The Later Journeys - 26. Into the Wider World

               

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From the journal of Warren Hopper, as told later to Jasmine Judge

I got an immediate reminder that Ben had never ridden in a car, when he sat in his seat, unbuckled, and I had to show him how to work the seat belt. He might as well have been taking a trip on the International Space Station -- he was so fascinated by every light, chime and gauge in my Nissan. It had been a long time since I’d had a kid riding with me, but I felt compelled to say the same thing to Ben: “Look at anything you like, ask me anything you like, but please don’t touch anything.” A friend of mine had learned this the hard way when his young son impulsively yanked on the center-console emergency brake lever when the car was going about 40. If not for the seat belts, the injuries would have amounted to much more than just a lot of painful bruises around the midsection. I saw the purple mark and never forgot it. Ben seemed to understand. But how curious he was. He squirmed in his seat, craning his neck to look at my dashboard. I’d left the radio on last time I was in the car, so it came on pretty loud and I punched the button to turn it off.

“A radio? In the automobile?”

“Yes. Not too many stations come in and there isn’t much that’s good to listen to, so I’ll keep it off so we can talk.”

“Okay!” I could hear the smile in Ben’s voice. He really liked “okay.”

He was trying to observe my feet on the pedals, but it was pretty dark down there. I explained that in the case of most cars, both the accelerator and the brake were operated with the right foot while the left remained inactive. I explained the gearshift and let him know I was about to turn right when we got to the main road. The little green arrow blinked on the dashboard and the rim of my side-view mirror.

“How clever!” marveled Ben. I told him how safety features on cars had evolved over the years to partially compensate for the common sense that so many drivers lacked.

We passed the inn, which was still dark and desolate-looking. Ben looked, but said nothing, and seemed unaffected.

We glimpsed a small deer by the side of the road; it ran off, thankfully, instead of heading for my headlights. Ben gasped with pleasure at the sight.

“Hope you won’t be craving venison after that,” I joked.

“No, but it has been a while since I last enjoyed such,” he said. ‘Tis available in France, of course, but one sometimes craves the flavors of home.”

“We can get some from a local hunter, if you like.”

I switched on the heat and told Ben the switch near his left hand would warm his seat. He eagerly activated it and moments later the sensation registered.

“So comfortable!” he exclaimed. “‘Tis a wonder that people do not simply make their homes in such a convenient structure.”

“Some do,” I told him, telling him a little about homeless people living in their cars, as well as retirees traveling around the country in RV's. He nodded, taking it all in. He asked me about the yellow line down the middle of the road, and why sometimes it was a single line, sometimes double, and sometimes broken. I did my best to explain the rules of passing and right-of-way, and he observed, quite astutely, that a mere painted line was all that might stand between a driver and a catastrophic collision.

We had not gone more than 20 miles an hour since leaving the cabin, but I told him we’d soon be turning onto a busier highway, and to be prepared for some speed. I knew where Trevor had gone to get the food, so I figured the liquor store was in that general vicinity. I pulled up at our first traffic light. The light was red, so I asked Ben if he could guess which color would signal us to proceed. He thought white or blue. He didn’t have long to wait to get his answer. In the meantime, he marveled at the speed of the cars that went by in front of us.

At the next light, green changed to yellow and I took my foot off the gas and eased the brake pedal down.

“Yellow means almost-red?”

“Pretty much. It means caution. Some people, knowing the light will be red in a second, speed up so they can go through the light and not have to wait. If they’re not lucky, they’ll get a ticket.”

“A ticket?”

“A police officer like the one who followed Trevor home will write a summons to a courthouse if he observes someone breaking the law. If it’s something very serious, the person might go to jail on the spot, but in most cases, like going over the speed limit or running a light, they’ll just get a slip of paper with their court date on it. Sometimes they can mail in the fine and not go to court. Most people would rather avoid that, unless they think the cop was mistaken and they want to argue about it. Depending on the individual, taking time off for a court appearance can be a major inconvenience or a minor one.”

“A cop is a police officer?”

“Right.”

“Why did he want to speak to Trevor?”

I gave a sour laugh. “That’s...one of the things you’ll learn about this century. And the last two that came before it. Slavery was a thing during your lifetime, but it ended, officially, in 1865.”

“Ah.”

“But you can bet there were plenty of former slave owners and others who believed black people were...not as good as white people, and one way or another, they’ve been doing whatever they could since then to make life as difficult as possible for them. I think our friendly police officer was one of those. So were the people in the restaurant. There’s this fallacy that in the northern states, there’s more equality and freedom than in the south, but I’ve seen and heard plenty to convince me otherwise.”

“I can see that,” said Ben thoughtfully. “Pennsylvania was largely abolitionist in her sympathies, but I cannot say that New Jersey or New York was following suit.”

I nodded. “Most of New England had joined the abolitionists by 1800. It took New Jersey a little longer. Maryland -- and Delaware -- and everything south was still pro-slavery right up till the end. It’s been really slow progress in some places. Any and every law that drew a distinction between black and white had to be fought, all the way up to the Supreme Court. And still, individual members of Congress, feeling the need to ‘represent’ their bigoted constituents, let the injustices continue.”

“There is still a Supreme Court?”

“Yes,” I replied. “The Constitution has been amended 27 times since it was ratified, but the Supreme Court hasn’t changed, except for having nine justices now instead of the original six.”

