Heywood Fetcher

  ~There Be Monsters

  Not long after the threatening phone calls from the bakery employer ceased, another rather strange experience caused Heywood to wonder if he truly wanted to become one of those so-called grownups. To that point, the entire lot of them was scoring fairly low on his personally devised are you kidding me meter.

  Several times Heywood almost asked the adults who had had, or who felt they should have had, some say in what he did and said at a particular point on his life’s perilous arc, “Are you that stupid?”

  Some of the stuff those people came up with made no sense at all as far as he was concerned. Like for instance, when some practically broken down from monotonous backbreaking work older relative asked him when he was going to get a job so he could get married, buy a house, get a mortgage, get a loan to buy a car, have some kids, and pay taxes to support the country like everyone else?

  Heywood would tell them, “Just as soon as I find that one man who doesn’t complain about paying taxes, a wife spending money, doing chores, not being appreciated, juvenile delinquent children, the in-laws, or going to church with all those hypocrites. That’s when I’ll get a job and go around being resentful most of the time just like you.”

  The newest weirdness started one weekday night as Heywood watched the late news program on TV. At that time there were only three channels available, and they all scheduled the local news programs at the same time. Heywood paid little attention to the prattling of the local news anchor as the man waxed on about some inconsequential non-news event that was being offered up to fill air time. In fact, Heywood had just finished thinking that there had to be something better than this to spend his time on when there arose such a commotion from the front door that his reaction caused him to drop the remainder of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he was eating on the carpet.

  “Dang it,” he said aloud as he sadly observed that the jelly side of the open-faced treat landed face down on a carpet covered with cat hair.

  As the clamor persisted, a nervous Heywood cautiously rose from his chair and made his way to the front door. The banging continued, but he had no intention of opening the door to whatever noise-making entity awaited his arrival.

  “Who is it?” yelled Heywood.

  “It’s me,” came the reply accompanied by even more loud knocking.

  “Who is me?” asked Heywood nervously.

  “It’s your Uncle Ralph. Open the damn door.”

  Heywood reluctantly unlocked the door and attempted to open it just a crack to see if it actually was his uncle on the other side making all the noise. As soon as he turned the knob, the noise maker burst through the door, pushing Heywood aside.

  If the sudden entrance didn’t totally unnerve Heywood, the sight of the terrified individual who made it did. No sooner did the frightened person get inside than he slammed the door locking it behind him. Only then did the intruder, who in fact was his uncle, begin to explain.

  “They’re after me,” said the shaking intruder.

  “What? Who’s after you?” asked a frightened Heywood.

  “They are,” answered his terrified uncle as he cautiously peeked through the curtain covering the small window.

  “Who? Who? Who are they?” asked Heywood.

  His uncle, appearing put out by Heywood’s ineptness at recognizing imminent danger, pushed him aside to take another peek.

  “Can’t you see them? They are standing right there under the street light looking at this front door. I’ve been trying to get away from them for two hours, but they keep following me wherever I go. I’m going to call the police,” responded his uncle.

  “Just wait a minute and let me take another look. Under the street light you said?” asked a perturbed Heywood.

  Heywood scanned the entire front of the house, yard, driveway, sidewalk, and street while the shaken older relative paced the room awaiting a confirmation of the obvious, with the obvious being there were strange creatures chasing him who stood under a street light waiting for him to come outside so they could follow him around.

  “What’s going on?” asked an incredulous Heywood as he turned to confront his uncle who was beginning to reveal himself to be an actual, in fact, nut ball.

  “Can’t you see them?” asked the exasperated relative pushing Heywood aside to take another peek through the curtain. “There they are, standing right out there. Are you blind?”

  Heywood pushed the troubled individual aside again to take another look. “There’s nothing there. What is it I’m supposed to be seeing?” he pleaded.

  Exasperation showed on Heywood’s face as his uncle peered through the window towards the street.

  “Yep, there they are, all five of them. I see you, you big ugly apes! That’s right, go ahead and laugh. Try to come through this front door, and I’ll fill your hairy behinds with buckshot. By the way, where’s your daddy’s shotgun, Heywood? Better get it out cause they might just try to come through the front door.”

