"When you're laying there on that floor and they're counting, for nine seconds, all you can think is how free you are. But then you know, you gotta get up, and you gotta fight some more, cause if you don't, they're gonna kill you."
Dalton West is lost. Not in a physical sense, much deeper than that. From the time he'd awakened on the side of the road in an old pickup truck six months back, until today, was all he could remember. Even the name he carries is borrowed from a sticker on the back of that truck.
A fading polaroid image of a young boy, with a big, antique teddy bear that he somehow knows is him, and a small, silver medallion on a string around his wrist, are the only clues he has to who he might be, and what happened to make him forget everything else. Everything except an urge that keeps telling him someone's life depends on him remembering.
When he meets Leeanne, a small town girl, with even bigger problems, he'll put his search on hold to make sure she gets more than nine seconds of freedom.
PART THREE
If there was a model of an Oklahoma rural town, River Grove was it. From the sidewalk, I could see the bank across the street, a small café, two churches, a park, and the top of a brick structure I was pretty sure was a school.
I only had to walk to the end of the block to find what I was looking for.
Bedman’s Hardware was a two-story, red brick structure. It had a wide glass display window, facing main street. It looked like it had been there since the original Bedman had sold the materials that built the rest of the town.
I crossed the street and walked down to the front door.
A silver bell on a pulley, rang as I pushed the heavy, wood framed, glass door open. The place smelled like turpentine and sawdust and paint. A man with square rimmed glasses pushed far up on his forehead looked up from where he was bent behind the counter.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
He wore a canvas apron with “Bedman’s” printed on the pocket.
“Mr. Bedman?” I asked.
He smiled. “Well, not exactly, the last Mr. Bedman sold me the store thirty years ago. We just keep the name.”
“Gotcha,” I stepped over to the counter, pulling out my phone.
“What can I do for you?” the man behind the counter said.
“Well, I’m hoping you can give me a job,” I said.
One corner of his mouth jerked up and his forehead wrinkled. “Well, we’re in kind of a slump at the moment. I’m afraid I’m not hiring,” he said.
I nodded. “I figured. It’s more like a referral I’m looking for, I guess.”
I laid the phone on the counter and started a YouTube video. Pictures of before and after shots of houses being remodeled, scrolled across the screen, set to a driving, country rock beat.
The man in the apron shifted his glasses to his eyes. After a minute he picked up the phone and watched intently, until it was done.
He set the phone down, raised his eyebrows and looked at me. “You did all that?”
“Yeah, I guess I did. Not all at once, of course. I smiled.
The man laughed.
“Wow, you’re good. You’re very good. Where’d you learn to do that?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t know, it’s a long story. So, do you know anyone that needs that sort of thing?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nobody that could afford you from what I just saw.”
“Well, I work pretty reasonable. Room and board, mostly, a little barter. I just need to find a place to stay a few days, maybe a hot meal or two, but I understand,” I said.
I picked up the phone. Turned to the door.
“Well, hold on, son. I might be able to help there. I’ve got a little apartment upstairs, and it just so happens my last repair guy hasn’t been in since last week,” the man said.
“Well, I’d love to fill in until he gets back,” I said.
“Uh, nope, don’t think that’s going to happen. He died,” the man said.
“Oh, sorry to hear that,” I said. Open mouth, insert foot.
These little towns were tricky. Nobody just said what they meant. They all had to come around to it.
“Oh, that’s okay. He was a hundred and two. Had to happen sometime,” the man said.
“Well, if you’ve got some things I could help with and a place to stay, that would be great. I’ll only be around for a couple of days.”
“Great, come this way,” he said. He led me to a spiral staircase than rand down into the floor. I followed him down.
The stairs went down what felt like twenty feet.
The light from above formed a perfect warm circle overhead. It was just enough light to see the steps.
At the foot of the stairs, he flipped a switch. Two rows of large barn lights lit up along the length of a huge basement. A row of low windows at the top of one wall added sunlight. The space was impressive.
A few yards from the foot of the stairs was a neat workshop area. Rows of old, but well-maintained power tools outlined a rectangle about twelve feet wide and thirty feet long. In the center was a beautiful hardwood workbench.
“This was Mr. Bedman’s pride and joy. Oh, by the way, my name is Fred, Fred Baker. And you are?” Fred stuck out his hand.
I shook it. Firm, but not aggressive.
Again, my name flitted by, just outside my conscious mind.
“Dalton West,” I said.
“Did you say Mr. Bedman?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, the former owner worked down here until the day he died. He just couldn’t retire. He loved it so much. So, he did my small repairs. Replacing window panes, screens, rebuilding cabinet drawers, the basic stuff people bring in,” Fred said.
“Wow, that’s impressive. I hope, if I live that long, I’ll be that active,” I said.
“So, will this work?” Fred asked.
I laughed. “Uh, yeah, this is more than I’m used to. I just have a few hand tools, this is perfect. What can I get started on?”