“I’m eager to read the Constitution!” said Ben.

“You will,” I said.

Ben started to ask another question but I felt like we were heading down a rabbit hole. “Not my area, Ben,” I said. “Wait till you’re back home. You and Trevor can dive into it. He’s the scholar; I’m the technical guy. I’m going to be showing you the computer soon enough, and it will make it much easier to find out whatever you want without having to search for the right book.”

“Jasmine told me that as well,” he said. “I shall miss consulting my books.”

“You can still read them,” I assured him. “We’ve just all gotten accustomed to not having to wait any length of time to have our questions answered.”

Fortunately, I spotted a liquor store up ahead. In this part of the state, many municipalities are “dry,” which I attempted to explain to Ben. In addition to the tequila and mixers for margaritas, I thought we’d probably do well to lay in a supply of some other items.

I parked the car; the lot wasn’t overly full.

“Ben,” I said, “it may be useful if I addressed you as ‘Dad’ or...Father while we’re in the store. Would that be all right with you?”

“By all means,” he replied. “I am sure you are a dutiful son. How fares your father, if I might ask?”

“He’s very well,” I said. “He and my stepmother are traveling around the country, enjoying retirement.”

“I see.”

I reached over and released his seat belt, catching the metal tongue before it could smack him in the chin. He watched me open my door and did the same on his side, then watched me close my door and duplicated the force of my slam. When I locked the car with my key fob, he paused to make a mental note of the short burst from the horn and the blink of the lights, then proceeded into the store as I held the door for him.

I grabbed one of the small shopping carts provided and quickly found the tequila aisle. Ben kept a pace or two behind me; out the corner of my eye I saw him peering at the folding mechanism of the cart and its chrome-and-rubber wheels. A placard helped me get my bearings as to all the best ingredients, and these were added to the cart. I selected a few smaller bottles of other standards and then we were ready to check out.

I turned to Ben. “Is there anything else you can think of that we might need?”

“There is not,” he replied. “I am impressed with the incredible array of wares, seemingly from so many foreign shores.”

“One day when we have a bit more time, we can come back and check them out. Does that suit you?”

“Very much so.”

The man behind the counter heard our exchange and greeted us with an amused smile. He studied Ben after he’d totaled the purchases.

“Has anyone ever told you, you’re a ringer for Ben Franklin!”

Ben turned to me with a small smile, not sure how to answer.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I said in a neutral tone, taking out my debit card and inserting it in the reader.

“Hey,” said the man, pointing at the wall behind him. There was a framed hundred-dollar bill up there, presumably fake, though it looked real enough. “Can you see that, without your ‘bifocals’?” he asked. Ben was looking at it, saying nothing. “Some guy on TV made a good point. He said ol’ Ben always has this look on his face like somebody stole his parking spot!” He guffawed and slapped the counter, but apparently was only warming up. “Me, I think anytime we go and spend that much money on some dumb kinda shit, he’s looking at us like...that! Sure looks like he’s constipated. Hope you don’t have that problem!”

“‘Tis a most respectable likeness,” replied Ben. Thankfully, I had finished paying for the liquor, my card was back in my wallet and the last bag was in the cart, ready to go, with a cardboard box lid for transport. Ben didn’t seem offended, but I was.

I got my receipt. “C’mon, Dad, let’s get you home,” said, gently guiding Ben toward the door.

“In God we trust, all others pay cash! A Benjamin saved is a Benjamin earned!” the man yelled, sending himself into fits of laughter yet again, as we made our escape. I popped the trunk, loaded our purchases, then helped Ben back into the passenger seat. This time, he reached for the seat belt himself and found the buckle easily.

Backing out and heading home, I apologized for the disrespectful ignoramus we’d just dealt with.

“A jolly fellow, if a bawdy one” was Ben’s assessment.

“I guess that’s one way to describe him,” I said. In the weeks since Ben’s arrival, I’d been spending most of my time with him, Trevor and Jasmine, as well as Gerry, who I’d known practically forever. I trusted and respected my friends, and I guess it had made me more sensitive to the fact that so many people I ran into lately were jerks.

“Well, at least Trevor will get his margarita. You ever have one, Ben? No, I don’t suppose you have. I don’t think tequila was around in the colonies, or in Paris, for that matter. It’s a Mexican import. Hey, glad you came with me, but sorry for taking you away from the food. It should still be warm, or else we can reheat it for you.”

“In the microwave!” rejoined the good Doctor.

I wondered if we’d be offering Ben a margarita. It would be rude not to, but tequila was pretty extreme stuff for a guy who’d mainly enjoyed genteel wine and home-brewed beer. I’d talk to Jas first and get her opinion.

“I greatly enjoyed the excursion, Hop,” he said. “I trust also that Trevor was not badly treated by the police officer.”

“He wasn’t happy getting pulled over. I’m just glad it didn’t go any farther than that, and that the cop went away once he saw the rest of us. But what really frosts me is that restaurant. We ought to -- Say!” It occurred to me that a strongly worded letter to El Sombrero might be in order, and even something more ... and sitting next to me in the car was one individual who was never at a loss for words.

“How would you like to help us write a letter to them ... or maybe to a newspaper or two?”

“Nothing would please me more,” was the answer -- the one I’d been counting on.

Thanks for reading. Comments always welcome. New chapters coming soon.