out of the mental institution, all he had ever thought about was leaving town. There was nothing in Brooklyn anymore. He was young and wanted to believe. He wanted to stand on green hills overlooking the sea and smoke the lighted-grass and pop a lot of pills and spread his arms wide and breathe the pure air of freedom and sing out loud that he had made it back into the ‘World.’ That was all he had ever dreamed of back in the paddy-fields of Nam.

In the weeks he had been travelling, things were proving difficult. All he had experienced was the bigotry of small-town dwellers who mostly considered him a bum, a drifter, somebody who was no good. It seemed the mid-west had based most of their legends on the dark, silent stranger who blows into town like the tumbleweed bringing an ill wind, and one thing they didn’t like was strangers.

He remembered Clarkesville. He had gone into a bar to buy a cold beer. The fan turned slowly on the high ceiling, gently moving the blue smoke from nearby cigars. Some half-a-dozen men with red necks sat at tables nearby. Buddy looked different. His blond hair was plaited and rested on his shoulders. He wore a brown suede tasselled Kit Carson jacket, a blood-coloured bandana. He had love beads and the Silver Star for Valour, presented by General Westmorland himself for services to his country, around his neck. On nearly every finger he had decorative rings and on the lapel of his combat shirt was a large badge saying, ‘Give Peace a Chance.’

            “What the hell we got ‘ere?" mumbled one of the men.

            “Seems like one of those Eastern faggots I ‘ere mentioned on occasion.”

Buddy stood at the bar and ordered his drink.

            “Seems like we have ourselves a problem boy. Listen, sonny!"

Buddy paid for his beer and drank some and then looked up. Towering above him was a muscular, square-jawed moron spoiling for a fight. He had seen dozens of these gung-ho mothers in the Marines getting killed in the jungles upcountry. He knew of the small dihydrated pea that rattled inside their skull that represented a brain.

            “I suggest yawl try someplace else to drink mister. We don’t serve peaceniks or any other freaks round these parts, boy.”

Buddy nodded and finished his beer. “Ok best be leaving.” He gave an exaggerated wave to the scowling mountain boys sitting down at the table and left the bar.

He drove on into the day, crossing the state border into Arkansas about mid-afternoon. It was a beautiful, flat, open country. Sadness stabbed his heart that such a big beautiful country was in the hands of such ugly people. He needed work. He needed love. He needed to believe again. When he saw the signpost for Wicker Town which said twenty miles due north, he turned off the highway.

About a mile down the road he saw ahead of him two women stood by the roadside, they were hitching a lift. They were nobody else around except him, so he pulled over. 

            “You going to Wicker Town?”

            “Sure thing” replied Buddy.

They got in beside him and sat on the bench seat side by side. They were good looking country girls with hair bleached by the sun and soft brown skin.

            “You travelled far?” one of them asked.

He felt a little embarrassed, “Here and there” he smiled.

            “Here and there is a mighty big place,” said the woman sitting closest.

 "Well, I've been on the road for a while."

            “Doing what?”

            “Oh, just looking." Buddy was fidgeting moving his hand up and down the wheel, scratching his chin, pulling his earlobe.

            “You been out this part of the world before?” asked the woman sitting furthest.

 "No, Mam. I'm from New York."

            “Wow! New York City?”

            “Sure thing.”

            “You married?” asked the girl on the outside.

            “Betty! You can’t ask strangers such personal questions.” She was laughing. “You might upset the poor man.”

Buddy smiled. He hadn't genuinely smiled in weeks. It was a tonic that made him tingle all through his body.

            “Well, I’ve not had much opportunity.”

The woman closest touched his knee and said, “Oh, don't take any notice of her. She does tend to be a little forward."

They drove on down to Wicker Town, chatting most of the way. On the outskirts, there was a police car pulled across the road. Buddy slowed down and stopped. A patrolman came towards them, and on seeing the girls, he broke into a smile.

 "Well if it's not Miss Betty and Miss Primrose." He looked at Buddy, not in an unfriendly way but more curious. "And what do we have here?"

