Gerald Barton
I live in Tucson, Arizona. The characters in "Privacy" first showed up during a driving trip in southern Colorado. "Privacy" doesn't have a particular setting, but I imagine these guys in western Colorado. But they could be just about anywhere. "Privacy" is my first published story in many years. Long gone magazines published a few of my essays and poems in the 70's. I once published an article in the Arizona Law Review. It had many long and serious footnotes.
PrivacyIt was the war, when the gas price hit the ceiling, that I first thought about Paul's carpool. Before then, I'd never thought about any carpool, never mind a carpool with me riding in it. Truth is, if I'm going somewhere, I want my own truck with me deciding when I leave, who I travel with, what road I follow. When I drive, I like my own music however loud I like it. My whole life of thirty years has taught me independence is best. I don't need somebody eyeballing me for whether I'm spilling my drink on their car seat or leaving my dirt on their floor mat. I'm the kind of person that likes his privacy. So later on, when the hurricanes were lined up in the Gulf and the price of gas went through the roof, it didn't come easy but I decided I needed to make the sacrifice.For ten months, I'd been in a work crew with three other guys. We did concrete mostly and some backhoe work when necessary. After I made my decision, I called my crew boss, Paul, to ask if I could join in on the carpool. Paul said, "You bet, Jeff. We got a spot for you." Paul was the driver in the carpool. The other two riders in Paul's truck were Jack and Mel who were also on the work crew. It was just the four of us on the crew and in the carpool both. Paul and Jack and Mel had all got hired about the same time. The big boss had put them together and that's how they stuck. They'd been years together. When I got hired, the big boss put me with them. I was the new guy to the job, but they welcomed me. They played it straight right from my first day on the crew. Paul put me with Mel and said, "Hey, Mel, how about you show Jeff the ropes?" Mel did, and that was it. Paul was a really quiet type for the leader of a crew. He said hardly a word beyond an instruction or a heads-up. Mel and Jack were more normal. They'd tell a joke or a funny story. After a while, it got that I'd pitch in now and again. Paul would laugh. He had his easy side. Paul wasn't a stony man. He was just as human as any one of us. It was just he was real private. I can respect a person that wants his privacy. In the carpool, we'd travel thirty minutes each way. We always sat in the same seats. Paul drove a double-cab pick-up and I sat behind Paul. Mel was across from me in back and Jack sat shotgun up front. Every morning, when we got out near the airport, Paul would look at his watch. Either right then or within a few minutes after, he'd reach over and turn on the radio. There might be the tail end of a commercial, but the weather report was always next. We'd listen, and when the weather was done, Jack would turn off the radio. Then Jack would turn halfway round in his seat and Paul would look back over his shoulder. They'd both be looking at Mel. It didn't matter what the forecast was - rain, wind, hail, heat, cold - everyday Mel said the same thing. "Just another day in paradise." Then the three of them had a laugh. Sometime in the second week of my riding in the carpool, I started to smile when Mel spoke his line, and then, after a few more days, I started to laugh too. Their deal was always the same: Paul turned on the radio, Jack turned it off, Mel spoke his line. I began to wonder if there was something I should add now that I was in the carpool and was sitting right there behind Paul both ways each and every day. If I was part of the carpool, did they expect me to say something too? Or if I did speak out, would that mess up whatever it was they had going? After a few days, I decided if there was something for me to say, the words would come clear in my head. Until then, I'd stay quiet. In the meantime, I smiled or laughed when Mel spoke his line, but even after my decision for silence, there were some days I still wondered. There were other things I did different from those guys, especially Paul. Such as a traffic light could change from green to amber to red, and it never once fazed him. Like at the junction of State 83, where you've got vehicles turning north-south as well as coming in and out of the little market and the café. Paul just did whatever the traffic light told him. Green he went. Amber he slowed. Red he stopped. If it had been me driving my truck, I'd have been speeding up and shifting lanes to make it through on the green. I'd have been on full alert to the whereabouts of every vehicle on the road. If necessary, I'd have used the turn lane to go straight or put two outside wheels on the dirt shoulder to get past a slow turner. Fact is, I like to keep moving. I want to advance forward. It feels good inside me to go, and not so good to stop. That's just how it is for me. I like to feel like I'm making progress. Truth is, I don't much understand people who like to stand still and not be on the way to somewhere else. One drizzly Monday morning, Paul came by to