dugindeep | Wandering Lost: Part 3 (Reply)

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DAY THREE

After breakfast, Jensen walks over to that mangy pay phone with a pocket weighed down with quarters. Thanks to Mrs. G., he’s got enough to make a handful of calls. And thanks to the new charging cord from the inn’s lost and found, he can access his contacts.

Still can’t get much in the way of service. His email app tells him there are items waiting to be read. The damn things won’t load in this random black hole that is Paradise.

The pay phone ringing is like salvation, granting him a connection back to New York City. He’s thankful when he hears Samantha’s voice on the other end.

“Morgan Mixed Media. This is Samantha Smith. How can I help you?” she asks in a practiced cadence.

“Hey Sam, it’s Jensen,” he offers with a bit of hesitation, preparing to hear a lecture for disappearing for two straight days. The studio has its big Summer show next month, and he’s been coordinating between artists and contracts to finalize a few troublesome folks who want the best spot in the joint.

His title of Media Liaison only tells half the story; he has to facilitate between the stiffness of the studio’s owner and the delicate, dramatic, and cocky mix of artists seeking the best wall with the most prominent lighting.

“Jensen,” she hisses under her breath, “where have you been? We’ve sent you a hundred emails. Sheppard has been threatening to pull out of the show and Jeff has lost it.”

She sounds nervous and frantic, as well as confused about his absence. Not to mention the present predicament.

Sheppard has a particular temperament that none at the studio have been able to cool. Still, the man brings plenty of interested parties with deep pockets, so they deal. And he has somehow taken a liking to Jensen, which leaves this in Jensen’s lap to fix.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Jensen laments, knocking the side of his head against the glass. As limited as his job is, he rather enjoys being close to the action of artists and photographers he wants to one day call peers. If he screws up here, he’ll have to start over at another studio—if anyone would have him. “I’ve had car troubles and am stuck in a place with bad reception. I asked my friend to call and let you guys know I’d be out of touch for a bit.”

In the midst of Sam’s long pause, Jensen can hear another voice in the background: low and rough, pointed and particularly unsatisfied.

With the shuffling on the other end, he prepares himself to face the wrath of Jeff Morgan, the very man whose name appears on the gallery’s door.

“Jensen?” Jeff asks, though he doesn’t stop for confirmation before going on. “I thought we had an agreement. You said you needed a week away from the studio, but you’d be in contact, always available, and would wrap up these hanging strings.”

Jensen forces some strength into his voice. “Yes, sir. We did agree to all that. Unfortunately, there have been some unforeseen—”

“And now I have Sheppard emailing all his demands, as if I care what a pompous blowhard like him wants? You know what I care about, Jensen?”

The bottom line, Jensen wants to answer. He’s worked with Jeff long enough to know that this is all rhetorical, though, so he stays silent.

“I care that there is a show in five weeks,” Jeff continues, “and I care that this show brings in people with money. And that those people spend lots of their money in my gallery. If I cared about artists, I wouldn’t have Sam managing the art, or you babysitting the people.”

“Yes, I realize that. And I am very sorry for the … situation.” Jensen holds his breath for another barrage of complaints.

The line is eerily silent.

Jensen continues, “And I will get this all corrected. Everything will go on like we planned. I’ll call Sheppard and we’ll sort it out.”

Jeff lets out a stiff hrmph and hands the phone back to Sam.

“Jensen, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “But we really need you to talk to Sheppard. I have too much else on my plate with the Fall show.”

He knows that. Also knows that there’s no way he can put this in her court. As the studio’s curator, she’s always a few months ahead of Jensen, lining up new pieces and feature stand-out artists throughout the year.

They sort out a few details with promises of Jensen getting to his emails as soon as possible. Then he finally gets to the emails from Beaver over the last two days, asking if everything is okay with the truck and when will it arrive. Jensen has a fresh wave of guilt over lying to Beaver, but is thankful is finally has access to emails to respond.

Jensen puts his phone back in his pocket with an even heavier weight on his shoulders.

