"WISDOM DOES NOT FALL FROM HIGH PLACES. THE MIGHTY AND THE SPLENDID HAVE TAUGHT ME LITTLE. I’VE LEARNED MORE FROM MY DOG THAN FROM ALL THE GREAT BOOKS I HAVE READ."
GERRY SPENCE
An empty dirt road runs along a white fence corralling open golden wheat fields. Wheat sways in the wind for miles like yellow ocean waves.
“Grandpa, today I saw the most amazing animal. It was part dog, part horse. I called after the old man with it. But he didn't hear me.” At the edge of the field a dog, boxer great Dane mix, runs inside along the fence line, kicks up dust with horse-like legs that look man-made.
“Couldn't hear you even when he was alive, son. Stone cold deaf. Been gone near seven years now.” The dog slows down, looks behind him. He sees Larry Buddles (60s) an Irish Italian roly-poly man in a yellow straw hat, coke-bottle glasses, and a thick mustache. The dog wags its tail, barks, runs again. Larry catches up. They head to a yellow farm house a short distance down the road.
From the steps of his country veterinarian’s clinic, a man and his grandson watch Larry Buddles and his amazing dog. A business sign above them swings in the gentle breeze. It squeaks and totters. The man is Thibedeaux Dowie D.V.M., African American (60s) southern charmer. His full head of bright white hair makes his skin appear even darker than it is. He wears blue jean overalls and black cowboy boots that look like they’ve walked all over the world. He’s the town sage. His grandson, Thib (10) sits beside him, same blue jean overalls, muddier boots. He chews a sprig of wheat. It’s little golden stem hangs from the boy’s mouth.
"That’s Dr. Larry and his dog Duke,” Dowie continues in a deep velvety voice thick with southern drawl. “Larry watches over us. He was once a learned teacher of many men. Geniuses stood on his shoulders for a better view of the world and left their footprints all over him. In many ways Duke is his last, greatest lesson to us all.” He chuckles. “Now there's a story.”
Larry reaches the yellow farmhouse, passes by a rocket shaped mailbox with NASA painted on it. It’s a replica of the Apollo 13 Mission Rocket. He heads to the front porch. A woman with salt and pepper hair stands at the door. She smiles at Larry. He smiles back, then fades away. He’s a ghost.
A ratty old pickup that’s seen better days, faded red paint, missing tail lights, loose rattling muffler, bullet holes in the tailgate barrels down the country road, past Larry’s yellow house, headed into town. The wind picks up after it. A dust devil twirls across the road, past Larry Buddle’s house, over the waving wheat, toward the horizon, and to a little town that sits on the edge of the fields. This is where the tiny farming community of Sanger, Texas lives and breathes.
SANGER, Texas 1975 (Seven years ago)
The red beater truck pulls up to the General Store, joins other dusty old cars, pick-ups and tractors lined up in the sun-cooked dirt parking lot. Out of the truck climbs old man Merkin (80s), a bald skinny white man, no teeth, sunbaked skin, a John Deere hat, overalls and black cowboy boots. He heads to the door of Harpool’s Feed Store. It shares the building with a handful of other tiny shops. Bobby’s Hobbies, Lassiter’s Gas & Tires, a beauty salon, and a tractor mechanic among them.
Dowie continues his story. “No one quite knew what to make of Larry Buddles when he first moved to town”.
Inside the store General Store locals buzz about. They gossip, compare tools, eat stew, shop, smoke. It’s the center of town. A pair of bored housewives with pink foam curlers wrapped in colorful head scarfs socialize at the magazine rack as they look through TV Guide. Beside them on the racks: newspapers, Life Magazine, Reader’s Digest, a kid’s periodical Dynamite, Luke Skywalker on its cover. All full of various literature, except for one. The National Enquirer shelf is empty. Everyone’s got a copy.
It’s a simpler time. Only three TV networks exist and Cable TV has yet to be born. It’s the age of manual typewriters, hand cranked car windows and President Gerald Ford. Nixon’s been pardoned. The Russians are Soviets. The fall of Saigon is fresh in everyone’s mind.
At the toy section BANG! BANG! BANG! Larry in the flesh, his back to the world, works a metal brain-teaser puzzle. Nearby are rows of Rubick’s cubes. He speeds through them lightning fast. Grabs one, solves it, slams it down, grabs the next. People stare, walk past quick, keep their distance.
