Jock Stewart Cleans Up the Town
(For fans of the movie "Shane.")
After falling asleep, I drive into a one-stoplight town wearing a fedora. I’m the one with the Smith Corona typewriter and the hat; the town appears etherized on the harsh Texas landscape
As I approach a small newspaper office named The Aurora, a kid follow s me with his eyes. He calls to his father.
“Somebody’s comin’, Pa.”
“Well, let him come, Joey.”
I stop at a narrow creek and climb down out of my Willys. “I hope you don’t mind my dipping up some water for my old radiator at your place,” I said.
“It's all right,” says Joey,” rolling a sheet of paper into the old Remington typewriter next to the front door.
The sound of the platen startles me. I pull the loaded Smith Corona off she shotgun seat, tense, waiting, he knows I’ve got the drop on him.
“You’re a bit touchy,” says the boy’s father, stepping outside with his wife next to his son.
“Habit,” I explain.
His wife is a fetching woman and we acknowledge each other as people who could have met under other circumstances on the back road of another universe on a night when she snared me with a little black dress, and we married, had a family, and lived sweet throughout our days. Then we let it go.
“Joey, you know better than to point that Remington at people.”
“Bet you can type,” he says.
“Little bit,” I respond.
An old truck pulls up next to the creek. Several men get out like they own the place. The lettering below the driver’s side window says Junction City Mud Slinger.
“I don’t want trouble, Joe,” his wife tells him.
“Take the boy inside, Monique,” says Joe. Then he turns to the veteran newsman getting out of the truck with a pair of well-notched Royals. “You’re on the wrong street, Ryker.”
“I’m not here for trouble, Starret,” says Ryker. “Who might this be, he asks.”
“Jock,” I say, without offering him my hand.
Ryker shrugs like I’m a washed up reporter there to beg for a job. I shrug back. Ryker doesn’t like that. I can tell by the way his grip tightens around the Royal in his right hand.
“Starret, I came to inform ya. I got that printing contract for the new asylum. I’m telling ya now, I’m gonna need all my town’s resources.”
“Now that you’ve warned me, would you mind gettin’ off my place?”
“Your place! You’re gonna have to get out before the snow flies,” says Ryker. His boys laugh and nod in agreement like they share a single brain.
“And supposin’ I don’t?”
“You and the other squatters…”
“Businessmen,” says Joe.
“I could blast you out of here right now, you and the others,” says Ryker.
“Ryker, they’re building a state pen on County Road 3724 for guys who think they can blast a man off his own place.”
“What do you say about that, Jock?” Ryker asks me.
I push the carriage of my Smith Corona all the way to the right. “I’m a friend of the Starretts.”
“Well, Starrett, you can’t say I didn’t warn ya.” The men climb into the truck. Ryker drives through the vegetable garden as he shifts into second gear.
After a elegant dinner, compliments of Monique, I drive into town to buy the kid a soda-pop. He wants me to teach him how to type, but that’s a part of my life I’d rather forget.
Grafton’s Mercantile, a two-story building that needs paint, is filled with copy editors and compositors from the Mud Slinger, all drinking bad whiskey and smoking roll-your-own cigarettes.
I recognize columnist Jack Wilson, dressed in black and ready for a funeral, his Underwood near at hand.
“Name your poison, stranger,” says Grafton.
“Coke.”
“Coke?”
“That’s what I said.”
“We don’t sell much Coke in these parts,” says Grafton. “The kids all drink Dr. Pepper. The men drink bourbon.”
“Interesting,” I say.
Ryker walks over and hands me a Coke from the icebox.
“Best you take this out to The Aurora and then ride on out of town,” he says.
Wilson, who’s been pretending to be asleep up to now, stands up and says, “Junction City ain’t the kind of town that needs a Jock Stewart.”
“Nor a Jack Wilson,” I respond.
“What’s that name mean to you?” asks Wilson.
“Jock, I wouldn’t pull on Wilson,” says Ryker.
“I know who he is, Ryker. I’ve heard about him.
“What have you heard, Jock?” asks Wilson
“I’ve heard that you’re a low-down yellow journalist.”
Wilson smiles.
“Prove it.
Wilson is already reaching for his Underwood, but I catch him between the eyes with a cartridge lead before his weapon cleans the tabletop. Ryker is reaching for his Royals, but I whirl and drop him with a strong action verb. Then I pick up the Coke and head for the front door.
“Jock, look out.”
Joey must have followed me on his bike. But there’s the society editor firing on me with his Olivetti. A wild gerund catches me, steals my breath away, but I’m on him with a barrage of prepositions and he falls back into a display of Snickers bars.
“Thanks, Joey.” I hand him the Coke as I climb up into the Willys.
“Come back to The Aurora, Jock. My bike will fit in the back.”
“Afraid not, Joey.
“Pa’s got things for you to do, and Mother wants you. I know she does.”
“I gotta be goin’ on, Joey.”
“Why, Jock.”
“A man has to be what he is, Joey. You can’t break the mold. I tried it and it didn’t work for me,” I say as I ease out on the clutch and begin moving west with the gathering night.
“Your shirt’s bloody, Jock. You’re hurt.”
“I’m all right, Joey. You go home to your mother and your father. Grow up to be strong and straight. And Joey, take care of them, both of them.”
“Yes, Jock.” The kid is crying.
I head out County Road 3724 past the cemetery and lose sight of Joey in my rearview mirror as I pass an old service station with a gleaming Desoto parked next to the high test pump. I don’t have the strength to shift out of first gear
But his words follow me, plaintive and ghostly.
“Jock! Jock! Come back Jock.”