He needs to get out of Paradise. At the very least, he has to find a way to get within range of a cell tower.

Jensen decides to stop at the garage for an update with Richard about the truck then roam downtown. Maybe capture a few Main Street scenes while he’s at it, his trusty camera in hand.

Once on Main Street, he watches traffic both ways, which isn’t much, but an old station wagon meanders one way while a few boys on dirt bikes head in the other. He hops off the curb and shuffles along the pavement. Doesn’t make it even halfway across before a whistle blows behind him. Hurrying to make the other side of the street, he dismisses the whistle, even as it keeps going at a quick rhythm. Then it blows solidly as the noise grows closer.

He half expects to turn around and see Jared. The guy pops up everywhere, after all.

No, he is face to face with a man in a uniform, dark blue and all tidy from the collar down to his spic-n-span shoes. His hair is light yet shorn tight to his scalp, and he squints against the sun as he rattles off Jensen’s infringement.

“You have any idea what laws are like around here, son?”

Son? The guy doesn’t seem a day older than Jensen. Something about his quick chatter makes him seem even younger.

“Jaywalking is a critical offense,” he continues. “Especially around here with all the people coming and going on Main Street.”

“I didn’t realize …” Jensen tapers off as he thinks about the thousands of New Yorkers cutting across every street, every day. Jaywalking isn’t a thing back home. In fact, it’s a necessity to get around.

“Of course you didn’t realize.” The cop backs up his attitude with a cocky stance, feet shoulder-width apart, hands resting on the sides of his belt where a gun rests on one hip and a baton on the other. “You’re not even from around here.”

Jensen glances around and wonders if he’s on candid camera.

Then he wonders … do they shoot people around here for crossing the street in the wrong place?

“But we all gotta learn our lesson sometime.” The officer whips out his ticket book and pen from his shirt pocket, makes a show of clicking the ball point into place and snaps his gum with more arrogance. “Alright, Jensen, what’s your last name?”

“Excuse me?” Jensen stutters for an answer, stuck on the fact that the cop knows who he is. He has no idea who this guy is, and looks for the name tag on his uniform. “Look, Officer Murray.”

“Michael Murray.”

Jensen has never heard of an officer wanting to be known by his full name, but … “Okay, look, I’m really sorry for crossing the street—”

“In the wrong place.”

“In the wrong place,” he agrees with a kind nod and easy voice. “And I realize it’s a serious matter around here, but surely this can just go off as a warning.”

“My whistle was my warning.” Office Murray spins his whistle from its spot on his belt, where the double rope is tied around a beltloop. “And I blew it a lot without you even caring.”

“I care, I do, I really care,” he offers with an apologetic smile. “But like you said, I’m not from around here, and I didn’t know it was such a serious offense.”

Officer Murray drops his head to write out the ticket, checking off boxes with a flourish as he talks. “Well now you do. Full name is Jensen … ”

With a sigh, Jensen adds: “Ackles.”

“And your address?”

Another sigh, and he answers. “210 151st Street.”

Officer Murray quickly looks to Jensen, then all around. “151st … son, are you playing tricks with me?”

Jensen wants to run away, especially as he spots the folks from the ice cream shop—Kim with her two boys—come outside to see what all the ruckus is about. “No, not at all. I actu—”

“You yankin’ my chain? Because you think out here in Paradise, we don’t take the law seriously?”

“I didn’t say that,” he argues, ignoring the squeak in his voice.

“Where are you staying?” Officer Murray demands.

“In New York City.”

The officer sets his hands back on his belt, a palm resting on the butt of his gun. “Right now. Where are you sleeping?”

“I’m not actually sleeping right now.” Or am I?

“Don’t you be cute with me.”

“I’m not trying to be!”

“Oh, Chad, you leave him be,” Kim butts in, inserting herself between them. She stands nearly as tall as the officer, yet is surely more intimidating when she stares him down. “This boy’s staying with Mrs. G. Jared brought him into town two days ago.”

