Jess Lourey - October Fest

“You okay?”

I looked into the clear brown eyes of a man in his late fifties. He was sitting cross-legged in the space between the two cars I was now occupying. His clothes were worn but serviceable, and if not for the smell of BO and his odd location, he looked like Everyman. “Why’re you sitting between two cars in a parking lot?”

“Why’re you?”

He had a point. I shot a glance over my shoulder to see if the cop car was parking nearby. “I tripped.”

“Pretty spectacular trip,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Not that you asked, but when I need to hide from the police, I find it most effective to not draw attention to myself. For example, I don’t start my hair on fire, yell ‘help,’ or leap into the air and land between two cars like a handicapped gazelle.”

“Point taken.” I looked away from the emergency vehicles to study him for a moment. “Hey, were you one of the protestors at the debate yesterday?”

“I am.” He held out his hand. “Randy Martineau. Pleased to meet you.”

I shook it. “You get a chance to talk to Swydecker and Glokkmann at the debate?”

“Swydecker, yes. Glokkmann, no. She executed her usual escape.”

“You at the motel to corner her?”

“Something like that.” He nodded toward the far end of the parking lot. The Battle Lake police car and ambulance pulled around to the other side, out of sight. “I think you’re in the clear.”

I relaxed marginally and tried to push my hair out of my eyes, but it moved as a mass, more post-hurling-restless-sleep-dreadlock than tress. “Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to shower, brush my teeth with a sander, and get to work.”

He nodded, seeming to give my list serious consideration. “If you duck behind that yellow VW and then scurry toward the Hummer, there’s a line of bushes that should get you all the way to the back of the parking lot.”

“Thanks,” I said. It wasn’t until I was safely behind the wheel of my car and out of town that I wondered how he knew where I’d parked. That concern sparked a realization: the vaguely familiar man I had passed on the stairwell last night on my way to the Night of Humiliation with Johnny had been Bob Webber. He hadn’t been carrying any bags, and if I replayed the brief encounter in my head, I remembered him appearing agitated, though I’d been too deep in my own problems to make more than passing note of it.

I pulled the room list I had pinched from my pocket and scanned it while driving. It consisted of three columns: the first with room numbers, the second with last names, and the third with duration of stay. Glokkmann and Swydecker snagged my attention first. They were both staying on the same level as I had and were checking out today. I found Webber, but his room had been on the other side of the hotel, right next to the lobby door: room 4. And he was supposed to have checked out yesterday morning. What room had I seen him come from last night? And more pressing, what in the hell was Gary Wohnt doing back in town?

True to his word, Johnny had stopped by the doublewide to fetch Luna and Tiger Pop fresh food and water. Tiger Pop looked particularly haughty, and so I guessed Johnny must have given her some good ear-scratching, too. The African violet that had been the centerpiece at our table last night was on the counter top, blooming purpily next to a brief note:

I hope you feel better today! We’ll talk soon.

Not if I could help it. I didn’t need a psychic to tell me this relationship was cursed. