The First Day

By Harry Buschman

He was a sad sight to see, looking like Adam, stripped of everything -- his clothes, his name, and most important of all, his self. He sat naked in a ditch by the side of the road with a stand of high August corn on one side and a fallow pasture on the other. Over his head arched a Kodachrome blue sky with cotton ball clouds hung out to dry and a family of crows working in the corn.

He cursed the day. He was born yesterday and discarded this afternoon. Ruthlessly! The first draft of a book in which he played the hero was pitched out
the passenger window of a run down Chevrolet Biscayne and its ink stained pages
lie scattered along the side of the road. The most embarrassing part of it was the clothes. He could get along out here in the country without the rest, but try and walk into town with no clothes on and he was sure he’d wind up in jail.

“Writers are all alike,” he grumbled as he shifted his position in the spiky grass and brushed the ants off his legs. They take forever to create a character -- everything about him. Hair. Eyes. Voice. Personality -- teach him all he knows. Then, just because the book goes sour, they chuck him out the window of a speeding car in the middle of God knows where. He shook his fist in the general direction of the departing writer and shouted, “I hope you get writer’s block ... you phony!”

It was growing late, and the warm afternoon was turning chilly. More clouds
appeared in the sky and from time to time they they obscured the sun. He stood
up and rubbed himself down to keep warm. Looking across the road he saw what
appeared to be a human figure standing in the middle of the pasture. The figure
didn’t move -- it just stood there looking at him. Suddenly a crow alighted on his shoulder! “Well,” he smiled, “I’ll be! That’s got to be a scarecrow.”

He climbed the low split rail fence by the side of the road, taking care not to damage anything as he straddled the dry splintered wood. He hurried to the scarecrow waving his arms to chase away the crow. The crow, reluctant to leave, waited until he was almost there, then cawed angrily at him and flew off.

There were pants, (only one button on the fly and a length of rope for a belt) a shirt and a disreputable excuse for a tweed jacket, its shoulders encrusted with crow shit. It was topped off with a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. There was even a pipe to put in his mouth. There were no shoes, “But that won’t matter,” he thought -- not out here in the country. “Let’s see,” he thought. “I’ll need a name ... what was the name the writer christened me?” He thought a bit, then smiled, “Ah yes! Wilbur! Wilbur Straw, that was it!”

Thus was created this fatherless man, like Adam in a way -- out of a figment of the author’s imagination, and turned loose with all his imperfections into an uncaring world. Wilbur, not knowing where, (or even when) he was. walked down the center of the one lane blacktop leading into the town of Emerald City, situated in the northwest corner of South Dakota. He chose the center of the road because there was less gravel and sharp stones than at the sides. He had no idea how far he was from the nearest town, or if there was a town at all -- but it was only logical to assume that no one would build a road for nothing. Surely it must go somewhere.

The rutted blacktop hurt his feet and he began to limp. He looked down at his
naked feet and wished he had shoes -- strange, he thought, that scarecrows don’t wear shoes. The illusion stops at the cuffs of their pants. A pair of pants, a shirt, some stuffing and a scarecrow has all it needs. But man, No! Man is a creature of wants and needs. He gets more than he gives and like a sponge, if he isn’t told, “No you can’t have any more!” he will soak up the world. Such thoughts as these drifted through his idle mind -- carelessly scattered there by a writer who created him only yesterday.

Wilbur was newborn, incomplete and limited to the little knowledge imparted to him by a writer who thought nothing of discarding him when things didn’t work out. He knew little of life and only recognized the scarecrow in the field from a passing remark of a character in the author’s novel -- but for the moment Wilbur’s feet hurt and he needed a pair of shoes.

The first thing you see as you enter the sleepy village of Emerald City is the town dump. Emerald City does not have a Sanitation Department and its residents dump their trash on the downwind side of town. Not only does Emerald City not have a Sanitation Department, it does not have a lot of other things it really should have. Wilbur and his sore feet arrived at the town dump which bordered the road leading into town at close to four in the afternoon. He spotted an old pair of yellow sneakers atop a pile of trash -- one was minus a tongue and neither had laces. Although they had been worn by a man with much bigger feet, they were the answer to Wilbur’s immediate problem. He also found two unmatched woolen socks which kept the sneakers from falling off. He poked around in the trash and found what may have been a shirt when it was new but was lately used for dusting around the house before being thrown away.