Jensen can’t decide between being thankful for her intervention or suspicious of how much she knows about him when their conversation yesterday was so short.

“You could just ask the nice, cute boy for his license, take down his info, and write him a proper ticket.”

“Thank you,” Jensen offers her gratefully. Then it hits him. “Wait. I still get a ticket?”

Kim turns on him now. “Boy, I saw you crossing the street right in the middle. You didn’t notice those nice, shiny yellow lines at the corner? I swear I ought to slam you up side your head.”

He quickly moves away from her rising hand as though she’s about to strike him. “No, you’re right. I’m very sorry for crossing in the wrong place. I won’t do it again.” He retrieves his wallet from his back pocket and displays it to the officer, all while cowering from them both.

She smiles proudly at Jensen, almost fondly, as Officer Murray writes the jaywalking ticket. “You’re a real good kid, Jensen.”

When she slaps his back, hard, he stumbles forward and grimaces. “Thanks,” he mumbles. “Didn’t know we were such friends.”

“I got a feeling we’ll be real good friends.” She winks at him, though her sweet disposition is soured when Colin and Brock join the group and she growls at them. “What have I told you idjits about minding your own business?”

Jensen watches her grab an ear on each of the boys and drag them back across the street to the ice cream shop. “Wow,” he says with a sharp tilt of his head as the door swings loudly shut, bell rattling from the inside.

“Yeah, she’s a lunatic,” Officer Murray says with the easiest tone he’s had thus far. Then he frowns while looking at the store. “When she started yelling, I almost peed a little.”

“And you’re the police?” Jensen asks; at the same time, he tries his hardest to forget what the officer had last said.

“Kim Rhodes bows to nobody.” He yanks the ticket out of his book and smacks it to Jensen’s chest. “And I don’t bow to nobody but her, so here’s your ticket. Have a nice day. Hope you enjoy the Bank Bash tonight.”

Jensen dares himself to read the ticket while standing there on the sidewalk, in broad daylight. He yells after the departing officer, “Two hundred dollars?!”

Officer Murray spins around, blows his whistle sharply, then barks out a new warning. “Noise complaints run another one fifty. You wanna push your luck?”

Jensen immediately shrinks back with his hand in the air. “No, sir, not at all.” He offers a pathetic wave and smile as he watches the officer leave. “Jesus Christ, this town is nuts.”

A bell chimes to his left, and a man pedaling an-old timey high wheeler bicycle approaches him. “Did someone say nuts?” he asks with joy. The orange and red striped top hat matches the pants, though the Brianaght green suspenders and salt and pepper beard are oddities. “Fresh salty nuts! Made this morning by yours truly!”

“No thanks,” Jensen says flatly while taking in the peculiar ride. Surely novelty bicycles are only seen in the circus. And that must’ve been fifty years ago. Then Jensen remembers seeing this particular outfit at the diner yesterday.

The man tips his hat towards Jensen as he pedals the high bike back and forth to maintain balance. Then proudly declares: “Omundson O-Nuttery has the finest nuts around. Hot and fresh every day!”

In lieu of answering, Jensen lifts his camera up, finds the man in his viewfinder, and snaps a quick succession of photos. Some feature the full stature of the high wheeler, others focus on the man’s outfit combined with the lavishly colored sign hanging from strings tied around the bike’s frame. The final few capture the pure glee on his face, cheeks rising high and pink while his beard parts around his mouth to reveal a brigt toothy smile.

“My portraits don’t come free, ya know,” the man insists with a narrowed look.

There’s something about Paradise, Jensen thinks, buried beneath the absurdity of it all. And maybe he’ll get it all on his camera. He thinks it’ll offer the studio a slice of life no one has ever seen before; maybe he’ll finally get something exhibited there. He kisses his boss’s ass for that very reason, yet it hasn’t happened.

“I’ll take the smallest bag of your finest nuts.”

“That’ll be ten dollars.”

He’d complain about the steep price for just a bag of nuts, but it’s a rather hefty sack being tossed down to him. Heavy and wide in his palm, Jensen thinks he just may have made out on the right end of this deal.

