Summation

“We are told that one boulder, in the right place, can move the world. Out of the five hundred thousand words in the Oxford English Dictionary, Sonia had carefully chosen sixty-two. Bob heard only five. Hopefully, one would be enough”

Morning

Thirty-seven degrees, fifty-three minutes, fifty seconds north of Null Island. One hundred and twenty-one degrees, eighteen minutes, thirteen seconds west of Greenwich. A Barn Owl keeps sentry over Ira Austman’s farm. The sun hides behind the Stanislaus Forest, and it will be another thirty-seven minutes before it shines on French Camp.

Soft breathing. Eyes closed. The eyelids are curious, but motivation to participate is lacking. A rich, velvet bell rings and reaches the ears like a mist on the brow. Movement. The hands come to a fist and release; the fingers stand tall, reaching. South of the equator, the arches curl concave, relax, and the toes stretch convexly - a pediatric sun salutation. Arms reach above the head, the chest fills, the body flexes in tension, releases, and a long following sigh surrenders the night.

Another soft tone comes from the heavy brass domes. Another long sigh. The covers are lifted aside, forming a long, disorganized triangle. Legs find their way over the edge, a hand pushes against the mattress, and horizontal becomes vertical. The bell rings one last time, a small brass lever is depressed, and the clock is silenced for the day.

Hands palm the face, and heels rub the sleep out. What might have been a small yawn proves to have a mind of its own. Shoulders hunch and fall, arms spread out, ready to take flight, and slowly, the long yawn fades like a viola in the last movement of a symphony.

Although this is a fresh day, with a fresh beginning, the aches and pains come from yesterday and the days before. A few are new, but several are longtime friends who are dropping by, so you know they haven’t forgotten you.

An exhalation of steam comes from the kitchen, giving reassurance that Mr. Coffee has fulfilled his obligation and that the sacred brew is made manifest. A loyal servant. A magic potion.

A Day in the Life

Standing by the side of the bed, Bob reaches across the narrow hall to the wardrobe, takes down his Carhartts, a Rice-a-Roni T-shirt, and sings softly to himself, “Rice-a-Roni, the San Fransisco treat.” The overalls are beginning to show more wear than he would like. Even though he is a working guy, he doesn’t like to look shabby. It was definitely time to get a new pair—maybe two.

If he ordered the clothes today, he could have them shipped to Eugene. Once they were done in French Camp, they would move on to Redding, then Medford, and at last Eugene. They were scheduled to be there on the 22nd; luckily, today was only the 8th—two weeks should be plenty of time. He would check with Jim and get a good shipping address. He thought about getting a green pair but knew he would default to his standard khaki—he was a creature of habit.

Of course, Bob didn’t have a credit card, but that wouldn’t stop him from filling out most of the order before bothering Jim. In the early days, he had relied on Jim for everything. Jim had been happy to do it, but in the last couple of years, he had pushed Bob to become more independent. Now, Bob did all the maintenance on his own truck and trailer. He made sure all the tools they used were in excellent condition. He wrote out his own shopping list, even though Jim still made the trip to the store. Of course, Bob did his own laundry, although he didn’t care enough to separate.

Bob liked doing things for himself and the feeling of independence that came with it. It was great the way Jim helped, but there was something about doing things on his own. It gave him a certain self-respect, which eased the burden of his less-than-stellar self-esteem. In the beginning, it had been like watching a colt take its first steps, but it hadn’t been like that for a while now. It didn’t matter; it just felt good. Maybe the best part was taking some of the load off Jim—maybe the best part was knowing he could take care of himself— more or less, anyhow. Jim often said he was proud of Bob—which was fine but made Bob uncomfortable. This pride came from inside—less a child, more of a man among men. Alright, that was a little too Semper Fi—whatever.

Bob pulled on the coveralls, brought the straps over his shoulders, and fastened the brass clips to the top of the bib. He looked in the mirror on the wardrobe door, shrugged his shoulders, gently shook his head, and mumbled, ‘Perfect.’ Reaching over to the shelf next to the bed, he turned on the radio. Thank goodness the local station was coming in clear this time. Catching ‘Let it Be’ in the middle of the first verse, he hummed along.

Opening the cupboard over the sink, Bob took down the lighthouse cup. It had been a present from Frank, and he loved it. Oddly enough, Frank found it in Tonopah—what the hell was a lighthouse cup doing in Arizona? Thrift stores were funny that way. Anyhow, Bob was glad to have it. It felt good in his hand and held more coffee than either of his other two mugs—plus, he liked the lighthouse.