  “What? What do you mean shotgun? There is nothing out there. I looked. See? There’s nothing there,” answered an exasperated Heywood. As if to placate his dimwitted nephew, the condescending uncle peered through the door’s window.

  “Boy, do they have you fooled. They’ve made themselves invisible to you, but I can still see them as clear as day,” answered his uncle.

  “Then tell me what they look like if you can see them,” pleaded a befuddled Heywood.

  Exhibiting infinite patience towards a gray matter lacking nephew, Heywood’s much more settled uncle peered through the small door window.

  “I can see you big ugly hairy apes,” remarked his uncle as he peered intently towards the street.

  “Tell me what you see?” pleaded Heywood with more than a hint of angst in his voice. Somebody in this small group of humans was goofier that bat feces, and Heywood was hoping it was not him.

  “Well,” replied his more relaxed uncle, “the big one is about nine foot tall and he’s covered head to toe with long shaggy brown hair that smells awful. He’s smoking one of those long filtered cigarettes, carrying a red purse, and has an umbrella hanging on his arm. That pretty much goes for the rest of them, too. Some of them aren’t carrying purses, but they all have umbrellas.”

  If someone had been there to take a picture, Heywood’s mouth and eyes would have appeared quite comparable in size to basketballs. Heywood’s uncle had finally crossed over the line. For many years since returning from long periods of combat in WWII, he acted erratically from time to time. Now it had finally happened. The guy was being chased by big, hairy, filter cigarette smoking monsters carrying purses and umbrellas. Heywood realized he needed to play it cool until the guy could get some help at the local VA hospital.

  Heywood’s attitude changed abruptly. His uncle was a good, but confused man who needed serious help. He decided he needed to settle the guy down, let him sleep on the couch, and then take him to the VA hospital in the morning. Heywood was well aware of other individuals who had found it necessary to seek help because of the many traumatic experiences they had endured while serving their country during WWII many years earlier. He’d heard his own father mention on a number of occasions that many of his boyhood friends never seemed to recover completely from the years of bloody combat they’d endured for the sake of their country.

  Heywood camped out in the lounge chair for the rest of the night - dozing off from time to time, only to be awakened by his uncle’s sporadic trips to the front door to verify that the same gang of big, hairy, umbrella-toting creatures were still out there under the street light waiting for him to come out so they could follow him around some more.

  The next morning when Heywood awoke, stiff and sore from sleeping in the chair, he immediately noticed that his uncle was sitting across from him looking fully refreshed and smiling as if he were on top of the world. Heywood did not know whether to take this as a good sign or as further evidence of his uncle’s visit to goofball city.

  “
Well, how’s it going, Uncle Ralph?” asked Heywood with concern in his voice.

  His uncle, quietly sitting on the couch, looked as if he had just awakened from a good night’s sleep.

  “I’m fine, Heywood. How are you doing this wonderful morning?” came the response.

  Well okay, thought Heywood, this is looking much better.

  “Great. How about some breakfast? Mom’s not home from her job at the hospital yet, but we can drive to the market and pick up some rolls if you like. Would that work for you?” asked a yet suspicious Heywood.

  “That would be fine. Some rolls and a hot cup of coffee will work real well,” said the sane looking individual who had burst upon the scene terrified and trying to escape from monsters the previous evening.

  “Well, let’s do it,” said Heywood relieved to see the improvement in his uncle’s demeanor.

  The drive to the market, only several blocks away, was uneventful. Still, Heywood kept the thought of taking his uncle to the VA hospital in the back of his mind. But, at the moment, things were looking much better.

  The trip through the supermarket isles was likewise uneventful as Uncle Ralph walked along with Heywood commenting on how different things were now compared to his childhood days when families had to survive the ravages of a full blown depression, when kids like him were sent off to work camps with most of the wages they earned sent back home to help feed a starving family.

  Finally, sweet rolls and several other items having been secured, the twosome headed for the checkout line. Heywood felt more relieved by the minute. His uncle appeared every bit the sane individual he most always appeared to be.

  When their time came to step up and place the basket carrying the several items they had selected for purchase onto the checkout line, Heywood did so, and as he pulled out several of the few remaining dollars from his emaciated wallet to pay the tab, he went with the moment and turned to his uncle standing right beside him.

