Rusty Hammer wasn’t sure if it was the smell of breakfast drifting through the campground or Debra Lynn’s ringtone buzzing across the narrow countertop of the Airstream that woke him up first. Either way meant trouble, one just smelled like a better version of it.
He stared at the ceiling for half a second trying to remember where he was.
Then it all came back at once.
Double Fountain RV Park.
Oklahoma City.
Too much alcohol with a loud man in a Hawaiian shirt named Alton Pendergast.
And no phone call home.
By the third ring Rusty had already drafted three separate apologies in his head, each one worse than the last.
He hit the button.
“Rusty! I am SO sorry!”
That stopped him cold.
He sat up too fast and nearly cracked his head on the cabinet above the bed.
Outside the little trailer window, Alton stood beside a smoking grill in tube socks and sandals, waving a pair of tongs like a symphony conductor. He mouthed silently:
“Coffee’s ready!”
Meanwhile Debra Lynn was talking at a speed usually reserved for tornado warnings.
“I meant to call you three different times last night, I swear to God. Trey and I got out the old family photo albums and started going through pictures. Then I opened that wine Lucinda gave us for our anniversary.”
“The expensive one?” Rusty asked cautiously.
“You said it tasted like melted crayons.”
“It did.”
“Well apparently it improves after midnight.”
Rusty rubbed his eyes and waited for the ambush that never came.
“Trey stopped by Eggs & Ammo after closing and brought home a twelve pack of Lone Star and chicken tamales. The Peterson boy still remembered which ones you liked.”
That hit Rusty harder than he expected.
The Peterson kid had probably been fourteen years old the last time Rusty regularly bought those tamales.
Debra Lynn kept going.
“We stayed up all night talking. REAL talking. Trey finally admitted things with Grace Louise haven’t been good for a while.”
Rusty sat still now.
“He cried, Rusty.”
That did it.
Because Trey Hammer crying was like hearing somebody spotted snow on Paisano Pete. Technically possible. Spiritually unsettling.
“He said moving back home feels like God giving him another shot. Said taking over the store feels right. Grace Louise agrees. Apparently it’s the first thing they’ve agreed on in months.”
Outside, bacon hissed on Alton’s griddle.
Rusty felt something strange moving around in his chest. Relief maybe. Gratitude. Guilt. All tangled together like extension cords in the back room at Rusty Hammer Hardware.
“You forgive me for forgetting to call?” Debra Lynn asked softly.
Rusty swallowed.
“Sure, sugar.”
They exchanged their I-love-yous and hung up.
He sat there another moment staring at the dead phone screen before finally stepping outside.
The Oklahoma morning was cool enough to fool a man into thinking summer might never arrive. Dew clung to the grass. Somewhere in the distance an interstate hummed like electricity.
Alton had transformed the picnic table into a full breakfast spread that looked like Delgado had opened a franchise location beside the RV hookups.
“Food is my love language,” Alton announced proudly. “You strike me as a black coffee man.”
He handed Rusty a heavy pottery mug.
“Careful with that one. My oldest boy made it in junior high school.”
Rusty nodded politely and took a sip.
The coffee was perfect.
Then he saw it.
Parked beside Alton’s polished Homecrest trailer sat a gleaming 1958 Ford Fairlane 500 Skyliner retractable hardtop in Gulfstream Blue and Colonial White.
Rusty nearly dropped the mug.
“Well now,” Alton grinned. “Looks like somebody finally noticed the queen.”
The old Ford sat shining in the morning light like Eisenhower himself had ordered it special. Chrome stretched for miles. The paint looked deep enough to swim in.
Alton immediately launched into a detailed mechanical dissertation no human being had requested.
“352 Interceptor V8. Four-barrel carb. Power steering. Drum brakes all around. Retractable top don’t work worth a damn, but I’m fixin’ that once I get home.”
Rusty walked slowly around the car.
“You pull the trailer with this thing?”
“Absolutely do. Like Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz in The Long, Long Trailer except with less marriage counseling.”