As much as he traveled, Bob had never seen the ocean. He thought that maybe someday he could find a real lighthouse, stand on the observation deck, and look out to sea. He had read about the huge lamp used in a lighthouse, but he would like to see it in person. Supposedly, the light could reach for sixteen miles—but how? Something about glass prisms?

He would ask Jim if he knew. Jim was the smartest person he had ever met, so Bob figured that Jim knew a little bit about everything. Jim would surely give him a lecture on the subject, and Bob didn’t care if it was a long lecture—he liked the sound of Jim’s voice. Of course, Jim would make sure he read something about prisms, but that was okay—Jim wanted Bob to know a little bit about everything, too.

Bob poured in enough cream to completely cover the bottom of the cup and followed it with three heaping teaspoonfuls of sugar. He slowly drizzled the hot coffee into the mug so the sugar was fully dissolved before he stirred it. The ritual was soothing and helped him ease into the day.

He was meticulous about making his coffee—he knew just how he liked it. Maybe his coffee habit wasn’t a big deal, but small actions can grow beyond their moment. Pay attention to the coffee; pay attention to your life—that’s what Jim would tell him. And it felt right—the fact that he got to act like a diabolical scientist was just a bonus.

Bob took his coffee to the dining table and sat down. He held the cup in both hands, taking in the heat of it. He wasn’t ready to start thinking about the day—that could wait for the second cup—this cup was for staring. Conveniently, the Airstream had a window next to the table that was perfect for looking at the great outdoors.

Today, it afforded a view of a pasture. It occurred to him that most of the pastures he’d seen had horses or cows wandering around in them. This one was different—it had llamas. He had read that llamas would spit at you—or maybe that was alpacas—hell, it could be both. Better to stand back and admire them from a little outside of spitting distance. What would that be? Six feet? Ten feet? Maybe ten feet. Better safe than sorry. There was no need to take a chewed-up ball of grass to the face.

Bob went back into the kitchen. Before doing anything else, he was going to need more coffee. First, the cream—real cream—right off the top. What a luxury. He felt like high society—like he was having tea with the Queen. “Yes, your Majesty, I found that interesting as well.” Next, three teaspoonfuls of sugar—then the coffee. Slowly. A little stirring, and the second cup was in hand. He was ready to start the planning portion of the day.

Hanging on the narrow wall that backed up against the refrigerator, there was a 1971 edition of the Wonders of the World calendar. The small boxes that identified the days were filled with neat block printing. Above the month of June was an extraordinary photograph—the picture was taken from the far end of a small lake. Centered in the frame was a particularly captivating view of the Devil’s Bridge. In the photo, the surface of the lake was perfectly still, and the high arch of the bridge, along with its reflection, formed a perfect circle. The symmetry allowed Bob to feel that all was right with the world.

Even though Bob already knew what was on the list for today, he took the calendar off its hook so he could review it. After all, what was the point of having a calendar if you weren’t going to look at it? Double-check. That’s the ticket. He was right, just like he knew he would be—it was a grease day.

Of course, he had already looked at the calendar the night before—it was comforting going to bed knowing what the day would bring. Bob loved planning. That’s what made for smooth sailing. Maybe he was obsessive, but it’s good to have a plan. “He’s making a list and checking it twice…”

Now began the waiting. He would sit patiently outside the Airstream—well… maybe not patiently—more like anxious without moving. It was 7:54. He stared at his pocket watch as the second hand swept up in its arc. As it headed for twelve, Bob shifted in his chair, giving fresh meaning to the phrase “any second now.”

When it officially became 7:55, Bob took the twelve-second walk to Jim’s trailer. There, he sat down and went through the entire waiting process all over again. At precisely 8:00, Jim opened his door and came down the two steps. Bob stood up, and they nodded at each other, saying their customary greeting, “Good morning, oldest of men.” “Good morning, youngest of men.” Having made the beginning of the work day official, they headed for the shop.

The shop trailer was loaded. It was big enough to hold a workbench, a ten-inch table saw, a thirty-six-inch hand brake, a band saw, an arc welder, and a drill press. In an effort to keep noise away from the Big Top, it was located on the far side of the midway. As soon as the midway opened, it became crowded and loud—so loud that any clammer coming out of the shop was lost.

The workbench ran all the way across the end of the trailer. Along one side of the trailer was a wall of cabinets, shelves, and parts bins. Above that, short pieces of heavy doweling came out of the wall to hold random lengths of assorted lumber and pipe.