Later in the dairy section, Larry stands in the center of the aisle comparing milk bottles. He holds them close to his coke-bottle glasses, mumbles aloud as he thinks, struggling to read the tiny print. Beneath his shirt are two little square lumps on his chest. Boxes beneath his overly snug Donald Dick Tracy t-shirt. They bounce as he tootles along.
Nearby, a woman finishes filling her cart with eggs, milk, butter. She turns to leave, sees Larry, stops. The odd fellow in front of her is blocking the only way out of the aisle. She tries fit her cart through a pair of display racks. It gets stuck. Now she can’t go anywhere. Finally, she gives up, waits for him to leave. But he won’t for another ten minutes. There are other milk cartons to consider.
Ten minutes later, Larry mumbles as he pushes his cart past other chatty housewives, oblivious. They whisper, bemused and confused as he shovels cookies into his mouth from an half-empty bag. Everything in his cart’s been opened and taste-tested.
“That's him!”
“Nooo!”
“Been playin’ with them toys an hour. Done touched everyone like nothing else matters. Scared the kids away too.”
“Nooo!”
“Does it every day. Fixes ‘em all right. Lines ‘em back up.”
At the register, a checkout girl in her teens rings up Larry’s order. She eyes Larry’s cart and the open food containers piled inside it. It looks like a trash bin with three milk cartons neatly lined up in a row at one end. She grabs an empty grape sprig, holds it up, squints at her customer. Larry shrugs, puffs his cheeks, wiggles his eyebrows awkwardly.
“That’s point six-three pounds for the grapes,” Larry says too loud, his finger in the air to make his point. The clerk punches it into the register, but Larry beats her to it. “That’s twenty-eight dollars and seven cents.” Before she adds up the food, Larry hands her a check. “It’s correct.” People in line watch, whisper.
“That’s him.”
“From the school?”
The checkout girl asks for his driver’s license. Larry doesn’t hear. Instead he points again to his check.
“It’s correct, see,” Larry insists, then grabs his bags and leaves. The checkout girl stares after him.
“City folks . . .”
Outside Larry walks along the dirt road, sucks on a root beer candy cane. A farmer pulls up alongside him. The driver is of Navajo descent, in a pick-up truck with a rodeo horse painted on the door. It’s Indian Joe (50s) a tough, gruff no-nonsense farmer who’s always willing to lend a helping hand. Joe rolls down the window, tips his cowboy hat to the newcomer.
“Ride, sir?” But Larry can’t hear. He smiles, waves, walks on. Joe shrugs. Weird! He leaves.
Another truck barrels down the road after Joe, blows past Larry in a dust storm. It’s the old red beater pick-up driven by skinny Merkin. An angry dog chases it, nearly knocks Larry over. Larry spits out dust, fans it away. “Oh, darn that blasted pickup!” Larry shakes a fist at it, yells, “Pop a tire!”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Merkin cackles as he watches Larry, fist in the air, shrinking in his rear-view mirror. He guns it, disappears around a bend back onto the dirt farm road that divides the wheat fields.
Half an hour later, Larry arrives home. He checks the rocket mailbox as he enters the little white picket fence. He frowns. It’s empty. He goes up the steps inside, drops change in a jar marked with masking tape. It says NEW HEARING AIDS. He drips his change into the gar, then deducts .81 cents from $1,200 written on the wall beside it. Just $153.29 to go and no more bouncy boxes under his shirt.
Monday rolls around. It’s three pm. Larry stands at the head of a nearly empty high school classroom wearing a yellow T-shirt that says, “REACH FOR THE MOON”. It’s stretched over his little hearing aid boxes. On the blackboard he scrawls BASIC MATH, Dr. LARRY BUDDLES, Ph.D. His “Ds’ are backward. His writing is chicken scratch.
Larry turns, sees four students: Indian Joe, who offered a ride in his pickup earlier, the checkout girl, Lacy Jefferson (30s) small thin African American woman in a simple pink dress, and Rayes Adobe (20s) American-Mexican farm boy. Lean muscles, ball cap, big belt buckles on his Wrangler jeans half way tucked into his boots.
Fear shoots through Larry. Instantly he spins around, faces the chalk board, his back to his new students. He looks down at his shirt, at the two little square bulges sticking out from his chest like blocky little breasts.
He hates the specialized hearing aids that pick-up sound. They sit in a little bra heaving up and down as his heart pounds and he pants, all in anticipation of addressing his first continuing education class in the little farm community where he’s been living the last month.