 "Oh, he's coming to work for daddy on the farm. He'll be staying put at the farmhouse with us throughout the summer."

It was the first Buddy had heard of it. He said nothing. The policeman smiled again and doffed his hat and moved away.

            “Have a nice day now.”

They dropped Betty off in the quiet town. She also smiled at Buddy and kissed him on the cheek.

 "I'll see you later, honey."

As they drove on out to the farm, Buddy pointed and asked, “What’s those hanging off the trees?”

            “They’re what we call corn dollies. Folks around here feel they help the crops grow.”

The fields were in full bloom. It was a beautiful sight to see the corn so tall, seemingly stretching up to the sky.

The farmhouse was situated a few miles out of town on the slopes of the Big Basin River, and by the time they pulled up outside the main building the sun was starting to set on the distant green hills.

Things seemed a little strange to Buddy. Odd in the sense that not more than two days drive away, the land was barren. People got embittered with their struggle. It seemed the constant fight against the elements was wearing them down. Yet here everything was plentiful. Some orchards stretched to the far horizon brimming with every conceivable fruit. Bees pollinated the flowers. Brightly coloured butterflies danced on hedgerows. Birds sang in the trees. Beautiful Arab stallions galloped and frolicked in the green pasture by the river. Exceptional healthy children played by the water's edge. And probably more disarming was the friendliness of the people towards him. Everywhere he went with Primrose in those first few days people would shake his hand and say the kindest things. It seemed he could have anything he wanted.

            “You thirsty Buddy? Have a cold beer.”

Women friends would acknowledge how handsome he was. They would tease Primrose about how they would steal him away from her if she were not careful. Buddy was bashful about such things.

At night time when he laid in the bunkhouse, it began to dawn on him that most of the folks in town were either very young or quite elderly and people of his age were mainly women. Not that he was too concerned because the war was still raging in South East Asia and he figured all the men must have gone there.

After a few weeks, Buddy fell in love with Primrose. They danced under the moonlight, and he fell for her like no other woman in his life before. The weeks passed, and he worked on her father's land, helping to harvest the crops. All along that full valley, the agricultural earth got gleaned of its bounty. When the work got done, and the very last bushel accounted for Primrose told Buddy there was to be a Harvest Festival in his honour. The reasoning she said was because he was the last person to enter the town and the elders would like to get to know him more. After all, he was a fine virile young man and the community needed such people to help bring life to the town.

           

Primrose looked stunning that afternoon. She was dressed all in white. She kissed Buddy so hard and passionate while they got ready to go down to the Town Hall. She squeezed him and loved him and told him how her body ached for him. She didn’t tell him she was carrying his baby.

About four, her friend Betty turned up in a black sedan car to take them.

 "My you look real handsome Buddy," she cooed. "I bet all the girls will be tripping over themselves to have the first dance." Buddy smiled. "Thank you for everything. Forgiving me faith again."

He was led down the aisle of the Town Hall by Primrose. At the far end, there appeared to be some alter. On both sides, the town's folk were clapping him on the back and wishing him congratulations. They were smiling and calling out his name. Buddy thought it was the most beautiful surprise in his life that the woman he loved should have done all this for him. He thought they were to be married.

When they reached the front of the congregation, most people fell silent. Buddy and Primrose climbed the steps towards a large corn dolly perched above the gold vessels on the table of the altar. A delegation of elders came from the sides of the small stage towards them.

            “Buddy hold me honey” whispered Primrose.

His back towards the altar, the elders in white hoods stood either side of them in equal number. Buddy nestled in her neck and whispered sweet nothings about the deep love he felt for her. It was then that she plunged a sharp stiletto knife between his shoulder blades. Blood spurted over the vessels. He slumped forward towards the ground looking upwards at her eyes, desperately searching her face. Still, before he could call her name, she knelt and slit his throat, virtually severing his head off with the ferocity.

While he twitched in his death throes, the elders tied his ankles threw the rope over a low beam and hung him upside down above a tin bath and let his lifeblood ebb away. All the time the congregation were chanting in unison.

 "Mother Earth! Praise be to Mother Earth!"