The shop was a masterpiece of organization. Every cabinet had a label showing what was inside. Every parts bin was labeled, and many were divided into two or three sections. The hand tools were kept in three five-drawer Snap-On cabinets that lived under the workbench, and more labels adorned them. The hand-held power tools were kept on two shelves above the bench. Since they were free-range tools wandering the wide open plains of the shelves, no labels were necessary. Even so, Bob knew where each tool belonged, and he became agitated if one was out of place.

Standing in front of the bench, Jim reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his list for the day. After he laid it on the bench, Bob set his own list next to Jim’s. It was like a little game—Bob tried to think like Jim when he made his list. Most of the time, Jim’s list was more comprehensive, but Bob was getting better at second-guessing his mentor. Once in a great while, Bob thought of something Jim had missed—red letter days, indeed.

The day had order to it. First on the list were any repairs or maintenance that might be needed in the big top. They had two hours to themselves before the acts started to rehearse, and they had to make the most of it. Once the troop got inside, it was almost impossible to work around them unless there was a problem up in the grandstands. After Jim and Bob were done in the big top, they could move out to the midway and the rides. The rides took precedence because of the need for safety. When it came to the midway attractions, they could always shut one down in the middle of the day if they needed more time.

And so it went—back and forth to the shop trailer, exchanging tools as needed and picking up any necessary parts. Every few days, Jim would drive into the local town to replenish the parts bins and pick up anything special they might need for a specific task. Along with any supplies, Jim would make sure to bring back a Mars Bar—it wasn’t a pretty sight when Bob pouted.

They took their coffee twice a day at 10:00 and 2:30—if there was one thing carved in stone, that was it. Only an emergency could take them away from their coffee. Of course, it didn’t take much for someone to think they had an emergency, but they had to get it past Frank first, and he guarded that gate fiercely.

During coffee, Jim would hold forth with stories about his life or observations of current events. Woven through all of it were bits and pieces of philosophy. It was typical for Jim to quote one philosopher or another. Bob would listen politely, but very few of these lofty ideas found a place between his ears. In general, he was more of a pragmatic, day-to-day fellow.

Bob usually had lunch at the cafeteria. His go-to was a more-than-hearty sausage gravy over fresh biscuits. Bess gave Bob special treatment when it came to his portion—one plateful had so many calories it should probably be classified as its own food group. He had a nodding acquaintance with most of the other folks at the carnival, but he wasn’t close to anyone but Jim. Bob wasn’t much for talking, and usually, most people didn’t bother him after their first attempts at conversation landed with a dull thud.

Jim and Bob officially ended the day at 5:00, but of course, they were on standby until the carnival closed at 9:00. On rare occasions, something would need immediate attention, but usually, anything that happened after hours could go on tomorrow’s list.

Most nights, Jim would have Bob over to his trailer for dinner and cards. The high point of Bob’s culinary skill was a ham sandwich and a pickle on a paper plate, so Jim would do the cooking. The meals were simple, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be exotic. Sometimes, it would be quite an adventure for the tongue—especially if the menu focused on Southeast Asia and Jim’s love of peppers. Having dinners with Jim was a high point in his day. Bob knew all of Jim’s stories, but that didn’t matter—he was always up for hearing them again. When a story would change, and Bob pointed it out, Jim would say, “Hey, who’s telling the story!” and then keep on. It was always good for a laugh.

After dinner they would get out the cribbage board. When they first started playing, Jim was the guaranteed winner. Now, it was even money who would come out on top—Bob was currently on a three-week winning streak and wasn’t above rubbing it in. After they finished their third game of cards, Bob would head back to his own trailer. He would sit at the table, usually with another cup of coffee, to put a bow on the day. Caffeine didn’t keep him awake — he wasn’t like most other people. Bob wasn’t a big thinker like Jim; he just liked to have the day come off his shoulders and let his mind slow down.

Eventually, Bob’s body would hear sleep calling. Going to the kitchen, he would rinse his face and brush his teeth. Standing beside the bed, he would have a final long, indulgent stretch and unhook the straps of the coveralls, letting them fall to the floor. Then, putting an imaginary line through the last item on his list, he would pick them up and hang them in the wardrobe.

He was particular about where he laid his head. His current mattress had individually wrapped pocket coil springs, which he was happy to call attention to if given the opportunity. The manufacturer guaranteed this technology would help his muscles relax, align his spine, and evenly distribute his weight. In addition, he was protected from being disturbed if some ne’er-do-well crept into his trailer in the middle of the night and dropped a bowling ball on his bed. It was, without a doubt, the most comfortable mattress he had ever slept on. But then sleep came easy to Bob—he was a natural. Goodnight, moon.

An unusual character in unusual circumstances