The Last Fair Deal Going Down. David Rhodes
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“Staying here long?”
“I think so.”
“No, I think I’ve got someone else in mind.”
“Test me.”
“Test you?”
“Before you hire a man to chop wood you watch how he manages an ax. Before you hire a man to fix your wagon you watch how he handles his tools, and if I were a coal stoker you’d hand me a shovel. But I want to be the caretaker of this ‘depot’ so test what I can see.”
He talked slowly, knowing his words were still rough.
John Tickie stood up. “I’ve been working here for five years and I’ve been able to do a lot of watching in five years. We’ll go outside for exactly one-half hour, sit on the same bench and look around the station yard. If you can tell me one thing, one thing, about this depot or the trains coming in here that I don’t already know, you can have the job.”
John Tickie carefully placed a straw hat on his head, rolled up the sleeves of his faded blue shirt around his stubby forearms, and marched out the telegraph door in front of Father. They chose the bench nearest the center of the platform and Father, in the position of challenger, nodded for Tickie to choose where he wished to sit on the bench. He, Tickie, looked at his pocketwatch and sat down directly on the middle of the bench. Father sat to his right, folded his arms, and they began. At exactly 8:20 Tickie put his watch back into his pocket and they went inside the depot, closing the door behind them. Tickie brought out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, set them down on a round wooden table, and sat down. Father sat opposite him and drank a mouthful.
“Go ahead,” said Tickie, “ask a question.”
“What color is the cat?”
“Gray and white, with a spot of brown near the tail.”
“How does it get inside the depot?”
“Through the hole in the wall where there used to be a vent pipe.”
“Male or female?”
“Female.”
“Which way does the platform slope?”
“West.”
“How many cables hold up the telegraph pole?”
“Three.”
“Where is the rain coming from tonight?”
“There won’t be any.”
“What creaks on the side of the station when the wind shifts from south to west?”
“The drain pipe.”
“Who does the Black and Tan belong to?”
“You.”
“What is peculiar about the sweeper?”
“He wears three rings on his left hand.”
“Is the engineer, the one with the red badge, right-handed?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Only four fingers on his right hand.” They were drinking and Father was coming into his own.
“What should the woman in the green dress do?”
“Stay in bed a couple of days to get rid of her cold.”
“Who did the kid with the short hair belong to?”
“Mrs. Johnson.”
“What did she have on?”
“Pink and white checked dress, black shoes, and a wrist watch.”
“What did the boy keep saying?”
“The boy was a girl and ‘she’ kept yelling, ‘Stop wheel.’”
“What troubled the man with the brown leather suitcase?”
“Someone had taken his seat.”
“Who?”
“A young blond man.”
“Did he get it back?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He was ashamed to ask for it.”
“What did he finally do?”
“Went back to the next car.”
“Who left the candy wrapper?”
“A woman with a blue hat on.”
“Why did the man in new overalls leave hurriedly?”
“Because he was irritated that whoever he was waiting for didn’t come.”
“Why should he be careful in driving home?”
“Because his left rear wheel is falling off.”
“What disturbed the woman with the green hat?”
“That she wasn’t as young as the woman with the leather handbag.”
“Who did the old man hope to get money from?”
“The young man who met the woman with the leather handbag.”
“Why did he think he could get it?”
“Because he was nervous.”
“Why?”
“You tell me.”
“Because she was married to someone else, who isn’t too far away.”
“You’ve won. I missed one.”
Father took his last drink of whiskey. “Four,” he said. “The cat is a male, the man with the leather suitcase finally came and got his seat back, and it will rain tonight — coming from the east.”
“That’s not about the railroad,” said Tickie.
“It will be,” said Father.
“We start here at nine o’clock ... six days a week. Forty dollars a month. If you and your wife will check with a Mr. Nelson he may be able to fix you up with a house.”
“Good afternoon,” said Father, rising.
“Good afternoon,” returned Tickie and rolled down his sleeves. “Sledge,” he called before Father had reached the door, “because you’re not from around here I think I better tell you something about Des Moines . . . something that most people here take for granted . . . something they’ve lived with so long that they don’t notice and assume everyone else knows . . . something that after you learn may change your mind about staying.” And it should have.
Father turned around and stood waiting for him to continue: the reality of the cabin, he feared, had marked his face, and Tickie, able to see the marks, was about to tell him something — something about the world — that because of his isolation he could not understand. But he did, and with a profound indifference that he managed to pass on to me (though it was not his intent), and that has destroyed the rest of our family, even him.
“There is a City here,” said Tickie. “Not a city like Des Moines itself, but an inner City of Des Moines . . . or a lower City. It is at the bottom of this gigantic hole in the ground. At the base — the beginning of the City — is a ghastly, stone, concrete wall surrounding the City, looming some twenty-five feet in the air. It encircles the City and is believed to be over two miles in diameter. Higher than this, along the wall, are seven monuments — giant monuments of awful creatures. These monuments, if you approach them from the outside, will open up and move back into the wall, letting you walk inside. Then they close. No one has ever gotten out of the City . . . the monuments will not reopen. No one knows what the inside looks like