  “Well, Uncle Ralph, is this a beautiful day or what? I am relieved that the little incident last night is in the past. In fact, maybe we won’t have to make that trip to the VA hospital after all. How’s that sound to you? We’ll go back home, make some coffee, enjoy some fresh rolls, and read the paper. Whatta you say?”

  All the time Heywood was talking his uncle peered intently through the front glass window towards the spot where Heywood had parked the car. As he watched, a smile appeared on his uncle’s face as his attention remained on the vehicle in the lot.

  “That sound good to you?” Heywood asked again with some slight nervousness returning to his voice.

  His uncle, all the while, kept his focus on the vehicle out in the lot. Heywood felt the uncertainty returning relating to his uncle’s previous evening’s mental condition.

  “Sound good to you?” Heywood asked as concern crept into his voice.

  Quite calmly, his uncle turned to Heywood and said, “Sure, sounds great. Only, I don’t know how you’re going to get all those big smelly critters with their purses and umbrellas out of your car so we can drive it home.”

  Heywood never forgot how his uncle turned up one day at the front door so completely out of his mind. There was a lesson to be learned from this somewhere, and Heywood had a sneaking suspicion it might have something to do with government officials taking young men off the streets and sending them to faraway places to kill other young men sent there by other countries to do the same thing.

  Yet life went on even as his unfortunate uncle sank deeper and deeper into the mental hell introduced into his life years before on some bloody battlefield in a faraway land. For Heywood, his luck turned for the better as he got another factory job that paid good wages where most of the bosses were not jerks.

  Within several months he actually had some money in the bank. He got an apartment with a couple other guys of the same age and disposition, meaning they did two things: they worked and they played. The work was assembly line work which meant they kept putting parts on whatever came down the line. In Heywood’s case it was tractor parts: fenders, wiring, wheels, decals, etc. until you were looking at a real farm tractor, one of those things guys with the bib overalls drive around the fields outside of the cities.

  As far as Heywood was concerned life was good. He had money to spend, friends to party with, and cute girls to bring around to his way of thinking about life. He had a draft number pretty far down the list. That meant a whole bunch of unlucky guys would be invited to that nasty Southeast Asia barn dance before they ever got to him.

  It wasn’t that Heywood was unpatriotic; he came from a sure-fire patriotic family. If the country was threatened, his ancestors were among the first to stand up all the way back to the Civil War and before. But not one relative had ever heard of a place in the Far East called Vietnam. People over there lived mostly in grass huts and ate fish and rice. They posed no military threat to the citizens of the USA so Heywood wondered what the heck was going on. He even had an ongoing conversation with a fellow employee who had just returned from serving with the Marines over there who pretty much said the same thing. Heywood, along with most of his friends, determined they would mind their own business. If those Vietcong people ever managed to get some boats and make it as far as the West Coast, then give him a call. Otherwise, it was party time just about all the time for Heywood and his young friends.

  Fat with unfettered cash from his assembly line job, Heywood succumbed to the constant derisive comments regarding his beat up old car and went down to a local dealership and purchased a brand new GTO. It was amazingly simple. First they checked to see if he had a pulse, then they asked him show an actual pay stub from his place of employment, and that was about it. All he had to do was put a few hundred dollars down along with the title to his old jalopy, still sporting the terrible paint job that never really covered up the original pink fender, and voilà he was driving off in a surefire babe mobile.

  Heywood got a kick out of the used car salesman who showed up to take his old ride to the back lot. The guy almost had a heart attack when he tried to move the old junker and found out the hard way that the car had no brakes, just metal on metal. Heywood couldn’t find the time to take it in to get the new brakes it had needed for the last several months. All he did was drive it back and forth to work. Plus, most of the girls he dated were more than willing to drive the nice cars provided by their daddies. Let the daddies buy the gas was Heywood’s mantra. His job was to provide the entertainment.

  The terrified car dealer was not entertained when he barely got Heywood’s old pile of junk stopped right before almost taking out a whole row of new cars. He jumped out of the old jalopy screaming like a banshee. While Heywood was sitting happily in his new ride, the dealer waited for a wrecker so they could take the rusty heap straight to the junkyard where it could be ground up for scrap metal. Heywood took comfort in knowing he’d wrung every last ounce of utility out of the old rust bucket headed for that junkyard in the suburbs. Now it was time for him to move up to the big leagues.

  Heywood had done very well with the local cuties even with the ugliest car in town as his mode of transportation. He figured that now, with his new big time ride, the world was going to be his oyster. Although, he wished that he had another word to use other than oyster. Where, he wondered, did they ever come up with such a phrase? He had never eaten an oyster in his life. He didn’t even know of anyone who had eaten one of those slimy globs. Still, even if the world was not actually one of those slimy sea food things, he was on top of it.

  Life was looking real good for Heywood. Although future historians would later go on and on as to how the sixties were what one scribe referred to as a crucible (Heywood promised to get him a dictionary and see what that word meant someday), he mostly partied on down. He worked at the factory, paid his car payments, went for months without eating anything green, dated every cute girl who hadn’t yet heard about his philandering ways, and actually prayed (his uncle, the preacher would have been so proud of hi
m) that his draft number would not be called.

  His luck held out until one fateful day in 1967. That’s the day his dad called and told him a letter addressed to Heywood from those fun loving people at the Selective Service Administration had arrived. This did not sit well at all with Heywood. He’d seen a few newspaper articles about the so-called military intervention in Vietnam, and by all accounts things were getting pretty serious. Body bags were starting to pile up. Just about everyone had a story about some brother, relative, or friend coming back in a box or with major body parts missing, and as Heywood’s life at that exact moment had never been better, this was most unwelcomed news.

  As far as he was concerned his family was already well represented over there. His younger brother was in Vietnam as well as three first cousins. It seemed to Heywood that the regular Joe was being tasked to carry the nation’s war burden. This had also been the case back during WWII when his dad and all four of his brothers found themselves in combat in previously unheard of places all over the world.

  Heywood could name about a million other really unattractive things he would rather do than leave the sweetest life a basically immature young adult ever enjoyed to become a contributing member of his country’s military interventionist policies.

  But alas, his fate was sealed, and Heywood did the only thing that made sense at that time. He quit his job and loaded up his GTO with beer and headed to the beaches in Florida. If a bunch of military interventionist in Washington, D.C., were intent upon messing up the sweetest existence on earth that Heywood could ever have imagined, he was going to go out the right way - on the beach in Florida with plenty of beer and cute girls. Somebody had to have their priorities straight, he reasoned.

  So it was off to Daytona Beach, Florida, they went. They, being Heywood and three other non-contributing members of society who likewise were not career oriented, and whose highest aspirations were to lounge on the beach, drink beer, and hopefully get laid every single day. Just the usual lofty ambitions of testosterone laded young men the world over.

  They also traveled light as far as clothing and sundry items went. Otherwise how were they to carry the eight cases of beer they decided to take along with them? It wasn’t that Florida didn’t have beer, they did, lots of it. Only it cost about three times as much as their local beer. A college degree wasn’t required to determine that it made sense to take as few clothing items as necessary to make room for the much cheaper homebrew.

  The one thing bad about hauling so much suds was the danger of getting stopped by the local constabulary along the way and having the valuable cargo confiscated. No way would they let that happen. Each member of the vacation party was sworn to obey all speed limits the entire way. That pretty much went as planned until just south of Atlanta where they came upon a three hundred mile long portion of the interstate highway system. Seventy-five mph was the posted limit, but invariably the speedometer kept creeping upwards to the eighty-five, ninety miles per hour range. It was during the wee hours of the morning when everyone including the driver had a real hard time staying awake that they hit the southern Georgia line a lot sooner than expected. Still, they all promised to be more cautious on the return trip.

  The remainder of the trip was deemed uneventful as the group cruised along the northern Florida roads with visions of whole days and nights of wanton sybaritic behavior awaiting their arrival in the Holy Land. Arriving pretty much right on schedule, they found themselves cruising slowly along the twenty-six mile long beach known as Daytona Beach, Florida, a place known for all forms of lewd and disgusting behaviors regularly exhibited by all those licentious young people running around in skimpy bathing suits. Let the good times begin.

  It turned out the good times would have to wait until the next day. Every single one of the avowed party animals crashed in a heap not an hour after getting settled into a very budget oriented, low rent, off the beach motel.

  Heywood and his fellow beach revelers did make it down to the beach by early afternoon of the next day. They drove the entire length of the beach (twenty-six miles) with the car windows open enjoying the refreshing ocean breeze. And of course, on the way back up the almost completely abandoned beach, Heywood backed up his earlier boast of his GTO being able to reach the one hundred miles per hour mark on the speedometer. People had been driving cars fast on that beach for decades. The sand, when the tide went out, was as hard and dry as concrete. Plus, there wasn’t any place for a cop to hide.

  Following the brief tour, it was suggested by more than one member of the party that it was time to get down to business: girls and booze, the real reason why young men go most places. The girls were out in force all along the beach. In fact, more than once, they argued about which group of unattached young beauties deserved to be permitted the enjoyment of their enlightened companionship. Of the four guys in the car, only three actually had any real say in what group was chosen. One of the kids was notorious for dating horribly ugly girls. Buck teeth, no teeth, moose-faced, zits galore, bad breath, and rotundity inclined features were not a distraction to this trifocal challenged individual. Give him several beers, a portable radio with a perfumed wig on it, and he was happy.

  It just so happened that the lucky girls that ultimately got blessed with the group’s attention were from the wonderful state of Georgia, the one they had sped through on their way down to Florida. All were college coeds on the beach planning to have a good time before heading back to school in the fall. That was amazing as Heywood’s small group also claimed to be college guys doing the same thing. When asked what his major was, Heywood informed one cute coed that he hadn’t decided but most likely it would be nuclear physics.

  What happened after the partying started became something of a blur to Heywood when the short vacation was over, but there were certain events and instances that did fight their way through the thick haze of way, way too much alcohol consumption.

  The first incident of note that Heywood later recalled had something to do with empty beer bottles and a bunch of sea birds that constantly swarmed over the beach party area looking for food scraps. One of the honor roll posers among Heywood’s little group got tired of all the bird squawking and decided to chase the beggars off by throwing empty beer bottles at them as they flew by. Before one could say, bottle refund, the ocean was alive with bobbing empty beer bottles.

  This all seemed harmless until later when an officer of the law drove up to where Heywood and his merry band of revelers partied to coolly inform them that if he saw even one of the hundred bottles presently bobbing around in the ocean still bobbing in five minutes time everyone present would be spending the night in jail.

  Say no more. Within seconds every young partier on the beach scampered around in the surf grabbing bottles while loudly proclaiming their success to the laughing patrolman. What had taken most of the morning to put in the ocean was in no time back on the beach in a neat pile to be taken to the nearest waste barrel.

  Only then did the laughing officer tip his hat and move on down the beach to make another group of young revelers’ day miserable for a short time.

  The remaining sun and suds drenched days on the beach became a blur. Heywood, after the first night’s hangover, decided he felt so bad that he had to do something about it. Most people would say something like that when they intended to stop drinking but not Heywood and his merry group. To them it simply meant that they should not allow themselves to sober up until they headed home. The reasoning was that if you didn’t ever sober up you wouldn’t experience the awful hangovers.

  Other than all the girls Heywood became intimately familiar with at the beach, the incident that made the greatest impression on him happened on the very last morning. As usual, most of the revelers stayed where they fell, meaning when so much booze had been ingested that the merrymakers could no longer stand on their feet, they simply lay down in the still warm sand and called it a night. Why take a chance of getting caught by the cops for drinking and driving w
hen one had a soft warm bed right under their feet?

  That’s apparently what Heywood did. Only it wasn’t the soothing sound of the surf that awoke him that final morning. It was the sound of his own car’s engine and the pressure of a front tire pressing upon the side of his head. There was also a lot of screaming. Altogether a heck of a lot of noise was welcoming Heywood back to the conscious world.

  The first words that he heard and understood went something like this, “Stop! Stop! You’ll kill him if you run over his head.”

