"So I can't get a room there?"
"I'll tell you what," he said, as he noisily bused some dishes from the table, "bring up the cow thing I'd say there's a real good chance you won't. Of course, if I was to go with you, she might reconsider."
"So you'd be my character reference?"
"You seem like a decent enough fella, just a little confused about your travel plans."
He sat down again, smiled and swished his wine.
"I figure this way." he said. "Coming to a strange town without a place to stay makes you an optimist and there aren't many of them around—not at your age. For that reason alone I'd vouch for you. Besides, you may need a character witness when she smells that liquor on your breath."
"Which you gave me."
He shook his head gravely. "You ain't gonna fool her."
"I don't want to fool her. Is she some kind of prohibitionist?"
He said no, but it didn't matter. The image of Mrs. O'Leary was crystallizing with excruciating detail: a character out of Southern fiction perhaps—some quirky, withered, creaky old recluse from a Faulkner gothic by way of Poe or Flannery O'Connor, a throwback safely sequestered in a bygone era. American fiction was filled with them—tee-totaling spinsters unwilling and ultimately unable to adjust to the modern world, living an interior life while making only small and begrudging concessions to the current century. She had probably murdered her husband, or secretly given birth to an illegitimate child. Probably both—on the same day. And of course the husband's body was stored in the larder while the child—now probably college-age—was imprisoned inside a secret compartment adjacent to a hidden room behind a disappearing staircase. Not only did I know Mrs. O'Leary; I'd discussed her in my classroom. People like that had to exist; otherwise, authors wouldn't write about them.
Even so, I didn't want Walter accompanying me to the Widow O'Leary's. Nothing shouts failure more than having struck out on my own, then requiring assistance just to rent a room. (Of course I wasn't sure if she was in fact a widow, but the sound had a nifty nineteenth century literature feel.)
"I sort of need to make my own way."
"One of them there independence things. Yeah, I get it. Hey, you made it this far already. Another couple of feet should be easy."
"I'll give it a shot."
He cleared off the table. "Come back when she says no."
"You mean if."
"I don't often confuse those two words," he said with a grin. "But hey, she doesn't turn in much before 11:00. Dark as it was there, you still have time."
He picked up my empty wine glass and his mug.
"Let me give you a hand with those," I said.
Walter shook his head. "Res-taur-ant, remember? I clear the table: you pay for the meal."
"Jesus," I said. I was genuinely embarrassed. "What do I owe you?"
"You got a ten we'll call it square. Tip and shoes included."
"I've got a twenty if you have change."
"Well let's see," and he opened his wallet, "if I take all the money I made from all my other customers tonight and put it all together...."
I stopped him from shuffling through the empty compartments. I had a better idea.
"What if I give you a twenty and I'll just borrow against it, use it like a meal ticket. There doesn't seem to be anyplace else to eat around here."
"That's one hell of a testimonial," Walter said, smiling. "How about you eat here one more time and I'll take the twenty. If you do survive the night, you'll need breakfast. Then by the time the bus comes back…hell, you'll burn through forty bucks in no time."
"Then take it now. What's the difference?"
"The difference is it's my restaurant and I can choose to collect my money any way I want. Besides, if you haven't prepaid, it's easier to refuse you service the next time you come sloshing in here wearing wet shoes."
I laughed a little too loudly—it was probably the wine. "The motel owner won't put me up and the restaurant owner won't feed me. Is this the way things go in Sage? Just a little bizarre?"
"Yeah, I guess, about as bizarre as someone dressed for summer stepping off a bus in the middle of the night and standing out in the snow with running shoes that end up weighing about ten pounds each. And I believe I already mentioned the ‘no place to stay' part. I gotta tell you, Cal, a prisoner making an impulsive escape has a better plan than that. Is that what you did? Escape from prison?"
"It wasn't really the middle of the night, and it's not snowing."
"I don't hear you denying the prison. State or federal?"
"Never been arrested."
"Then you're running from something. Jilted girlfriend? Angry husband? Homeland Security? You said you have an ex. Does she know it or does she have some gumshoe out looking for you?"
"Gumshoe?"
"You grasp my meaning."
"None of those."
"Wow," he said with a broad grin, "if that's true I think we found your minority. The man with nothing to hide. Looks like you'll be able to sue for that room after all."
The triumphant smirk annoyed me—and so did the angry husband reference. I wasn't running from one—I was one, almost. But that fact had less to do with Walter Trucks than it did with Natalie. To Walter's credit, he seemed to know he was getting under my skin and that I'd probably had enough. After all, he had won the oratory segment of the evening's competition and had acquitted himself well enough in food preparation. There was little left to prove.
"Look," he said, sounding more conciliatory, "are we all right with the meal plan?"
"It's fine, Mr. Trucks."
"Mr. Trucks, huh? I guess I pissed you off."
I didn't say anything.
"I was just having a little fun with you. You don't look like a convict. And call me Walter. She's Mrs. O'Leary but I'm Walter. There ain't that many people in this town: if you're going to stay here, you may as well learn some names."
"I didn't say I was going to stay."
"Okay, I guess I assumed it. Not many people actually stop here on the way to somewhere else."
"Why not?"
"'Cause there are always easier ways to get somewhere else. Anyway, you can't go over to see her wearing those wet running shoes. She won't let you in. She's nowhere near as tolerant as I am."
He stood, walked back to the "slipper room," and emerged with a pair of brown penny loafers, the kind I last wore in college when some girl I was lusting after told me she liked them. Of course when I finally figured out she was never going to go out with me, first thing I did was throw them away. Second thing was to pick them out of the wastebasket in case she ever called. Now, a mere three decades later, I would have another pair to meet another somewhat older "girl" who was also not going to give me what I wanted. That circle of life crap may be true after all.
He gestured toward my duffel bag. "Got any dark socks in there? White looks ugly, plus yours are wet."
I told him I did. Navy, I think, or black. Half the time I can't tell the difference.
"Good, these shoes are size 10, fits most normal feet."
"I'm a ten and a half."
He looked down. "Like I said. If you like 'em, pay me later. I got more."
"I suppose there's a story behind this pair of shoes?"
"There's a story behind everything, Cal. Right now the story is they're drier than your shoes and more suitable than those slippers. Now get over there before she turns