pick me up, but when I climbed in, there was no Mel in the back seat. I got myself settled in my usual place, set my gear down on the seat and took out my thermos of coffee. "So where's Mel?" I asked. "Mel got some bad news," said Paul. "Over the weekend, Mel's wife's doctor gave them some bad news about her condition," said Jack. Her condition? I was a year on the crew and a month in the carpool. I knew Mel had a wife, but that Monday morning was the first I ever heard about any condition Mel or his wife might get bad news about. "I hope it's nothing too serious," I said. What else was I supposed to say? I could hear the tires spinning on the wet pavement. The seat creaked when I shifted around to open my thermos over my gear. The thermos whooshed when I twisted open the top. "Mel expects he'll be out all week," said Paul. "We'll need to pick up the slack." "Wow. All week," I said. "All week's quite a while. I hope it's nothing too serious." Of course, I had sympathy for Mel and his wife. Whatever it was, I felt for them, same as I would for anyone else that got bad news from a doctor. But, truth is, I was fishing for information. If Paul and Jack expected me to pick up the slack, if I was making my contribution, if I was part of the crew, I felt like maybe I was also entitled to some information about Mel's wife's condition. "We might have to put in a few extra hours today and tomorrow," said Jack. "But Wednesday looks real light, and maybe we can put off starting that new job until next week." "Whatever it takes," I said. It turned out we worked until after dark both Monday and Tuesday. And on Wednesday morning, we started early. Instead of driving out to the office first, Paul drove direct to the job site, and we hit it running. As Jack had predicted, the workload was light and things moved real fast. We finished early and broke for the day at noon. As we drove toward home, Paul turned toward Jack and said, "I think I'll turn off." Jack nodded. When the truck got halfway up the hill, Paul turned east onto a dirt road. The truck rumbled along not too far until Paul stopped at the end of the road. We got out and I followed Paul and Jack through a grove of trees. We came out at a long rock outcrop where the ridge dropped off and opened out on the long valley. Autumn was moving in. It was still green mostly, but there were some streaks of brown and spots of red and orange down in the valley. There were a few cigarette butts strewn around in the dirt, so you could see other people knew this place was here. But it wasn't beer cans and trash and broken glass like other places I've seen. Neither Paul or Jack spoke a word. Paul moved off to the right and found himself a spot in the open. He just stood there a good bit back from the edge of the rock outcrop. Jack meandered along the edge, looking down now and then. After a bit, Jack also found his spot. It was still and quiet. At first I was just uncomfortable, but after a minute, I wanted to jump out of my skin. This wasn't a hunting trip like many I've been on. And it wasn't a scouting trip for the next week's hunt. Nobody was looking through the binoculars or checking scat or tracks or other signs of deer or elk. Truth is, I felt spooked and a little weird out there in nature with two other men doing nothing but standing and looking, and nobody saying or doing a thing. I'd never seen anything quite like those two guys. They were as quiet as silence, and still as stones, with hardly any movements except for breathing. If it was like anything, I suppose it was like the night I fell asleep on the couch and when I woke up, there were the monks of old on my television. The monks were standing straight and still like statues inside their stone buildings or outside in their gardens. That television show with the monks was nothing I ever would have looked at on my own. It was something I just woke up to by accident. But that's what it was like with Paul and Jack. They were doing a prayer like the monks of old did where they stayed silent and still, and just watched until they stopped watching. Nowadays, I suppose, it's all different, to where when men pray together they do it with noisy music and their hands raised up in big auditoriums and with cameras so the whole world can see. I saw that on TV too. The new guys pray loud and showy so other folks will watch them do it. Not so with Paul and Jack. For them it was private and quiet and still. They didn't need anybody seeing them. I suppose I might as well not even been there for all it mattered to them. After about twenty minutes, I heard Paul's steps scrape off toward the truck. I didn't know whether to follow or stay put. A minute passed and Jack turned my way. He caught my eye and tilted his head toward the path Paul had walked out. Then Jack and me went out that way too. We got back in the truck and headed home. When we left the dirt and got back on the paved road, Jack looked around and said to me, "Beautiful spot out there, isn't it?" "Sure is," I said. And it was. That rock outcrop with its view of the valley was one beautiful location. That time with Paul and Jack was my first time out there, but later on, when I understood where that dirt road went to, there were a few times I took myself out