  It was probably that part about his head getting run over that caused Heywood’s eyes to open exposing them to the glare of the soon to be scalding hot sun. Unfortunately, Heywood couldn’t actually see the sun as there was something in the way of its usually warm and welcoming rays. That particular something turned out to be his own GTO’s left front tire. It was pressing right up against his pounding with a terrible hangover forehead.

  Heywood heard the same plaintive voice screaming those same words, “Stop! Stop! You’ll kill him.”

  Then he heard another voice, and this one was familiar. He recognized it immediately. It was one of his homeboys. But why was he yelling that he was going to run over that SOB’s head for what he had done? None of this made any sense to Heywood. What could he have done to his friend to cause him to want to run over his head with a two thousand pound car? He soon found out.

  “I told him that the next time we went out looking for girls while drinking, he better not come back with ugly ones,” yelled the individual who Heywood suspected was trying to drive his own car over his face.

  By this time Heywood realized that he better determine what was going on. No sooner did he do this than he saw right off what the problem was. The girl who was doing all the screaming was the one he had introduced to his inebriated friend the previous evening. He had to admit his partner had a point because this was just maybe the ugliest female Heywood had seen in a very long time. He felt a sense of relief that he was not the one who ended up with King Kong’s sister. Much better not to live with the thought of having spent a night with her!

  Heywood needed to act fast. His former friend was revving the engine as if he were about to pop the clutch for a drag race.

  “Charley! Charley! Don’t do it, Charley! Give me another chance. I’ll make it up to you, I swear I will,” pleaded a contrite Heywood.

  Almost immediately things quieted down.

  “Yeah? Well how you ever going to do that? Do you even have your eyes open? Do you get the picture of what I’m going to have to live with forever?” said the still hostile sounding driver.

  “How about me lending you my car to date the Carter girl back home you’ve been going on about?” added Heywood hurriedly.

  The engine revving stopped.

  “Boy, you better not be lyin’ to me. You swear that’s what you’ll do when we get back?” replied a much less hostile sounding traveling companion.

  “Have I ever lied to you?” came the hurried response from Heywood.

  “All the time,” came the response followed by more engine revving.

  “I mean, have I lied to you lately?” came the hurried reply from Heywood.

  “Yes! All you-” began the disgruntled buddy.

  “Okay. Okay. I admit I’ve been remiss, but I swear I’m not going to do it anymore, okay?”

  The engine revving ceased causing Heywood to suspect that his newest BS proclamation was having some effect. He decided to sweeten the pot even more.

  “I’m also going to let you do most of the driving on the way home, especially, on that new three hundred mile stretch of interstate. Whatta ya say, deal?”

  Seconds later it was over. One of Heywood’s best friends had decided not to run over his face with his own car in lieu of being granted driving privileges.

  Not long afterwards they said so long to the beach along with all the pretty and some not so pretty girls. It would require several more days for the group to completely detoxify, but to a man, they claimed it was worth it. They had all built some memories that would be essential in helping them to go forward into adulthood as the inheritors of numerous political and social issues that would gain national, as well as, international importance. Issues like the growing war in Southeast Asia and the small matter of granting civil rights to an entire race of human beings.

  All that stood between Heywood’s little group and the Bluegrass State was about nine hundred miles of concrete and asphalt plus one disgruntled highway patrolman.

  The source of the problem arose from an idea one of the quieter passengers offered up after Heywood mentioned he was quickly using up most of his new car’s warranty miles. Warranty miles being that period whereby the manufacture guaranteed any mechanical problem that arose during the first twelve thousand miles of ownership. The entire vacation trip was looking as if between three and four thousand miles of the warranty would be exhausted. The guy suggested they simply crawl under the car and undo the speedometer cable.

  Without the cable hooked up, no mileage would be recorded. The only problem with that idea was you would also be without the speedometer. But to a man, they all agreed that among them they could certainly determine if and when a posted speed limit was being exceeded. So under the car a volunteer not named Heywood went, and in no time, they were heading back north to the real world of day jobs as well as other looming career related issues, namely Heywood’s little detour into the military.