Rusty laughed despite himself.
“Them wheel covers took me four years to track down. eBay at two in the morning is a dangerous thing for old men with feelings.”
Rusty kept admiring the Ford.
Alton noticed.
“You regret bringing the pickup now, don’t you?”
Rusty glanced back toward his faded F-100 sitting beside the Airstream looking like it hauled feed sacks for a living because it mostly had.
“Maybe a little.”
“Good. Means you’re still alive inside.”
Alton pointed toward the Sunliner proudly.
“My wife says I love this old Ford more than I love her.”
A long pause.
“Course that ain’t true.”
But he said it quieter than before.
The two men spent the rest of breakfast talking cars, trailers, highways, and all the places America used to be before chain restaurants and outlet malls started breeding along interstates like fire ants after rain.
By noon Alton slapped the picnic table and declared:
“We’re taking the Skyliner into town.”
“For what?”
“To educate you.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“Only emotionally.”
Which turned out to be exactly right.
The old Ford floated through Oklahoma City like a parade nobody had asked for.
People stared.
Kids pointed.
One man at a stoplight rolled down his window and shouted, “Beautiful car!”
Alton shouted back, “Thank you! My cholesterol paid for it!”
They drove past brick warehouses turned into breweries. Past the stockyards. Past shiny downtown towers reflecting clouds.
Alton narrated everything.
He had facts about buildings. Histories about intersections. Opinions about urban planning nobody on Earth had requested.
Rusty mostly listened.
Eventually the conversation slowed as the Ford turned down a quieter street lined with trees.
Then Rusty saw the empty chairs.
Rows of them.
Silent bronze and glass.
The Oklahoma City National Memorial.
Alton parked carefully beside the curb and shut off the engine.
For once he didn’t say anything immediately.
“You ever been here?” he finally asked.
Rusty shook his head.
“No sir.”
“Come on then.”
They walked slowly through the memorial grounds.
Water moved quietly beneath the Survivor Tree. Wind stirred across the empty chairs arranged in perfect rows, each one representing somebody who never made it home that morning.
Rusty had seen the bombing on television years ago. Everybody had.
But television had flattened it somehow.
Standing there was different.
Standing there felt personal.
Alton spoke softly now, giving history the same way he’d explained the Ford’s retractable roof mechanism earlier, except this time there wasn’t a trace of showmanship in him.
“One hundred sixty-eight people.”
Rusty nodded.
“Nineteen children.”
That one landed like a hammer.
Alton pointed quietly toward the smaller chairs.
Rusty suddenly thought about Trey as a little boy sitting cross-legged behind the hardware counter eating peanuts from the Coke machine display box because Debra Lynn hadn’t had time to fix supper yet.
He thought about the twins.
His daughter.
All those ordinary little moments a man barely notices while he’s busy paying invoices and rotating stock.
The memorial didn’t feel angry.
That somehow made it worse.
It just felt heavy.
Alton lingered by the reflecting pool for a long time.
Rusty didn’t interrupt him.
Traffic moved softly somewhere beyond the walls, but inside the memorial everything seemed suspended outside normal time.
Finally Alton cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said quietly, “reckon we better get moving before I start talking feelings.”
Rusty almost smiled.
Almost.
The drive back to Double Fountain felt different.
Even Alton talked less.
That evening Alton insisted on grilling steaks.
“You can’t leave Oklahoma without one proper sendoff meal.”
“I ain’t even decided where I’m headed.”
“Exactly. Best kind of travel there is.”
The steaks were thick enough to stop a bullet.
Alton cooked them over charcoal while the sun went down behind rows of RVs and fifth wheels and retired couples slowly orbiting America trying to outrun silence.
They ate beneath strings of campground lights while cicadas buzzed in the trees.
Alton talked again eventually.
About Missouri.
About fishing.
About retirement.
About his wife back home.
About all the dumb things men waste time being stubborn about.
Rusty mostly listened.
