The Forgetting-Part 3

This town runs on free drinks

Part 3

“Is

this the man?” Sheriff Tolland asked as Jerry came
around the front of the

truck.

“That’s
him,” Jerry Fowler said, hitching up his pants, and

stomping
over to stand beside Tolland, removing his Deklab logo cap with the
flying

ear of corn on it from his large head and adjusting his
thinning hair. The two gazed

at the character whom Jerry had brought
from Jody Silvermores house, looking in at the

slouched man who
peered out through the dusty windshield. His hair was rumpled,

his
clothes unkempt, his face worn and beaten, confused. He gazed about
himself,

unsure, out the window, listlessly, blankly.

“You
said over the phone that he

gave Miss Silvermore a scare,”
Tolland asked. First the tragedy of Glenn Standoff, and

now this
fellow.

“Sure
enough.” Jerry informed him, recalling the hurried

whispered
phone conversation with his young

neighbor.

“How
so?”

“Ah,
mumbling to himself, talking of things

weren’t there, head pains,
sweating a lot, that kind of stuff.”

“What
did

he say?”

“He
talked of how he had something to sell. That’s why she let him in

the
first place. Said he’d been travelling for a long time, wanted to
know if

there was a river nearby. Lots of nonsense.” Jerry
related.

“How
was he

on the way over?”

“Fine,
just fine, like he is now. Tired like, mumbled

something about
selling electric lanterns.”

“Why’d
she let him

in?”

Jerry
exchanged a glance with Tolland, giving time and weight to his

reply.

“Ms.
Silvermore, she’s one of those people who are willing to listen

to
others…”

”
Always can use more folks like that. Well let’s see him

then,”
Tolland opened the door and Jon stared out at him, a human

blank.

“Mr.
ah, Fontaine, I’m Sheriff Tolland, would you mind stepping out of

the
cab for me?”

The
man shrank at Tollands’ authoritative voice, then

straightened
himself up with a quick nervous glance, his eyes never once resting
on

the Sheriff who addressed him.

“That’s
right, Fontaine’s my name,” he spoke,

watching something
invisible creep along the ground. “Selling’s my game, I can

sell
you a fine pair of… of…” he rubbed his forehead, heavy with
worry

lines.

“No
Jon,” the Sheriff explained patiently. “Would you please
just get

out of the cab.”

“Oh
yes, no trouble, no trouble. Just let me get my suitcase

and show you
a few things, I’m sure you’ll be interested…” Jon exited

the
truck, dragging his dilapidated briefcase with him. He swung it up
onto the

hood of the truck and began to open it, scrambling at the
locks. Tolland stopped him

with a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank
you, but that won’t be necessary. I would

simply like to ask you a
few questions if I may.”

Jon
stopped. He looked

puzzled. He wondered if this man did, or did not
want to buy anything. He began think

that Tolland might be a hard
sell, like those folks from Stull, that town in Kansas.

Or that group
in California, in the desert.

“Would
you mind coming this way

with me,” Tolland said, indicating the
police station with a wave of his hand. “I can

offer you some
coffee, if you’d like.”

Never
say no to a potential buyer,

Jon thought, and accepted, moving up the
steps into the low, squat brick building.

Tolland followed him,
giving a nod to Jerry as he passed by.

“Thanks
Jerr,

maybe you can let Miss Silvermore know not to worry. I don’t
think she was in any

danger.”

Jerry
nodded in reply, watching the hunched, furtive man with the

strange
suitcase enter the building. As the Sheriff held the door open for
him, Jon

looked back, holding Jerry’s eyes for a moment. Jon’s face
was out of focus,

wobbling a bit like hot asphalt on a sunny day.
Jerry rubbed his eyes, disbelieving,

thinking he should get those
damn cataracts checked out.

Tolland
led Fontaine, who gazed about at the public service messages taped to
the

walls and bulletin boards, inside the small brick police station.
Jons head bobbed

about like a figure whose head was attached to a
spring.