He could have stayed in the town dump indefinitely, it told him a lot of things about the people who lived there. In his short life he discovered that it’s possible to learn more about people by what they throw away than by what they keep.

The hour was growing late and the sight of a distant house to the west convinced him that he really was getting close to a town. Wilbur was not aware of his shabby appearance -- he began naked this afternoon and now he was fully clothed. He walked with head high, and while you could not say there was a spring in his step, it was buoyant enough to carry him into the town of Emerald City, South Dakota. The house he had seen from the town dump was run down. The roof was patched, the porch sagged, and there were torn curtains at the windows. Discarded furniture stood forlornly in the unweeded front yard.

A little farther on he came to a sort of village square, a half an acre of coarse grass cut short by a small band of unsheared sheep. He picked his way through their licorice droppings to the center of the green where a crude wooden bench was built around a split trunk Mulberry tree. A sow-faced man sat there with his head inclined backwards and resting on the tree. His legs were stretched full length in front of him, one foot over the other. Wilbur paused for a moment in the littered field and, for a moment, considered walking back to the road and continuing into town.

Wilbur realized the man on the bench was asleep, indeed he could hear him snoring loudly. The top of each snore was punctuated by a snorting and gagging
that could be heard clearly across the green. Wilbur approached the bench and sat down next to him. It was a peaceful scene. Bucolic. The sheep grazing in the field and birds of many species feeding in the Mulberry tree. Wilbur thought of waking the man -- there were so many questions he wanted to ask. Where was he? Was this the town? Where was everyone? He waited patiently beside the sow-faced man and listened to him snore.

Finally, with a strangled intake of breath the man woke with a start, he turned to Wilbur and looked him up and down. He broke into a smile when he saw Wilbur’s sneakers. “You been to the dump, haven’t cha? I threw those away a
month ago.”

“I was looking for the town, and I passed ...”

“Great place, the dump. Spend a lot of time there -- you wouldn’t believe the good stuff a sharp eyed man can find there.”

“Like these sneakers?”

“Well no, not those sneakers.” The man looked Wilbur over carefully. “You look poorly put together, my boy. You been havin’ hard times?” The man sat up straight and dropped his voice an octave, “Where are my manners. My name is
Jonas Stark ... at your service.”

“I’m Wilbur Straw ... “ It was the first time Wilbur had ever spoken his name, and it gave him a strange sensation -- as though he was somebody; a man to be counted with other men.

“Straw. Straw.” The man who called himself Jonas savored Wilbur’s name as though he were tasting something for the first time and trying to guess its ingredients. “We’ve never had a Straw here.”

“I was dropped off east of here. I don’t know where I am, by the way,” Wilbur added. “What’s the name of this town?”

“You’re in Emerald City, son. Look around you, it ain’t much. In fact you can see the whole of it from where yer sittin.” Jonas rose from the bench and surveyed the village green, hooking his thumbs in the straps of his bib overalls. “My town,” he said. “I’m the Mayor.”

Wilbur stood up also, and looked about himself just as Jonas had. “Honored to
be in your presence, Mr. Mayor, Emerald City’s a lovely name for a town.”

“A thimblerigger come through here in ‘88,” Jonas began the story with his nose in the air, holding his hands as though he were painting a scene on canvas.“Devil of a fella he was -- opened a saloon and spread the word around there wuz emeralds here.”

“What’s a thimblerigger?”

“A shyster. A man who deals from the bottom of the deck.” Realizing he hadn’t explained it at all, Jonas went on. “Actually, a man who hides a pea under three thimbles and makes y’guess which one’s it under ... that’s a thimblerigger.”

“You mean there wasn’t emeralds here?”

“Ain’t nothin’ here, son. Emerald City’s a dry hole. A lotta folks come out here, bought property, dug until they couldn’t dig no more. Died here livin’ on roots and Indian corn.”

“And they’re still here?”

“All gone now. Must’a been 10 or 20 thousand of ‘em back in ‘88. Jest a few of us here now.” Jonas sighed and sat back down again. “Gettin’ on towards supper. You got a place to stay, son. Fergot’cha name by the way -- sorry.”

“Wilbur Shaw.”

“Yer welcome to spend the night in jail. We don’t have no hotel in Emerald City, and most folks are doubled up. ... Jail’s real nice,” he added quickly. “It’s the first solid buildin’ the town built here -- had to y’know, with all the riff-raff lookin’ fer emeralds and God knows what all else. It’s empty now -- waste of space. I’m the Sheriff, did I mention that?”