“Well. Do you glaze windows?”
“Yeah, I think so. That’s the putty stuff, right? Replace the pane, reset the putty in the corners, right?” I said.
“Yeah, more or less. I’ve got a few of those supposed to get picked up tomorrow, if you want to start on that. I’ll send Leeanne down with some paperwork for you to fill out,” Fred said.
“Supplies and tools should all be here. I think the glass was already cut, the windows are on the work bench. Do you need anything from me?”
“Uh, about the paperwork,” I said. “That might be a problem. I don’t have an ID at the moment, so…”
“Well, it’s only a couple days, we’ll just cash off the books to start. If you end up staying, we’ll get you sorted out,” Fred said. “So, you set?”
I looked around. Everything was neatly labeled and I could see the tools I needed. I nodded. “I think everything is here.”
Fred left the basement and I took off my jacket and rolled up my sleeves. I hadn’t expected it to be that easy. I’d found that people in small towns were welcoming, but cautious, if not downright suspicious.
Fred didn’t seem that way at all. Maybe River Grove wouldn’t be so bad.
Knowing I had a place to sleep that night put the small worries I had to rest. I pulled a pair of earbuds out of my jacket pocket and plugged them into the phone. With the sounds of Jack Johnson in my ears, I picked up a chisel and set to work.
Window glazing is a lost art. Don’t ask me where I learned it, I don’t know. Six months ago, when I’d run out of the cash I’d had on me when I was found, I needed money, or at least food and a bed.
So, I took stock. I had a picture of a teddy bear, the clothes on my back, an old Chevy truck, and a silver medallion on my wrist.
I searched the bed of the truck and discovered two chests full of hand tools. They felt familiar, like I’d used them before. The first thing that I saw after that, was a sign for a pawn shop, so I did the logical thing, I took the tools to pawn them.
I hadn’t considered using them to earn. Didn’t know that I could. But the pawn shop didn’t want them.
“Can you use those tools?” The tired blonde behind the counter asked me. She was wiping dirt from her fingers onto a worn-out towel. “You look like a guy that can use tools. Now, that, I can use.”
“Yes,” I lied. More or less. Truth was, I just didn’t know.
She led me to the back of her shop where a beautiful antique dresser stood, one end nearly sheared off from what looked like a nasty drop.
“Bought this piece of shit from a guy, then it got dropped off a truck by my useless boyfriend and his meth head buddy bringing it here. Can you fix it?” She asked.
She squinted at me. “Give you $50 if you can fix it today.”
“No problem,” I said. This time I was pretty sure it was a lie, but I was running out of options.
Turns out, my hands knew what to do, and two hours later, she was whistling her surprise.
“Wow, I’d have offered less if I’d known how much I was paying by the hour!”
“I’ll take $20,” I said.
“The hell you will, here’s your $50, you earned every penny. Nice work, you just saved me about $600,” she said.
It felt good, knowing I had a skill. Brought me closer to my identity, somehow. It was at least one thing I knew. I could use tools. It came in handy on the road. Everybody needs something fixed. Everybody. And they all have something they’ll give to get it done.
I’d traded for food, blankets, a barn to work on the truck, a much needed chiropractic adjustment from being on the road, and the burner phone. But, by far, the best trade was the video.
I’d been taking pictures of my work, and showing them when asked for references. Then a kid named Jake traded me a night in his spare room for hanging a new front door. When I woke up, I found a note with my phone.
I hope you don’t mind, dude, but I saw your pictures and did something for you. Just click on the link. I hope you like it. You could probably use it like a commercial, or something.
I loved it. It was amazing what people would give, if you just offered to help them solve their problems.
I dug into the window frames, carefully removing the broken glass shards, using a wide, flat chisel to scrape away the old, hardened clay glazing. Then carefully replacing the glass, securing them with metal points, using a trick I’d learned from, a face almost came to me.
I stopped. But it was gone.
Most DIY books will tell you to just a hammer and flat screwdriver, to punch the thin metal “points” used to secure the glass in place, into the wood, but that is wrong.
By using a wide chisel, you can easily press them into place and reduce the risk of cracking the glass.
Then, I applied the new glaze, from a caulking gun, and shaped it neatly into 45-degree beads along the edges of the glass, with the chisel, wetting it from a cup of water I filled from an ancient square sink in one corner of the workshop.
“You about ready for a break, uh, Dalton, right?” Mr. Baker asked.
He was standing at the foot of the stairs, two cans of Coke in his hands.
“Sure, actually, I’m about to wrap this up,” I said.
He walked over to the table. I could see he was skeptical. He handed me a Coke and set the other one down. He picked up the first window and held it up to the light. He looked down along the smooth glazing.
“Wow,” he said. He popped the top on his Coke and took a long swallow. He looked at me, squinting slightly. “I was right about you.”
“So. They turned out okay?” I asked.
“Better than okay, I’ve got someone that needs to meet you,” he said.