The
sheriff

escorted the stranger past the small jail cell, merely an
adequate holding room for

the drunks and small-time thieves who often
passed through, or if they were a local,

passed out. Jon paused as he
went by the bars, than on into a small room where he sat

in a chair
which Tolland indicated.

“You
ever get that boy,

Dillinger?”, setting his suitcase on the
table.

“Dillenger?
John Dillinger?”

Tolland stopped, momentarily confused.
Dillenger was ages ago.

”
Yeah,

Dillenger, bank robber fellow, you know, public enemy number
one!” Fontaine made a

rat-tat–tat sound and made like he was
shooting a tommy-gun. Tolland stared, than

caught himself.

”
Well Jon,a G-Man got him, Marvin Purvis I think, shot him in

the
back, in Chicago.”

“I
met Purvis once, We ate breakfast together. Fella

wasn’t too happy I
thought.”

“Purvis
killed himself, almost sixty years

ago.”

The
sheriff sighed, facing the individual across from him. Breakfast

with
dead people was it. Looked like he’d have to call around, over

to
Danmeyrburg, the big hospital center up there. He might just have to
drive him

up there himself. Dammit all… another thing to make the
pastoral small town life

disappear in the haze of a busy schedule.
They didn’t get many crazies wandering

through here, had that
homeless guy staying up in the woods by the rail station last

year…
he’d moved on though. Hadn’t seen him since. No, this guy was
different,

couldn’t take care of himself. Amnesia? he thought. It was
a possibility, but the guy

seemed pretty sure of his name, just real
confused.

”
Can you tell me Jon,

where you are from?”

Jon fiddled with his hands, as if trying to say

something, but
stopped.

“I…
I’ve got some things to sell, vacuum

cleaners…”

”
Do you know anyone, a friend of yours maybe… can you remember

how
you got here?”

Jon
fidgeted. The sheriff was a hard person to

please.

”
How old are you?” the sheriff slowly began writing down notes

in
an official ledger.

“Oh,
45.” was the reply. Jon opened his briefcase and

began to root
about in it, searching for something. Tolland stared at him,

taking
in his features, a hint of sadness seeming to wash over his face. He
is a

crazy, Tolland thought. There is something wrong with his

hard
wiring.

“Hey,
you might like this sheriff, what do you say?” Jon pulled

out a
breakfast cereal box, faded yellow, large action writing letters
spelling out

‘Wheaties’ streamed across the front. Below the words
was a picture of a clean cut

30′s style gentleman, a wide grin on his
face, and smiling 30′s clean cut kids

gazing up at him with
worshipping eyes. More words were inscribed on the box.

“Marvin
Purvis eats Wheaties, and Junior G-Men should too!”

“Where’d
you

get that Jon,” Tolland asked, upset by the box. It didn’t
seem… right, somehow,

like it was some kind of printed joke.

“I,
sell it, I sell these. why, I got a

whole series of them. Buy the
lot, I can get you a good discount!”

“I
can

buy them myself in the store. And these look rather old. Why
should I buy your old

ones when I can get fresh Wheaties with Micheal
Jordan on the cover, not some old,

whoever.”

“But
these are sealed fresh, in this, this plastic thing, keeps them

fresh
forever..fresh forever!.” Jon thrust the box at Tolland, gazing
earnestly

into the sheriffs’ face.

“See,
I sell these! I sell

these!”

Fontaine
was obviously becoming agitated, Tolland thought, leaning back

slow
and easy into his chair. Just get the vital information, then call up
the

Danmeryburg hospital and see when they can come and collect him.
Meanwhile, keep him

calm.

“Where
are you from, Jon?” He tried asking again.

“I
move

around a lot. I’m a travelling salesman. My home is the road,
hotels. My job is to

bring the product to you, the consumer.” he
sounded like a

textbook.

“Where
were you born?”

Jon
took a moment at that

question, thinking, than lifted his head.

“Can’t
seem to recall, now…

somewhere in the sticks, at least, that’s what
mother always

said…”

“Out
in the boondocks?” Tolland rephrased jovially, thinking back

to
a certain 1950′s song he had heard on the am oldies channel.

“No,
the

sticks.”