Jensen tucks the bag under one arm as the man pedals off before snapping a few dozen photos of the man’s exit until Jensen steps into Jensen’s view, approaching the bicycle. The two men share a handshake, made more complicated with a few choreographed moves and a shot of finger guns.

Suddenly, Jared turns to Jensen and smiles, shooting playful finger guns his way. Jensen purses his lips at the way he immediately raises his hand to give a thumbs up before he can realize he’s responding.

He shakes off the way Jared’s broad smile makes him warm down to his toes and rushes to enter Dingy Dick’s. The office is empty, yet there’s loud classic rock playing back in the garage, so he heads there to find the mechanic. The truck is raised up on a jack, and a pair of legs stick out from underneath, feet dancing to the beat of the song.

“Richard?” Jensen asks before knocking on the side of the truck’s trunk.

The mechanic slides out from under the Ford on a rolling pad, wheels squeaking as he appears. His coveralls are filthy with grease while his face and hands are clean. Surprisingly, he’s eating a sandwich. “Heya Jensen!” Richard happily calls out then continues chewing.

Jensen bends over to look beneath the truck for any tools; there are none. Richard is just eating an early lunch while hiding under the F-100? Slowly, he asks, “How’s going?”

“Perfect. I got a mean grilled ham and cheese from Briana, and there’s Skynyrd on the radio. Can’t complain!” With another big bite, bread crumbs get caught on his mustache, which dances as he continues to chew. “What can I do you for?”

Attempting a smile, Jensen shucks the strap of his camera up on his shoulder and motions at the vehicle. “Was just checking in on the truck. You got her running yet?”

Richard laughs boisterously. “Oh, no, heaven’s no. Still waiting on the part.”

“But it’s on its way?”

“Eventually.”

He narrows his eyes. “What does that mean?”

Richard takes another large bite of his sandwich, though it doesn’t stop him from talking with his mouth full. “I put the order in over the weekend. Should take a few days to hit the mail. Then we wait.”

“So checking in is pretty useless at this point?” Jensen hates to admit it, but he’s seeing his days in Paradise stacking up before he has a chance to get back on the road.

“Looks like. But hey! There’s plenty else to keep ya busy. Tonight’s the Bank Bash!”

He’s afraid to ask … yet has to. “And what’s that?”

“A good ole party for the bank. Kim’ll serve up some of her stuff, and we all get to open new bank accounts.”

He figures the bank must be new and starting off with a big event. Maybe not so strange. Something more economical and helpful than the Dandelion Dash.

“See you there!”

“Yeah, I guess,” Jensen admits, then waves on his way out. He quickly doubles back to the garage and chances his luck. “You know anyone with wifi around here?”

Richard chortles. “Oh Heavens! What for?"

“Yeah, figures.”

Once back on the sidewalk, Jensen finds another peculiar sight. That damned squirrel is back, seeming to rest on its back legs and wait for him.

It takes a few moments for his cynicism to cool down before Jensen pulls the bag of nuts out of his pocket and tosses a few down to the squirrel. The rodent quickly eats them up, cheeks bulging out with the snack quickly tucked into its mouth. It claps its hands together, and Jensen gives him a few more before walking away.

Only, the squirrel continues to follow. It races to catch up to Jensen, pausing for a random twig or leaf on the ground, then hurrying to find Jensen again.

He likens it more to a cat than a rodent, and, within minutes, Jensen is thoroughly amused. Laughing to himself deliriously for how silly it is that the squirrel is so interested in following him, Jensen moves around town and captures the place waking up. Stores open, people come along to walk the breezy sidewalks, and birds chirp their way through melodies to each other.

He supposes he could be stuck in worse places.

***

Jensen returns to the Red Sky Inn for dinner, tail tucked between his legs for having missed all of Mrs. G.’s other scheduled meals.

Before he can properly apologize, she swats him with a towel and shoos him out of the kitchen. “We can talk all about it over dinner. Now go clean yourself up.”