And sometime during the conversation he realized something strange.
Alton wasn’t really talking to fill silence.
He was talking because silence was dangerous.
Later, Rusty showered, packed his things, and turned in early.
Before shutting off the light he looked at the little pottery mug still sitting outside on the picnic table.
My oldest boy made it in junior high school.
Rusty stared at it longer than he meant to.
The next morning dawn arrived pale and gray.
Rusty hitched the Airstream to the old F-100 and drove toward the campground office to check out.
The young woman behind the counter smiled knowingly.
“Looks like you met Alton.”
Rusty chuckled.
“Yeah. Quite a character.”
“He take you to the memorial?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded softly.
“He takes everybody he can convince.”
Rusty shifted slightly.
“Guess he likes history.”
The girl behind the desk looked at him a moment.
Then her expression changed.
“His oldest son was a firefighter here in Oklahoma City.”
Rusty felt his stomach tighten.
“He died the morning of the bombing.”
The office suddenly seemed very small.
“He’s been staying here nearly three years now. Says he likes being close to his boy.”
Rusty said nothing.
“He takes people to the memorial because he says if folks remember what happened, then they remember his son too.”
Rusty stared through the office window toward Alton’s campsite across the park.
The Sunliner sat gleaming softly beneath the trees.
The pottery mug.
The stories.
The talking.
The silence.
“He probably gave you coffee in the mug his son made him,” she added gently.
Rusty couldn’t answer.
He just nodded once.
A few minutes later he climbed back into the F-100.
The old truck rattled to life with the familiar agricultural cough of machinery held together by habit and prayer.
He pulled slowly toward the highway.
At the campground exit he glanced once in the mirror.
Alton stood beside the Skyliner holding a coffee mug in one hand and waving with the other.
Rusty waved back.
Then he turned north for absolutely no reason at all.
The highway stretched ahead beneath a pale morning sky.
Mile after mile rolled beneath the tires while Rusty thought about Trey.
About the twins.
About his daughter.
About Debra Lynn reorganizing paint chips she’d ignored for twenty-five years because her son was finally home again.
Then he thought about the magazine rack Trey built in junior high wood shop.
Crooked as a politician’s campaign promise.
Rusty had nearly thrown it away three different times over the years.
One leg shorter than the others. Nails sticking out slightly crooked. Stain uneven.
Still sitting behind the register at Rusty Hammer Hardware.
Still holding seed catalogs and sale flyers.
Still there.
A man spends most of his life listening for words, Rusty realized.
But maybe the things that mattered most were the things people couldn’t quite bring themselves to say out loud.
The highway opened wider ahead of him.
Rusty popped open the vent window and let cool morning air flood the cab.
Behind him somewhere sat a blue-and-white Ford beside a quiet campground in Oklahoma City.
And beside it, a father still trying to keep his boy alive one conversation at a time.
13 responses to “RIDING SHOTGUN”
I always trust and respect a middle aged man who wears pull up white socks with sandals. I wish my daughter did.
Captain, once again you’ve hit me square between the eyes – still sitting here – just thinking …
I’ve visited Ground Zero several times.
Visited the Murrah Building site three, maybe four times – (again last month on our Route 66 drive).
Other disaster sites, as well, and with thoughts of other human tragedy, of the Shoah – the Holocaust.
They each harbor their special form of quiet – hosting a path toward reverence for those we never knew, never will know, who’s families didn’t get to share a part of life.
Each time, and for so many other times – knowing, or at least learning what loss does to families,
…and how some find a way to express – or find some form of release.
Sure, Alton was the “a bit too friendly – too close – too talkative – too pushy” stranger — at first.
He may never find the peace for which he searches, but he continues in his way. Searching. Sharing. Putting on that open, sharing, brave, friendly facade.
I wonder what he tells himself as he searches for a night’s sleep.
All the more reason to not judge – to not judge a book by its cover – to not assume we know what drives folks.
Dad was a career firefighter( also a WWII Seabee). Thankfully survived despite multiple injuries over the years.