there on my own. The next morning, Thursday, Jack turned off the radio after the weather report and he looked back and said to me, "Mel called. He said his wife's doctor told them there should be a good treatment for his wife's condition." "That's good news to hear," I said. And then on Friday afternoon, when Paul dropped me off at the end of the day and I was already outside the truck with my gear bag in my hand, Paul called out after me, "Good job, Jeff. Thanks for pitching in." "Yeah, sure," I said. "No problem." And then on Monday morning, Mel was back in his usual spot behind Jack. After the weather report, Mel said his "Just another day in paradise." We all laughed. Then Mel said, "Hey fellas, I just wanted to say thanks and let you know things are looking up." "It's no different than you would have done for us," said Jack. "We're all in this together," said Paul. I didn't know whether I was part of what Jack and Paul were talking about. Was I part of this "us" that we were all in together? I suppose that after the week before, with all of us pitching in together, the fact was I was part of it. But then again, there was that independent streak in me that knew it didn't want to be part of this or any other. "It's good to hear things are looking up," I said to Mel. Mel looked over at me and gave me the thumbs up. A few weeks later, on a warm day, I made a trip to the water jug on the side of the truck. I was worse than dehydrated. I was wiped out. Truth is, I'd had a few too many, several too many, the night before. I leaned forward with my head against the truck and held my water bottle under the spigot. All I heard was the sound of water pouring into the plastic bottle. I had my eyes closed and was letting my hands and ears do the seeing for me. I'd done this often enough that I knew the feel and the sound of a full bottle. When the bottle was full, I pushed off the truck and stepped backward. As it turned out, Paul had been in the truck looking through the glovebox, but I never saw him. And now Paul was done, and he was standing behind me waiting to get himself a drink of water. So when I stepped backward, I almost crashed right into him. As it was, I stepped on Paul's foot, lost my balance, and started to stumble sideways. "Whoa there," said Paul. His big hands reached up and caught me by the shoulders and righted me. I stood to the side while Paul filled his cup and took a long swallow. I don't know what it was - maybe that Paul had kept me from falling or that he'd grabbed my shoulders, or maybe that he'd come up behind me without my knowing it - but I suddenly felt like I needed to say something to Paul. I needed to say something that meant something. Paul poured some water onto his folded handkerchief and wiped his face. Then, the words were coming out of me. "So Paul, if you don't mind me asking, are you a family man? Do you have any family hereabouts?" Paul took another drink. "No, Jeff. No family. My folks are long gone, and I suppose you could say I'm a bit of a loner." "There's lots of people prefer to fly solo," I found myself saying. "Solo, yes," said Paul. "But flying? No. No flying for me, Jeff." Paul hesitated, then shook his head and smiled. "The honest truth is I'm scared of heights. Terrified. Worst week of my life was a two hour flight from Denver to Phoenix. I took the bus for the return trip. One time I made the mistake of driving up over Red Mountain Pass north of Durango. I've heard tell there's worse places, much worse, but Red Mountain was bad enough for me that I near drove across the edge into the abyss just to bring that ordeal to a sudden end. So if you want to say I fly solo, you'd best also add I keep my feet planted on the ground." Then Paul laughed, turned and walked away. Believe it or not, over months of working and carpooling together, that was the most words I heard Paul string together at one time, ever, before or after. The crew had been working on and off on the same big project for three months -- since just about the time I joined the carpool. Even with Mel's week-long absence, we finished our part of the big project two weeks ahead of schedule. The end product was slick and clean, and Paul shook our hands and said it was a good job all around. The next payday, the big boss called us all in and told us the customer was real happy with the job. "It was because of your work," the big boss said, "that the company'll be the only bidder on his next deal. You fellas saved me a ton on the bid costs. So here's some extra as my way of saying thanks." The big boss handed Paul a stuffed brown envelope. Even half across the room, you could see it was fat with fifties and hundreds. We went outside and stood around Paul's truck. Paul handed the envelope to Mel who counted it up. "Eight thousand even," said Mel. Right then, my mouth went dry and the back of my throat went tight. Paul said, "I want you guys to share that money." "C'mon Paul," said Jack. "We cut it four ways. Even Steven." "Look," said Paul. "The boss pays me top drawer and takes care of me at bonus time. I got no people, but you fellas can pass it on to whoever." We all looked at Paul. "Go on, Mel," said Paul, and he turned and got in the truck and sat behind the wheel. Mel counted out