Little white wires run from the hearing aid boxes to his ears and to beige plastic devices sticking out of them. They look like plastic ear muffs. And they wine when he puts his hands too close.
Larry remembers his wife’s words. “You can do it.” Larry takes a deep breath, brushes hair over his ears to hide the devices, turns back around to face his first challenge. His hair’s in lumpy tufts over his ears like he brushed it backwards.
“Welcome to math 101!” His voice blasting way too loud. “I'd like each of you to tell me what you would like to get out of this class.” He bounces on his toes, taps his fingers on his chest, tries to look at ease. The students stare. Rayes holds a checkbook, curls the edges of it with his fingers. Larry makes a beeline for Ray, grabs the checkbook, looks inside. “Oh. 53 cents over-drawn. Well, that’s easy to fix.” Larry takes two quarters and a nickel from his pocket, hands the coins to Ray.
Ray turns red, glances around, then snatches the checkbook back and leaves. Larry puffs his cheeks and shrugs, satisfied that he’s solved the farmer’s problem with a viable solution. No one else says a word.
LATER THAT NIGHT AT HOME
Larry sits at the kitchen table eating dinner. Mary Buddles (60s) thin, all, salt and pepper curly hair, joins him. She’s from a pioneer family that helped tame the Lone Star State. She’s brave, beautiful, Baptist and was Larry’s high school sweetheart. She’s been his personal crusader ever since.
Mary, loud,”Larry, the hearing lab sent your results. Larry?” He doesn’t hear. She taps him on the shoulder, hands him a letter. It says: HEARING CAPACITY 10%. Larry adjusts his hearing aids. Mary raises her voice a little more. “Doctor Chaney called with your results.” Larry frowns at the paper in his hands.
“That's down from the last time. I tell ya, Mary. I bet that doctor doesn't know a darn thing!” He feels helpless. All his education, all his work. None can help him out of his isolated little soundless world. Ever growing worse, sinking Larry Buddles into an even more isolated and lonely world of silence. What would he do if he couldn’t hear Mary’s voice?
Outside, three women watch Larry through the window as he wads up the paper, heaves it across the room and stomps out. Mary clears the table. Clara (40s) tall thin, African American. Rain (40s) Navajo. Elise (30s) portly, rosy cheeks, a plump Scottish farm woman.
Elise holds a steaming apple pie. Rain peaks in the rocket mailbox, awed. She straightens the loose numbers 1406 on the post. They argue.
“Can’t we leave it in the mailbox with a note?” Elise asks, a bit of desperation seeping into her eyes. Clara stares back.
“Now how we gonna learn anything that way?”
“You got the short straw Elise,” Rain blurts out. “Too bad” Elise opens her mouth to argue.
“Shh!” Clara cuts in. “We need to get inside that house. Now hush up. Go on, now Elise. Go on up to the door.” Elise doesn’t move. “Fine. We’ll all go.” Clara grabs the pie, heads to the house, knocks, stares at her friends. They catch up. Mary answers. Clara, Elise and Rain smile, bolt inside. Clara shoves the hot pie at Mary.
“We’re your new neighbors. I’m Clara Jackson. This is Elise and Rain. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
Mary smiles, not sure what to do. “Well, come in, please.” She sits them at the kitchen table. It’s full of paints and crafts. The women take it in, then see the walls. They’re stunned. Floor to ceiling are colorful child-like scribbles of math formulas, strange designs. Colored pencils, crayons scattered all over. The three pie women unleash their social sales pitch.
“We’d like to invite you to our Sunday services.”
“Praise the lord!” Elise bellows.
“Amen!” Rain finishes. Clara pushes it.
“It’s a good way to get to know everybody -”
Mary takes the pie. “This looks delicious. I’ll let it cool by the window. Thank you.” Quick, she escapes to the kitchen. The women look around. They’re drawn to strange model planes on a nearby shelf, all odd futuristic designs, like something out of the Jetsons. Elise pokes at one.
“Don’t touch that!” Clara snaps.
Rain asks, “What is it?”
“The devil’s work!” Elise warns. Mary returns with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of lemon aid. All smiles return. Clara points out the models, the walls.
“My boy loves models too. And crayons. You must have a grandson!”
“Oh no. Not yet. But we’re hoping.” Mary replies.
“Oh?” Clara loses her words.
