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I have an old friend, actually he's the same age as me, but friends, as do peer groups, as does everyone for that matter, usually start out young, though they might not be young when you become friends, that would make them new friends but not young friends and certainly not old friends who, as it would follow, were young or younger when you became friends, then remained friends until they became old as did you thereby becoming Old Friends. It's rough sometimes getting all this straight, and, not being one who relishes being misunderstood; I sometimes digress in the interest of greater understanding. An Old Friend would know that. And that might be why my Old Friend lived under a Howe Truss bridge across the South Fork of the Payette River somewhere near Grandjean. He lived there for nearly a year. He had initially moved there from his ancestral home on North 12th Street in Nampa with high aspirations of making his way in the Hotel/Motel Management Field. He had answered a Help Wanted Ad in a copy of the 'Grandjean Tattler' that had come wrapped around his left sandal in a package returning the sandal he lost at a New Friend's cabin he was visiting in a ghost town somewhere in the hills above Ketchum. His New Friend was there, however, there were no ghosts about, at least none that were interested in doing the ghostly-human-boo-scare thing so it seemed strange to my Old Friend that anyone would refer this deserted hamlet as a Ghost Town, per se. Consequently his parting of ways with his left sandal did not occur while fleeing in terror from some ectoplasmic apparition, rather the sandal was kicked under the divan during an period of drunken revelry celebrating (or lamenting as the case may be) the imminent departure of my Old Friend from the Unhaunted Hamlet in the hills above Ketchum on his return journey to the Ancestral Home on North 12th Street in Nampa. That is how he, my Old Friend, came to be the afternoon proprietor of Bart's Motel and Tackle Emporium in Grandjean. Grandjean is one of those vacation secrets that no one has trouble keeping so, consequently, Bart's Motel and Tackle Emporium always seemed to be, not unlike the proverbial water glass, damn near empty. Knowing the level of prosperity that didn't abound at Bart's Motel and Tackle Emporium, my Old Friend thought it would be a golden opportunity to practice Artistic Seclusion in a Woodland Setting and produce Great Works of Literature and Rhyme. That was before the robbery. One afternoon at the motel my friend had just finished cleaning a room that had been rented for a week. He was sitting in the Motel Office behind the Front Desk re-wrapping soap when The Miscreant hobbled in. My Old Friend noticed that The Miscreant (though he didn't yet realize the miscreant-ness of the person) was missing a left sandal. My Old Friend, trying to be helpful in that small town way that people in a small town are expected to be asked the Miscreant "lose your sandal?" "No" the Miscreant replied "I got this pair on sale, quite reasonably, I might add." My Old Friend, thinking they had established a real rapport continued "I LOST my left sandal once at cabin up there in the hills above Ketchum." The Miscreant stared back and replied "don't have much truck with spooks, try to avoid 'em." "So, you know the place" said my friend. "Not really" said The Miscreant "but I DO know I need some of that soap." "Sorry" said Old Friend "that soap's not for sale, it's for the exclusive use of our guests." "Who said anything about BUYING" growled The Miscreant. Suddenly the reality of the situation came crashing down around my Old Friend. This Miscreant wanted to ROB Bart's Motel and Tackle Emporium! Fearing for his life my Old Friend threw a half-wrapped bar of soap at the Miscreant's eyes and ran for his life out the back door of Bart's Motel and Tackle Emporium. The world was a blur as my Old Friend ran through the street of Grandjean, out to the Highway and down to the Howe Truss Bridge Across the South Fork of The Payette River where he hid for the better part of a year. When I asked him why he hid there for so long he replied "you know, you just can't be TOO careful."
©2006 John D. Scudder
9:11 PM
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