Years back, our son survived the fire on an offshore dredge off the Texas coast. Once we learned of the fire and his safety, all the episodes of his grandfather rushing into structure fires, into refinery, and factory, and chemical plant fires brought back a rush of memories – especially of his injuries forcing retirement, and thankfully of his survival.
We don’t know the weight the other fellow is carrying, or how he chooses to deal with it –
better not to judge.
and by the way, somehow my Folgers has turned less satisfying,
so I’m trying an old New York blend –
Chock full o’ Nuts.
We’ll see how the day goes.
Thanks for the ride,
see you down the road.
Always enjoy the Marty Perspective. One word of caution: be careful of that Chock Full O’ Nuts. I went down that rabbit hole and finally had to go back to Folgers. Couldn’t deal with all the extra hair on my chest. (Although Buttercup found it kind of sexy in a Tom Selleck kind of way.)
Funny. I went through a Chock Full O’ Nuts phase way back in my 20’s; loved the stuff. For some reason, it had the opposite effect, follicle-wise. One advertising guy I met wanted me to model for the Abercrombie and Fitch catalog! Now, I stick with Java and Sumatra as I swing from vine to vine . . .
Walking through mid-town Manhattan back in the 1950s/1960s, the heady aroma from the Chock full O’ Nuts shops in and around Times Square was a delight. Back in Linden, New Jersey, our local A&P ground your choice of coffee right in front of you –
Red Circle, Eight O’ Clock, and Bokar – ok, but not the same as a store on Broadway !
The aroma this morning brought back thoughts of friends and opportunities decades removed – my Time & Life Building office, Radio City Music Hall, half a dozen Broadway musicals, designing my Bayou Lady’s engagement and wedding rings in the diamond district, trumpets at Manny’s, Birdland Union headquarters, after hours jam sessions at some of the clubs — and then a new life in Cajun Country with coffee and chicory, Bourbon Street, Spanish Moss, driving vintage cars all year long – life is a blend, and I’ll keep stirring.
When first meeting Alton, my irritation started rising, then I thought, you know, some people help others in a strange way, so I decided to just wait and see.
Then as I was reading today’s story, I tried to see what the purpose was, and how to compare him. The closest that I could come to was a bee. Rarely do bees seek us out to do harm and sting us, but most of the time they’re just buzzing away, doing their thing, pollinating the flowers, keeping us alive, and making us better. Many times we don’t notice them and don’t even know it.
“Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always.” – Robin Williams
Robin Williams – a Zany Genius, gone way too soon at age 63.
Seeing Robin live, in person with friends and family, ad-libbing and reacting with an audience, what an unforgettable experience – at times he seemed half a mile ahead of multiple versions of himself
Robin Williams –
I love to tell this article, I tell it over and over:
Coach Darrell Royal was asked if Earl Campbell was in a class by himself.
His reply was, He may not be in a class by himself, but it doesn’t take long to call the roll.
That is Robin Williams – it’s hard to not say that he is the only one, but boy, that is a very, very, small class! What talent!
That’s one right in the feels this morning, Captain.
By a coincidence of work scheduling, I was in OKC the day the remains of the Murrah building was imploded. I heard the blast inside my building a mile or so away…I imagine McVeigh’s bomb was louder. A memory that I’ve tucked away; I probably should bring it out more often.
Dang it cap! Saw it, but didn’t see it…
Nothing more damaging than the loss of a child
Had a nieghbor lost their oldest in a car accident, he was 35 two kids; T-boned by and 85 year old who just had cataract surgery…so wasteful
Nieghbor lives were life before Johnny, and life after Johnny….they lived long lives well into their 90’s
faith was all that kept them sane…deep deep spiritual faith
Hey Cap’n – I wrote a long response from the heart, but then the computer made it go “POOF” – lucky for you! Suffice to say this story was incredibly hard to reread to S this morning and we’ve both exhausted our tear ducts!
Olá Brian!