He grins at her as warm childhood memories wash over him. Of his gramma and mom serving home cooked meals, lovingly knocking him around so that he would mind his own business while they took up all available space in the kitchen to feed their family.

Up in his room, he discovers the clothes he’s worn the last two days have been washed and folded in a neat stack on the bed, along with a new bar of wrapped soap and other toiletries. The whole package is tied with a silky red bow, and the tag tucked at the knot is a replica of the Red Sky Inn’s sign out front. It’s so delightful. This whole place is, he’s slowly realizing. Easy and comfortable in a way New York City isn’t, no matter how much he enjoys the busyness of metropolitan life.

It’s such a strange juxtaposition, really. He ran away from Small Town, Texas, because he hated the tight-knit community that knew all his scars, and friends and family who cared too much for what everyone saw and thought of each other.

When Jensen came out in high school, his parents weren’t unhappy so much as disappointed. He wasn’t exiled by any means, but it was hard for them to relate to him once he could no longer promise them a white picket fence, beauty queen wife, and two-point-five kids. His father was front and center at church, helping to manage all the big fundraisers and events, and his mother was raised in the deep South where wives cooked for their husbands every night, dressed clean and neat, and kept the house just as tidy.

He doesn’t often like to return to those worn-out memories. There’s a good reason he left: to look forward, not back. And now he’s found himself in a town just like his hometown,

At least the folks here have been receptive to him, treating him kindly in just these few days. Despite his first reactions being rather cold and removed.

It’s what he’s done for the past fifteen years, after all. Ever since his high school best friend—his first for pretty much everything—backed away from the relationship that was building between them, simply because he refused to face whatever attention they would grab from the traditional good’uns all around them.

Hell, maybe that’s why he ran in the first place. To put as much space between them as possible and recreate himself.

Being stuck in Paradise may be another chance to do just that.

In the big city, he felt like he’d found himself. That was where he met Jason, while working as a dish washer in a fairly high-end restaurant where Jason played classical guitar on Sunday nights for tips. Jason would play long past the kitchen closing to keep entertaining the diners as they finished up their fancy meals, and Jensen would come out of the kitchen after long hours spent cleaning up after the rich and happy. They found a quick friendship when the whole crew would go out for drinks at a dive bar around the corner.

Jason’s about the only person he’d call a real friend back in New York. Others are simple acquaintances with whom he doesn’t mind crossing paths. Yet, he thinks most folks in Paradise have already shown him far more consideration than he’s encountered in a long time.

As if completing these thoughts, a loud bell jangle from the first floor, and he can hear Mrs. G. yell out for supper. Seconds later, the comforting smells of barbecue fill the air, and he thinks he might try to make the best of Paradise while he’s here.

***

The Bank Bash convenes in the street and on the sidewalk in front of the bank. Jensen watches the crowd from the outside, snapping a few photos and just taking it all in. Two bank tellers seated at folding tables help customers open bank accounts—savings, checking, and check cards, despite not many places in town accepting them.

“In case we want to travel,” Jared explains, leaning in to Jensen’s side to be heard above the crowd.

Jensen only minorly flinches. Considers it a win when Jared can’t laugh at him for being easily spooked. “What?” he asks anyway, because he’s a bit confused with Jared finishing his thoughts.

“The check cards. If we want to travel, then we can still access our money.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “If?”

Jared chuckles. “Most people come here and stay a while. Doesn’t often happen the other way around.”

Jensen lifts the other eyebrow now. “Oh really?”

“Yup. Most folks rather enjoy Paradise. Even if you don’t.”

Bristling a bit, Jensen ducks his head. “I didn’t say I don’t like it.”

“You’re not really enjoying yourself,” Jared points out, nudging Jensen’s arm.

“Maybe if it had cell service.”

“Oh, is that all?”

Jensen nudges Jared back before he realizes it, adds on a smirk just to prove the point. “Maybe I’m learning to like it.”