“I think you said you were the Mayor.”

“That’s right! Mayor. Mayor and Sheriff too. I’m Postmaster and duly elected
representative of the State Assembly.” He belched loudly. “S’cuse me. Stomach gets gassy long about supper time. What say, Wilbur ... can I set y’up in a cell for the night?”

“Thanks Mr. Stark ... your honor. It’s kind of you, really it is ... but I must be getting along.”

“A little something to eat then. I run the luncheonette -- you must have passed it on the way into the park. I could fix y’up a nice package lunch t’take along.”

“Well, actually ... I’m a little short of cash ... ”

Was it a tinge of aloofness that Wilbur detected in Jonas Stark -- a stepping back? At any rate, the Mayor/Sheriff/Postmaster and duly represented delegate seemed to lose interest in the matter. He drew himself up at any rate, and glanced up at the sky to check on the time. “C’mon kid,” he said. “I’ll give y’somethin’ t’take and eat along the way.”

Wilbur and Jonas walked across the village green in the fading afternoon light. Their destination seemed to be the house that Wilbur had seen earlier. A woman stood on the front porch beating a rug with a cane pole. “That’s Madey, my little lady,” Jonas said proudly. Got me a hungry pilgrim, Madey. He’s come fer a bite and must be on his way.”

Madey continued beating the rug with strong steady blows, staring suspiciously at Wilbur and never once looking at the rug. He had the uneasy feeling she was beating him. The luncheonette Jonas spoke of was apparently in the Stark kitchen; two stools stood at a counter against the wall on which sat a sugar bowl and a bottle of catsup.

“Can’t stand to see a poor man leave Emerald City hungry,” Jonas said as he cut two thick slices of bread and a slice, (just as thick) of a grayish brown meat. “It’s lamb, son. lamb and homemade bread.” Wilbur could hear Mrs. Stark beating on her rug outside, and so could Jonas apparently. “You might be well advised to eat your sandwich on the road, boy. Here, this way,” he said, “you can leave by the kitchen door, you won’t have to pass Madey that way.” It seemed like a good idea to Wilbur as well, the rug was taking a terrible beating. “Have a drink of water by the well, boy. It’ll help to make the lamb slide down.”

Back on the road again with the sun going down like thunder ahead of him, the
steady whup-whup of Madey’s whip faded with every step he took. A strange
town, Emerald City, he thought -- a town founded by rumor and greed. Wilbur could not imagine what life was like in the last decades of the nineteenth century
out here in the wild, wild west. Would its Mayor and Sheriff be strong, iron-willed men, or would they be like Jonas Stark and his rug beating wife?

As he fought to get the final bite of his sandwich down he noticed a car
parked by the side of the road ahead of him. Wilbur was not a car expert, but it did remind him of ... yes! It certainly looked like the old Chevrolet. As he got closer there was no doubt about it! It was the author’s car, the same one he was thrown out of just a few hours ago. The hood was up and a man was bending over the fender swearing at the engine.

“Damn gas pump! Damn carburetor! Damn car! The minute I get you out in the
boon docks y’crap out on me.” He kicked at a tire and pulled the hood down.
“There! That oughtta hold ‘til Frisco! Damn car! Y’hear me? Damn car!” He looked up and saw Wilbur.

“It’s you! What are you doing here? How did you get here? Where did you get that ridiculous outfit?” It suddenly occurred to the author that he should probably use a more conciliatory tone of voice. “Wilbur, wasn’t it? Yes, Wilbur -- Wilbur Shaw.”

“Straw.”

“Of course. Straw. I remember now. I’m sorry for the temper tantrum back there. I couldn’t get you to fit in, you know. Those things happen -- nothing personal, you know.”

Wilbur was standing at the passenger door, the author kept the car between them. “No hard feelings, Wilbur. Writing’s a tough business. Sometimes something doesn’t work right -- and ...”

“Out the window.”

“Well, yeah ... I was probably hasty ... ”

“Out in the ditch. Stark naked.”

“I’m sorry, Wilbur.”

Wilbur walked around to the driver’s side and the author, still keeping the car between them, skittered around the front of the car to the passenger side.

“Get in,” said Wilbur. “I’ll drive.” The author got in and closed the door quietly. To keep his distance from Wilbur he sat as close to the door as he could. “Oh,” Wilbur continued, “we may not like each other,” he smiled as he started the car, “but wherever we’re going, we’re going together.”

© Harry Buschman 2003

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