“Okay,
the sticks. What exactly are you doing here in Shrewsbury? Are

you
staying, passing through, have relatives here?”

“Well,
I mean, the

bosses, you know, always want me to sell, that’s my job
you know, the bosses… they,

but I been travelling a long time and,
but Shrewsbury… I think, maybe I’ll settle

down… just have to ask
the bosses, get their permission and

all.”

Yes,
Tolland realized, ok. Definitely signs of some kind of paranoia,

and
his syntax is breaking up. Could that be the schizophrenia?

“What
bosses

are those?” he asked, putting aside his notes. Now he
really just wanted to examine

this personality in front of him, see
just how far Mr. Fontaine was gone into

delusion.

“Who
are they?”

Fontaines
face froze at the question, small

tics working their way across his
cheeks as he tried to speak, gagging on the first

few words. They
rolled out of his mouth with the texture of a dripping

slurpee.

“The,
them, it, I, well, Mr. Sheriff, you, you’re the

boss…”

“No,
I’m not your boss, Jon, I thought I was your client. You were

trying
to sell me a box of old corn flakes.”

“They
were Wheaties, and a good

deal too! But no,” realization dawned
upon Jons’ face, his tangled brain drawing from

some intact portion
an awareness, a brief light.

“You
are all my bosses, you

want me to sell this too you, because you want
to buy it from

ME!”

“Buy
what?” Tolland sensed the rise in the man’s anger and
frustration

that anxiously worked its way in waves across his face,
rippling the tightness of the

muscles.

“This!”
Jon screamed, leaping from his chair, thrusting the

apparently
unsealed box of cereal at Tolland, its’ top bursting open,

scattering
moldy, broken brown wheatie flakes all over Tollands desk and

his
pressed grey uniform. The crazed individuals hand began to

shake
uncontrollably, spewing nervous explosions of more and more wheaties
across

the desk, spilling onto the sheriffs lap. A plastic wrapped
toy bounced out, hitting

him in the face.

“That’s
enough, Mr. Fontaine, sit down now! Calm down NOW!”

Standing,
the flakes cascading off him in streams, Tolland swiped the box

from
Jon’s hand, pushing the man forcefully back into his seat.

Fontaine
sank dejectedly into his chair as suddenly as he had exploded from
it,

muttering incoherently, plucking at his briefcase, arranging and
rearranging scraps

and objects distractedly, his eyes vacant. Tolland
relaxed and sat back down, pulling

the tiny wrapped toy out from
where it made an impression on the seat of his pants.

Examining the
object for a second, he saw it was a junior G-Man’s badge,

imprinted
shiny plastic with the words G-Man on it, followed by the word
Detroit.

He slipped it into his pocket and looked back at the slumped
figure of Fontaine, an

unearthly exhaustion consuming his face. It
was time to call the hospital.

Jack
hurried towards the bar, looking at his watch and

swearing. Damn, he
was almost half an hour late for that beer with Peter. He glanced

at
the Sheriff in front of the police station, talking to some weirdo,
as he

scooted up the steps to the bar.

“Jack!
Glad you could make it,” Peter

slapped him on the back
sarcastically as he came in. He’d known Jack for a few months

now,
had met him on an early morning workout run. A friendly enough
outward guy,

popular with all the girls in town, but he wasn’t really
much more than a drinking

buddy. He didn’t have the kind of
conception of a future that Peter really liked in a

good friend.

Wiping
the sweat off his forehead, Jack sat with a

sheepish grin, ordering a
tall dark.

“Sorry
man, I was just helping

Cindy, and..”

“Yeah,
heard it all before,” Peter said, stifling an

exaggerated yawn.
“You’re in love again, right? Come on, what’s up with

Janine?”
Jack frowned, saying nothing. It wasn’t that he was being rude,

Peter
knew, he could actually see the tiny, slow cogs in Jack’s brain
trying to

deal with his infidelity.

“Don’t
worry about it, man, drink

up.”

“Didja
have to wait long?” Jack asked in a surly tone, sipping

his
beer.

“Yeah,
but I had a drink with Gresham. Well, he had

coffee…”

“That
old crazy guy?”