some money and put it in his pocket. He handed the envelope to Jack. "You and Jeff covered for me when my wife was down," said Mel, "so I'd be pleased if you split this two ways." We all got in the truck. Paul drove, Jack counted money, and Mel snoozed in the seat across from me. Jack took out several fifties, folded them over and stuffed his shirt pocket. When Paul pulled up outside my place, Jack handed me the envelope. "There's your share, Jeff," Jack said. When I got inside, I put the envelope on the table. I went to the refrigerator and opened a beer. I sat at the table, sipped at my beer and stared at the envelope. When I sat down with my second beer, I reached for the envelope and counted up. $4500. This part might be crazy-sounding to you, because sometimes it is to me too. I took that $4500, plus the trade on my gas hog, and I bought a smaller, more efficient truck. Solid and strong mind you, but a smarter truck and cheaper to run. With the new truck, plus the price of gas dropping after hurricane season blew itself out to sea, here's the crazy thing I did -- I dropped out of the carpool. And maybe crazier still, after another month, I quit the crew with Paul and Jack and Mel. I walked into the big boss's office and told him I needed a change. "Are you sure?" the big boss said. "You know those fellas are the best. And there's nobody in the whole company comes close to Paul. You sure you want to go this way, Jeff?" "Yup," I said. Whether or not it was punishment for quitting Paul's crew, the big boss put me with a crew of loud mouth bullshitters and backstabbers. It's not my style, but I can hold my own against that type. After work sometimes I'd go out to the bar with them new boys. We'd knock back balls and beers. I don't deny there were times I enjoyed it. Loud music and tall tales and pool tables. But those guys would get drunk and then they'd start in on Paul and Jack and Mel. On Paul especially. I had nothing to say, but they'd be drunk and keep right on talking at me. One night, my birthday I guess it was, they got me drinking Wild Turkey and pretty soon I was way beyond drunk. That's when they really got after me - pushing and prodding at me about Paul's crew. It was my birthday and they were buying the liquor. So maybe they figured I owed them. "So what's the deal with that Paul? The Silent Man. How come Paul's so quiet all the time? I say anybody so quiet as The Silent Man must have serious secrets to hide." "So Paul, right? Never been married, no girlfriend, no family. What's his story? I heard talk about him and Mel and Jack breaking early off a job and going out in the woods for no purpose at all. What's that all about, man?" "And how's it happen that Paul's got the big boss by the balls so Paul gets major money for doing no more than the same job as every other crew boss on the payroll?" "Hey, man, be straight with us. You're in our crew now. What's the story with Paul and Mel and Jack? They're like three-peas-in-a-pod. C'mon, Jeff, you rode in that truck with them dudes. So how about you shed some light on that three-peas-in-a-pod deal they got going." I was drunk and sometimes when I'm drunk I say things I don't mean or I don't remember. But that night I told it straight to them bullshitters. "Not that you boys would know shit about this, but Paul's a man anyone can trust. Paul don't steer nobody wrong. So when you ride with Paul, you go where Paul takes you. And wherever that is, it's all right. And that's all there is to it." In my experience there's nothing unusual about people wanting you to badmouth somebody else. It's common for people to want you to prove you're one of them because you got the same other person to mock on or condemn. It's a child's trick, but most times, sorry to say, that's how it is for grown up men too. So, after that birthday night, when I wouldn't put something bad on Paul or his crew, them bullshitters put me on their list. Then I was their outsider. But like I say, I got my independent streak, so me being somebody's outsider fit me just fine. A few weeks later the day came when I never went to work. I just sat all day on my sofa and neither got in my truck or in anybody's carpool either. After a few days, the big boss had Jack call me and leave a message. "Hey, Jeff, we're all hoping there's nothing gone haywire on you. Give a call down here." But by then I'd already set my mind to moving on. A few days later, when my truck was half packed, Jack left another message, "Paul told me to make sure you understand we're still looking for a good worker to fill your empty spot on the crew." I listened to Jack's message, unplugged the phone, and hit the road. Now I'm moved out here where I am now. I never did call back there to Mel or Jack or Paul or the big boss or nobody else. Even so, I suspect that door might be open -- if I was to go up there in person, and walk right into the big boss's office, or walk out to a job site and say, "Hey, Paul. It's me. Jeff." Who knows? They might take me back. And sure, there's sometimes I wonder if those few months in the carpool were worth the sacrifice of my independence. I lean toward yes, it was worth it -- it being for just a short duration and in a crew where people could respect a person's privacy. |