The plan was to get away, far away, so very far away. No time to weep. Time to restart. Big boys don't cry; they dig in and fight the night. Fire the ignition and hit the road, the long road.
Toby Mailman, army vet, disc jockey, jazz buff, college professor, woke to dim light in a motel room in Garrisonville, Alaska. He padded to the bathroom, shaved and showered, gobbled a plateful of greasy grub at nearby diner, then drove to Garrison Industry, owned and operated by Big Ben Garrison, a man who suffered fools not at all, and union organizers even less so. There was murder in Ben's heart for all things union.
The note Toby found on the dining table had read: “I'm tired of this charade. Be honest: you are too. I'm going to file for divorce. I'll be living with my parents until I'm on my feet. I want to live in a big city: New York, Chicago, somewhere where I can pursue my talents. I gave up sculpting. I want to get back to it before it's too late. You can have the boat and our savings. My lawyer will be in touch. Gladys.”
Toby got rid of his stuff, even his precious jazz records. He sold the houseboat and the MG, bought a Dodge Dart, brand new with a reliable Slant-6 engine. Fun days were over. Time to put away childish things.
"I'm going to get out of here, go some place where a man can be free, breathe free, away from this so-called civilization," Toby told the Dodge salesman.
"Where would that be?"
"I'm thinking Alaska."
"They say it's cold in Alaska. It ain't Florida, boy!"
"Hence the hardtop."
"Well, I'll stick to Florida. As long as I can have air-conditioning, boy. That's a long drive. You got AAA? I ain't saying a Dart ain't dependable. It is! Sure as shootin', sure as wishing on a falling star. But that's a long drive, boy. Could be some lonely stretches..." The salesman's face was narrow, his lips meager. His thinning hair was slicked straight back. He wore a white short-sleeve shirt and a narrow tie of gray horizontal stripes. Toby guessed it was a clip-on. The salesman, Fred, looked into his half-empty cup of coffee, squinted as if it had tea leaves to be deciphered, then drank the last of it in one swig.
"Point. I'll get AAA."
Indeed, Toby enrolled in AAA. And he stashed the bulk of his money in a mutual fund, the rest in Traveller’s Cheques and one big fat wad of 20s. He bought several changes of new duds, emphasis on winter wear. Then commenced a drive, zig-zagging, but generally north and west, stopping for a night in Louisiana, a few days in Arkansas, further north and west, in areas so remote that the radio offered nothing but static, across and up Washington, breezing across the border into Vancouver where he spent a pleasant week rising early, walking for hours, getting lost, asking for directions. Then the final push, straight north, often on lonely narrow macadam, not seeing another vehicle for the better part of an hour, sometimes the better part of a day. Along the line, autumn descended. Crisp and cool, it refreshed Toby's soul.
Now Garrisonville, where he decided to plunk down a few months, maybe a year. Something about the town spoke to him; it had an aura that promised the offbeat. First off, there was a stone castle, built into the side of a mountain that dominated the town.
Garrisonville wasn't a city certainly, but it was larger than a small town with its broad and long main thoroughfare—close to a mile of shops, drugstores, markets, churches, movie theaters, pedestrians, a French bistro here, an Italian restaurant there. The downtown fanned out to sprawling suburbia hillside, nothing older than a decade. Miles of sparkling new ranch houses and split-levels planted on half-acre lots, shades of pastel, verdant lawns neat as a chessboard. Then that looming castle. It seemed to be 500 years old. But that's impossible, of course.
Told that Garrison Industry was the best place for opportunities, Toby applied for a job. His initial interview went smoothly. He was a measured man and his resumé featured his military stint, college degree, professorship in radio electronics: good accomplishments under his belt, a dependable track record. Then he was interviewed by Big Ben himself.
Ben Garrison was renowned for his garish cowboy shirts. On this afternoon it was a clashing plaid of lime and grape and raspberry. He rose from his oak desk and extended a beefy paw to Toby. A paunch hung over the belt of his cuffed dungarees. "Howdy! I say, howdy, young fella! Looks like, I say, looks like you have excellent qualifications. And no union ties!"
"No sir, Mr. Garrison. I've never been a union member..."
Now seated, Big Ben pounded the desk with a fist and bellowed, "Well, I hope not! Ain't got me no, I say, ain't got me no use for any of them union varmints! I pay a good wage, plenty of benefits, dammit it all to, I say, dammit it all to blazes! Or bust!"
"I was going to say, the starting salary is more than generous..."
"I like to keep my workers, I say, I like to keep my workers happy. And guess what, son? You ain't got no union dues, none of your do re mi going to them grubby officials in their sharkskin suits and their Cadillacs! You can commence work Monday. And 'fore ya leave, have a bag of dollars!" He tossed Toby a clinking burlap bag the size of a grapefruit. Toby opened the bag to find it filled with silver dollars, Garrison dollars, Big Ben's profile on the face, and an American eagle on the back. Toby was flummoxed.
"Legal tender here in Garrisonville. Every shop, I say, every shop takes 'em. Each is sterling, out of our Garrison silver mines, minted right here, all done without, I say, all done without any union or government meddling. Our little secret, dammit!" Big Ben's big pink face smiled and winked at Toby. "Anyhoo, see ya Monday. Be here at eight for, I say, be here at eight for orientation. Big operation, I say, big operation here. Bolsheviks on our horizon, and your military expertise in radio electronics is just what, I say, just what we need. Take a few days to settle in. Monday we'll get you up, I say, we'll get you up to speed. Lot to learn. Need, I say, need a bright boy like you!"
As Toby left Garrison Industry's main building he heard a voice, a soft feminine voice, velvety. It purred, "Have a lovely day, Mr. Mailman! See you Monday morning!" Startled, he looked about, but didn't see anyone or even a speaker box. He trotted to the visitor lot, motored back to the motel. He soon forgot about the voice and thought about his starting salary. Generous, almost double what he would have expected! Plus 50 silver dollars as an immediate bonus.
"I think I'm going to like Garrisonville. Big Ben sure is a character."
Toby followed two-lane lonely blacktop into Garrisonville's downtown where he spied a car, an unusual car, a 1949 Ford station wagon, wood-paneled. "I remember those! A part of my childhood, the Maynards had one, same color green..."
On a whim, he decided to follow it, to see where it led. He rolled down his window, let the cool Alaska autumn air rush over him. He held back a half-block, not wanting the driver to sense him. But at a light, Toby pulled alongside and took a peek at the Ford's driver. She was so beautiful that he felt a sudden urge to cry, pure and simple. When the light turned green Toby let her pull ahead, but kept following as afternoon turned to twilight and eventide to night, out of town, Alaska wilderness ahead.
Deep in the arctic sky, shooting stars shivered across black-purple while Toby followed glowing ruby taillights into the night. He flicked on the radio to hear the low twang of an electric guitar. Allowing a half-mile lag, he was in pursuit, on the trail of his Miss America, his Princess Grace, his homecoming queen, a hound on the scent of quail. He adjusted the radio dial, then looked up to see, or rather to not see, the taillights.
"What!"
He stepped on the gas feeling a sudden loss, a slight pang of panic.