Marcus #T

Marcus walked through the main door of the family restaurant on the southwest corner where two busy streets meet.  First time visit, so Marcus surveyed the place carefully before choosing a table as the sign posted at this hour read, "Please Seat Yourself."  To his left and toward the west end of the building was a large dining area, six booths along the south wall and many tables throughout the room, most arranged to seat four, a few small ones for two, and three round tables with six chairs.

Straight ahead past the buffet he saw another dining area, brightly lit, full windows on the east and north walls.  Just before entering this area, though, there is a diner-type horseshoe shaped counter with eight stools-- the perfect place for the single diners to sit unmolested or to swap lies with other men of like station in life.  There was but one occupant at this bar.  Tall guy, old.  Marcus would decline to guess an age, but the white hair, the cords down the back of the neck, the mottled hands, one holding a fork, the other a biscuit, all suggested the many years it had taken to develop to this stage.

As Marcus walked slowly past the counter he noted further that the blue jeans were Wranglers® well-worn to a dusty blue shade, not quite threadbare at the knees, but sharply creased and with no holes.  The shirt was western-cut, snap front and long sleeves, each with three snaps tightly fastened around the wrists.  Vertical narrow stripes, alternating brown, beige and black.  The boots, too, were western, brown, highly polished, roach-kicker toes.

On the stool next to this diner, this relic from an earlier day, was a black Stetson, brim up, the famous Stetson picture clearly visible inside the crown of the hat.  Marcus noted the "X X X X X X" inside the leather hatband.  Superb quality, yet not the most expensive hat Stetson ever made.

Marcus, alone again after decades of togetherness with his beloved, took a seat at the other end of the horseshoe.  The old timer never so much as glanced toward the newcomer.  Marcus, though, continued to study the subject, the familiar mien, the craggy brow, the long, slightly hooked nose, the moderately upturned handlebar moustache all spoke to Marcus.  They said, "You know me, don't you, fella?"  Marcus turned his eyes to the waitress as she asked what he'd have to drink.  As he replied, "Water with lemon, please," a strange and uneasy feeling crept up his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck tingled, and as he turned to look once again at the man opposite him it felt as though a monstrous fist grasped his heart and squeezed it.  Marcus realized that he was looking at himself seated on the opposite turn of the horseshoe.

In a moment Marcus recovered, forced his left hand to reach for his billfold.  He took two singles from the wallet, placed them on the counter, rose from his seat. and walked quickly from the restaurant.  The old man never lifted his eyes, continued to concentrate on shoveling his food into his mouth.

Marcus very nearly ran across the parking lot to his car and very soon the entire town disappeared in the rear view mirror.  The memory would haunt Marcus until his eighty-fifth birthday, the day he drove through this village again, pulled into the parking lot of the family restaurant on the southwest corner . . .

 ©David W. Lacy 2017

Intersections #T

The road stretched in a seemingly endless ribbon.  It was as though the driver could see two days into the future.   The broken white center-line zipping by was beginning to have a deleterious hypnotic effect on the over-tired operator.  The Crown Vic drifted to the right, but the rumble .strip alerted Marcus to the danger and he pulled the car back into the lane.  He would be in Dalhart in a few minutes.

As Marcus entered the town from the northeast, he noted the Tri-State Motel on his left.  This only served to remind him of the extreme tiredness he was experiencing.  He was exhausted, yet how he hated to stop at this point.  Soon he saw the Ford dealership on the left.  He really must get that tail light fixed before dark.  Now was the time to take care of that.  He pulled in, parked near the service bays and walked into the service department entrance.

Marcus approached the high counter behind which a blond young man wearing a "Ford" ball cap looked up.  With a start, he thought "I know this man."  Yet he had never been in Dalhart in his life.  He placed his request for service, signed the work order, then he was escorted to the customer waiting area.  "Car'll be ready in forty-five minutes," the service manager told him.  Without looking in that direction, Marcus knew that to his right would be the receptionist.  He knew that she was an attractive middle-aged woman with short auburn hair.  There would be a nameplate on her desk, "Virginia Templeton."  The sales manager would be Chuck Lawton, whose office is right next to the reception area.

Marcus's heart was pounding and the eerie feeling that rushed over him was beyond explanation.  He had never been in Dalhart, yet he knew these things without any doubt whatsoever.