Elise gasps, whispers to Rain, “Praise the Lord -”
“Amen.” Rain whispers back. Scraping sounds from the hall interrupt them. All eyes turn to the hallway door. Larry enters, his eyes distant. Seemingly in a trance he runs his fingers along the wall, guiding himself like a blind man. He follows the wall until he’s circled the room. Then he stops, picks up a red pencil, scribbles a math equation on the wall. Some things he writes backwards.
Larry drops the pencil, moves along as before. His fingers guide him back into the hall from where he came.
“That’s my husband, Larry. He’s working,” Mary explains. The pie women stare after him. Rain fans herself, then fans Elise, who looks like she’s about to faint. “I’ll ask him about Sunday,” Mary offers.
“Yes ma’am.,” Elise says. She can barely get the words out. “We’ll be pray’in for you -”
“Amen!” Rain adds.
CHURCH, SUNDAY MORNING
Light streams through stained glass windows. Reverend Henry (50s), white hair, red bulb nose, thick Irish accent, at the altar in a one-room chapel packed with folks of every race. Among them are Larry’s students and people from the grocery store. Everyone sweats, uses hand fans, listens and nods. Some hold their bibles or hands in the air caught up in the throes of the moment.
“And the Lurd said ‘Judge not that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged. And with what measure ye meet it shall be measured to you.’ Matthew seven. . .“
“Amen to that!” Elise says. In the back row Clara, Elise and Rain huddle, gossip as Rev. Henry continues. People nearby eavesdrop on the pie women. Elise turns to her girlfriends, whispers. “I knew that professor Larry wouldn’t come. There’s something wrong ‘bout that man.”
“Stop that.” Clara yaps back. “We don’t know these people.” But Rain can’t let it go.
“There was nothing in his eyes,” she rants.
“Maybe he’s possessed.” Elise gasps. “Praise the Lord!”
“Amen!” Rain finishes.”
Rev. Henry continues ‘No man can serve two masters -” He sees them talking. “Ahem?” Everyone turns, eyes the pie women. The trio snaps to. Henry moves on. “Let he who is perfect cast the first stone.” Satisfied they’ve heard that part of the message, he returns to the rest of the congregation. “Now carry these words of Jesus and do unto others as we go back out into the world this week. Amen!”
“AMEN!”
BOBBI’S BEAUTY SALON
Inside, women in curlers sit reclined under big hair dryers, cucumbers on their eyelids, cream on their faces. It’s the beauty age of Noxema. Trudy (30s) portly, short, Tex-Mex descent leads the gossip.
“And that’s what I heard. Done showed up in town outta nowhere.” Trudy rants. Other women chime in.
“Elise say what else?”
“Them planes like spaceships on Star Trek.” Trudy milks it. “Draws on the walls like a child too.”
“You gonna go to that Star Trek convention?” Clara suddenly asks. She peeks out from behind the Dallas Morning News. Shows the ad. “It’s in Dallas.” The others ignore her. Clara frowns, whispers under her breath, “Get to meet Mr. Spock.” The strange newcomers are much more interesting.
“But the Buddles seem so nice,” Rain adds.
“So, did them people the Rosenbergs,” Trudy blabs. All eyes bulge. The women gasp.
“You think Larry Buddles is a Communist?” asks the one beside her. A voice comes from outside the group. “He’s something.”
The women peel back the cucumbers, see the checkout girl on a chair nearby getting her hair cut by the salon owner Bobbi, an anorexic fifty-year-old, smoker’s wrinkled face, bright red lip stick, Dolly Parton “big hair”. A cigarette bounces in Bobbi’s lips as she chops away. The checkout girl continues. “And I heard Miss Elise say he’s possessed. Walks ‘round the house in trances ‘n such.”
“No!” Trudy sops it up. The checkout girl nods, continues. Bobby stops cutting as the teen spills more.
“Yes ma’am. Seen it with my own eyes when he plays with the kiddie toys at the store.” She leans in. “Knows the price at the register b’for I done rung it up like the devil told ‘em himself. Eats while he’s shopping too!” The women gasp. Another one adds to it.
“Umm hmm. And they refused church. We need to have a talk with Reverend Henry. There’s some souls need savin’ in Sanger County.”
Meanwhile, Larry stands at the head of his classroom in a black Mighty Mouse t-shirt. But the room’s empty. He eyes the clock. It’s 3:20pm. He frowns, straightens his desk, pokes his head into the hallway, watches the last adult students enter other classes. They avoid looking at Larry.