“He’s
not crazy,” Peter retorted,

feeling his face grow red. His peers
sense of judgement was at times offensive. “He’s

just an old
guy, gone through some hard times.”

”
Whatever.” Peter sensed

Jacks entire lack of concern or interest
in the older character. And when your parents

get old? he wondered.
Will you just slip them into some old retirement home, lock them

away
from the world? Probably not, at least not with what they cost today.
Sliding

in a swivel from his stool, Peter walked to the big front
window of the bar. The last

sliver of sun was descending, bathing the
main street in diffused red. He downed more

beer, gaining strength
from the pastoral, small-town calm of the

streets.

“What
was that?” he said, turning, catching the sound of a

question.

“I
said, your too damn sensitive, Petey. Loosen up a bit! Sitting

around
with all your damn books…” Jack said.

“Books
are the only thing

worth having a relationship with,” Peter
muttered under his breath, half to convince

himself, half feeling
ashamed that he agreed, at least in part, with Jacks criticism.

He
looked down at his untied shoe, biting his lip.

“What
you need is a

girlfriend,” Jack nodded, looking, Peter suddenly
realized, just like the typical jock

he was.

“Sure,
I’ll just get a pair of gym shorts and an exercycle, and my

problems
are over. No thanks. I run, I like to run, I like to be

alone.”

“Fine,
” Jack said, standing up, his spandex stretching over

his
well-toned biceps. “I know you care about your studies, I just
think you should

get out a little more. Josie’s having a party
thursday. You should show up. At the

very least, there’ll be plenty
of free drinks.”

“This
town runs on free

drinks,” Peter said, wishing he could just
finish up his project here and move back to

Pittsburgh. Why the
vikings had to land here in Shrewsbury, the smallest fucked up

town
east of the Mississippi, was a constant source of regret for

him.

Jack
stood up, throwing some change on the bar.

“Anyway,
I

gotta go. Thursday at seven?” he pointed at Peter, who
continued to scowl. “Fine. I

know a grinch when I see one.”
he said, letting himself out the dilapidated bar door.

Peter waved,
watching him disappear into darkening dusk. He sighed and stood

up,
walking to the window. What Jack had said was right, in a way. He
hated that

sense of passiveness that always overcame him when he was
away from his books. Though

it was abind, because when he was
studying, he often wished he was out socializing.

Catch-22, he
thought. It seemed like his life was a network of failures,

linking
together in his memory, becoming stronger and more impenetrable as
time

passed. He turned and gulped his drink, thinking of the stacks
of books, computer

files, and old pictograms that awaited him at
home. Someday, Jack would come running

to him with a problem, Peter
thought; he was predictable in that way. It was going to

be a
scenario about sleeping with the wife of some rowdy backwoods
redneck, who was

going to find out and come a’ hunting. Peter laughed
at himself, recognizing the tiny

desire in him to be more like Jack.
It would be nice to have a girl, at least, someone

to love…. his
last relationship had been a disaster.

He
recalled

that young woman he had seen around town, how he’d helped
her with her groceries

once, passed her in the bar. Sheriff Tolland
had told him she was a writer, wrote kids

books, lived up on
Northfolk road. If he saw her this week, maybe he’d get up the

nerve
to actually ask her out to the party. Even though he generally shied
away

from socially lubricating events, it was an excuse, and as they
said, Peter grinned

coolly to himself, any excuse in a storm.
Besides, she just might be the only one

compatible in this po-dunk
place. Returning to the barstool, he sipped at his beer,

watching the
minutes blur into hours. Eventually, drunk, he stumbled, out into

the
refreshing night air. Relaxing onto the bench outside he watched the
town

slowly close up, only a light from Larrangetty’s video rental
store next to the

sometimes operational movie theatre the Realto,
remained lit. It was a cool night, and

already the stars were more
clear than they had been in the moisture filled skies of

summer.
Sitting in his shadow, he numbly watched the big dipper. Peter
breathed in

the calm, cool air, enjoying the feeling of being drunk,
the loneliness, and the utter

lack of any pressure to move.