  To the best of Heywood’s recollection, they had been on the seemingly never-ending Georgia Interstate Highway for five or six hours straight. They were making good time as the signs announced that Atlanta loomed just over the horizon, forty or fifty miles ahead. Heywood was surprised at just how light the traffic was going both directions. A road like this was nothing less than a modern day marvel. If one didn’t believe it, just try going the length of Georgia on the old roads that routed the traveler through every little back country community that had the gumption to erect thirty-five mph speed limit signs.

  They were nowhere close to one of those small town speed traps when Heywood noticed another automobile trying to overtake them. Then in quick succession, Heywood noticed a red light on top of said vehicle flashing vigorously. After turning the radio down a few notches he heard a siren wailing.

  Who is this guy after? Heywood thought, right before the noisy vehicle pulled up alongside their car and motioned energetically for him to pull over to the side of the road.

  The first thing that came to Heywood’s mind was related to someone having an open container in the car. Then he recalled that they had given the car a thorough once over before leaving the beach just in case. So what is this trooper pulling me over for? Heywood wondered.

  The officer who eventually emerged from the vehicle sitting behind them alongside the highway finally waddled up to the driver’s side of the GTO.

  “Yes, sir,” said Heywood cheerfully. “Nice highway you’ve got here. Me and my friends were-” was as far as he got before the half grinning, half snarling State Trooper interrupted.

  “Boy, do you know how fast you was goin’ back there?” asked the snarling individual.

  Keenly aware that no mention of the fact that they had unhooked the speedometer should be made, Heywood replied, “Back there? Well, let’s see, I’m not sure exactly, but we were intending not to exceed the speed limit. We weren’t, were we?”

  The incredulous look on the trooper’s face said it all.

  “Boy, you was doing one hundred and ten miles per hour. I’ve been chasing you for fifteen miles, and you are under arrest.”

  Heywood had no idea of what to say. He honestly didn't know he was driving so fast. The gas pedal was not even to the floor.

  “Officer, I’m sure there must be some mistake,” offered Heywood as visions of all those unfortunate prisoners on the numerous roadside chain gangs they had passed along the highway on the way south came to mind.

  “You damn straight there’s a mistake, an
d you made it by abusin’ our posted speed limits. Now, I tell you what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna follow me to the county seat five miles east of the next exit just up ahead. You got that? And just remember, ain’t no hot rod can out run a radio. You sure you got all that?”

  “Yes sir,” replied Heywood as visions of all those poor guys on the chain gangs he saw along the roads came to mind.

  All the way to the county courthouse, the passengers inside Heywood’s car offered up their assessment of what might happen next. The consensus among the three non-car owners was that Heywood would probably be arrested and put on one of those chain gangs, but all three assured him they would take care of his car and be sure to come back and get him as soon as his sentence was up in five or six months.

  Heywood quickly informed his fair weather friends that the car was going to stay with him no matter what, and they could thumb a ride home if that’s all they had to offer. Plus, he had to report for induction into the service in less than thirty days. How was he going to handle that?

  It turned out that Heywood’s hasty appearance before a local magistrate, who sat in his tobacco chewing spattered office, was expected. It took all of about seven minutes for one of Georgia’s finest dispensers of jurisprudence to filch half of the remaining sixty bucks Heywood had to his name in lieu of jail time.

  The foul mouthed tobacco-spitting redneck rubbed a little salt in the wound when he said in all sincerity, “Y’all come back now, ya hear!”

  Over the next several hundred miles Heywood waxed philosophical relating to the strange confluence of events that were coming together at this particular juncture of his life’s, hopefully, prolonged journey. Would these be the days that he longingly reflected back upon at some distant point in the future? Were these the good old days? What lay in store for him? Should he have done as so many said and married his high school sweetheart? Should he have broken the cycle and attempted to go to college? Would he survive Vietnam if he were sent over there like so many of his friends and relatives?

  As the darkness shrouded the landscapes they passed through during the remainder of their prolonged homeward journey, Heywood realized his future was, likewise, an evolving mystery. That didn’t mean he had to go around in circles, repeating the same mistakes over and over. Someday he would have to stand for something. He recalled hearing one of the many high school counselors forced upon him, in lieu of being expelled for various and sundry infractions, say one time, “If you don’t ever stand for something, then, then, then you probably won’t ever stand for something, or do something, or something like that.”