“Gonna put down some roots here then?” There’s hope in Jared’s voice, and while Jensen is hesitant to agree, he feels guilty that he can’t confirm it either. “Wouldn’t be the first. Definitely won’t be the last. There’s a certain draw to this place.”

Jensen turns to face Jared, curiosity building quickly. “And how’d you end up here?”

“I started here.”

“And you never left?”

“Never had much of a need to,” Jared replies simply, and it seems like a masterful conclusion to a worldwide question.

Jensen often wonders the same thing. What keeps people in their hometowns even as they outgrow them?

Mrs. G. comes their way, waving a piece of paper in the air. “Hey there boys! Look who’s got a new bank account!”

“That’s awesome!” Jared beams as he hugs her, and Jensen wonders how a business owner could be in this town for this many decades without a place to keep her money. “How many is that now?”

“Fifteen!” she crows in delight.

“Fifteen,” Jensen parrots. “You have fifteen bank accounts?”

“Surely! One for each year.” Mrs. G. swipes Jensen’s chest with the paper. “Silly boy. Gotta do what you can to support the local businesses!”

She disappears, and Jensen looks at Jared. “She has fifteen?”

Jared shrugs like there’s nothing out of the ordinary. “That’s how many years the bank’s been here.”

Jensen considers acting out against that idea, to explain all the ways in which this whole event is utterly insane. Instead, he just sighs and rolls with it. Then he thinks longer on Mrs. G.’s history here. “How old is she, anyway?”

“Oh, no, Jensen,” he says with a playfully menacing tone. “You never ask a lady her age.”

He chuckles. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

“I’ll never tell you the number. But I will say she’s far from being the oldest in town.”

Jensen glances around and immediately recognizes that there are a number of grey-haired folks in the crowd. Some move slower than Mrs. G. taking the stairs, and Jensen wonders how such an eclectic mix of residents came to settle here. “Must be something in the water,” he murmurs.

“My Uncle Billy always said, ‘Only the good die young.’”

Jensen laughs. “Are you serious?”

“What?”

“That’s Billy Joel,” he points out.

Jared tips his head in thought. “I’m pretty sure it was my Uncle Billy.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not.”

“We’ll agree to disagree.”

Jensen carefully watches Jared, ultimately smiling when Jared does. “Okay. I guess we will.”

“That’s a bit of a change, isn’t it?”

“Sorry?”

“You not wanting to fight? Seems like it’s all you’ve done since you got here.”

Jensen considers answering, rolls plenty of words around in his mouth, yet he can’t find the right way to put them together. Jared isn’t wrong; Jensen’s been fighting much of what’s been put in his way the last few days.

Jared turns back to the crowd and leans a bit into Jensen’s side, knocking their shoulders together. “You know, no matter how much cats fight, there always seem to be plenty of kittens.”

“Another Uncle Billy quote?” Jensen asks, skepticism evident in his voice and glance.

“No,” Jared says with a strange look. “Abraham Lincoln.”

Now he just stares at Jared, unable to even blink at the sudden change in quote choices.

Jared adds on: “Sixteenth President of the United States.”

Laughing to himself. “Yes, Jared, I know who he is.”

“He means that no matter how much people fight, they always find a way to care about each other.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Jensen stews in the thought for a while.

He’s fought attachments for so long, thanks to a couple bad relationships.

Jensen hasn’t thought about his particularly pathetic history in a long time, though it colors much of his judgment of folks even today. Keeps him mighty protective of himself.

“And people can find a way to love,” Jared continues, “And make love.”

Jensen watches Jared closely. Tries to figure out if Jared is purposefully making this point to him, or just talking. It seems either is possible, really, given the way people in this town have been trying to befriend him.

“I mean sex, Jensen.”

Now Jensen breaks, bending at the knees, with hysterical laughter breaking free.

It could be the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. Or the cleverest, because he spends the rest of the bash following Jared around to meet more of the townspeople. Partly because he’s ready to let his guard down. Mostly because he wants to be there for any other ridiculous things Jared has to say. Laughter feels good.

And if he opens a bank account by the end of the night, well … he considers it just a little bit of community support.