The Town

The Agreement | DISPATCH By Scott Evers

— no, Winston. — i’ll type it afterward. — half the thinking happens right here. — — okay okay.

Another dispatch from Scott Evers. Read for you by Geezer III.

… Jacques Helmand over at the Death Valley News asked if I’d write something about Cottuff. Folks pass through here asking what kind of town it is. I started to write: Cottuff is… No. A town’s harder to explain than that. Depends who’s asking. Mostly… depends what time of day you show up. ... Most towns wake up in the morning. Ours waits until the sun starts giving up. Patios fill. Garage doors roll open. Goodness. Somebody’s grandson tears down Main Street on a motorcycle he oughtn’t own. The Taco Shell collects people who only meant to buy gasoline. Coyotes announce themselves beyond the washes like they just punched in. Funny thing about a small town. You don’t really know where anybody is. You mostly know where they’re liable to end up. … Jacques wanted history. Railroads. Settlers. Truth is… I know the people. The Cooleys. McRaes. Olyphants. That’s history too. We’ve got Earl Matusuyama, who keeps spittoons in nearly every room so a man never interrupts his thinking. Never asked whether he was joking. Around here that feels impolite. Then there’s Gina Welsh. Closest thing we’ve got to a psychic. Lisa swore Gina knew things before they happened. Let’s see. … We’ve only got one traffic light. Sit there long enough and somebody’ll wave you through. Not because they’re impatient. Because they know you. People ask if I get lonely. Mercy. Sometimes I think folks borrow things just to make sure everybody’s still alive. Now… That sounds charming. Not always. You can’t disappear here. By breakfast everybody knows your business. ... Sometimes that’s kindness. Sometimes it’s excellent gossip wearing a kindness costume. Hard to tell the difference until years later. Some people leave. Phoenix. Las Vegas. Los Angeles. Some come back quieter. Like the desert had been talking while they were gone… and they finally listened. [thoughtful]Maybe that’s mostly what a town is. The way people agree to live together. One day you notice you’re living by rules nobody explained. Wave at every pickup. Miss one and somebody wonders whether they offended you. We hardly use turn signals. Everybody already knows where you’re headed. Home… or the Taco Shell. Favors spend better than dollars. Need a trailer? Somebody’s got one. Need a fence stood back up? Three trucks arrive. Need to be left alone? Hell... … We’re still working on that one. People notice. Some can’t stand it. Others leave because they have to. Kids mostly. Sometimes a place loves you enough to raise you… but not enough to keep you. Funny thing about desert towns. People think it’s the heat that changes you. No. It’s the distance. Drive long enough with nothing but your own thoughts… and eventually it’s your own voice you hear. Every place has stories. Ours has several. Lucky disappeared for three years. Everybody figured a coyote got him. One Tuesday morning he walked right down Main Street. Thinner. Grayer. Stopped for water outside the Taco Shell… then kept walking. Didn’t belong to anybody anymore. Nobody ever agreed where he’d been. That’s why we still tell it. The week before, Gina looked up from watering her tomatoes and said, “Don’t be surprised if somebody finds their way home.” Three days later Lucky did. Now half the town are believers. We had that murder over at the hot springs. I remember the picture. Body. Blood. Red water. Funny thing… People remember where they were when they heard about it more than the murder itself. Same with Manson coming through. History isn’t dates. It’s interruptions. Where supper stopped. [heavy western drawl]Where somebody put down a hammer. Some stories become part of the plumbing. Others… we don’t talk about. Long before the roads… before the nursery… before the Taco Shell… …there were people who knew every spring by name. Sometimes I wonder whether we’re borrowing this place… or slowly spending it. Sad truth. — Fred. — — I forgot. — — i’ve got a black shirt somewhere. — — if it still fits… we’ll both call it a miracle. — — i’ll see you there. ... Well… There you have it, Jacques. Truth is… by tomorrow morning it’ll be different. Some child’ll be born. Cal’ll fix something nobody asked him to. Fred’ll borrow another socket wrench. Too many motorcycles in this town. Best porch cocktails come from the Lemon sisters on Main. Damn it. I should have talked about the nights. Sorry. Gina’ll say something everybody laughs at… until Thursday. And we’ll all stand together in black saying goodbye to Willy. ... Maybe I’ll just tell Jacques… if he really wants to know Cottuff… he ought to stay the night. ... ... ... ...or come to a funeral.