Two years earlier on a very warm Saturday afternoon in late September, Madeleine Wallace stood in front of the dealership's showroom with the young couple who were taking delivery on the new Fusion she had sold them.  Chuck snapped a photo of the three smiling people standing next to the vehicle, Maddy shook hands with the young wife and with her husband.  They drove away and Maddy walked back into the showroom, into her cubicle, and retrieved her purse.  "G'night, Ginny! I'm off to celebrate a good day.  Y'all have a happy weekend."

Maddy walked, virtually skipped, to the east side of the building where the program Mustang she was driving these days was parked.  She really liked the way the 'Stang handled, but she hated the lime green color Ford had chosen for this particular car.  She would be so happy when her new driver would be ready in November.  Maddy turned left onto Liberal and headed west into town.  She and Hubs would be at the Amarillo Country Club this evening for dinner with Sis and her new beau! Sunday she would get to visit with her best friend from high school days.

The green coupe entered the five-points intersection with the light.  The heavily laden semi coming from the south on 385 blew through the light.  The attendants at the hospital were able to determine from her driver's license that Maddy was an organ donor.  Her grieving husband, though in shock, verified that Maddy's wish was to help as many people as possible should something like this ever happen.

Early in October, Marcus kept his appointment with the surgeon who would effect his corneal transplant.  The operation was very successful, and Marcus's vision was clearly better when the bandages were removed.  In a matter of weeks the happy man found his eyesight to be much improved.

© 2013 David W. Lacy

Boston Molasses Disaster #T

How fast is molasses in January?  According to this great unplanned examination of the question, thirty-five miles an hour.

Near Commercial Street between Copp's Hill and North End Park there stood a vast tank, 58 feet tall and 90 feet in diameter.  This tank was filled with molasses.  January 15, 1919 was a warm day in Boston, the temperature having risen from the twenties to about 41 degrees.  The tank burst.  The ensuing flood took the lives of horses, dogs, cats, and 21 human beings.

It is said that it took about two weeks for more than 300 workers to clean up the molasses.  The harbor was still brown with the stuff the next summer.  The hearings at law were finally completed after six years, proving once again that laborers work faster than lawyers, of whom there were so many that the courthouse wouldn't hold them.  The United States Industrial Alcohol Company which owned the molasses claimed the flood was the result of sabotage.  They were held liable and had to pay out claims in excess of six hundred thousand dollars, which would amount to many millions in today's inflated dollars.  The company went out of business.

Some say that on a warm day, one can still smell molasses in the area.  Of course, there are some who still say the Earth is flat.

(I posted a companion piece about the Beer Flood back in October.)

Sources:
1. John Mason, “Eric Postpischil's Molasses Disaster Pages, Yankee Magazine Article,” Eric Postpischil's Domain, 14 June 2009, <http://edp.org/molyank.htm> accessed 14 January 2013.
2. Wikipedia, including image

The London Beer Flood #T

occurred on October 17, 1814 in London, England.

The Meux and Company Brewery on Tottenham Court Road had several huge vats to hold the product of their enterprise. A vat containing 135,000 imperial gallons of beer ruptured, causing several other vats to burst releasing a total of over 300,000 gallons. The beer ran into the streets. Two houses were destroyed and a wall of a nearby pub succumbed. Worse, in this poor neighborhood many families lived in basement rooms that filled with beer. Eight people lost their lives in the torrent.  A ninth person succumbed to alcohol poisoning. Yes, the survivors literally drank ale in their cupped hands from the muddy puddles in the streets, or recovered vessels in which to take and partake of the boon. Waste not, want not. 

 The foul odor remained for weeks.

Ultimately the company who owned the brewery was sued in court, but the court ruled that the accident was “an act of God.” No responsibility was imputed to the proprietors.*

The company itself, though, was facing extreme difficulty because of the financial loss due to the loss of product and sales; and that was exacerbated by the fact that they had already paid the duty on the beer.  But, Government to the rescue! Parliament allowed the management to recover the duty, which allowed them to continue operations.

The brewery no longer exists.  Meux was eventually bought out by others.

*I think it might have been an act of fermentation within the confines of an inadequately banded wooden vat.  Or it might have been an act of God.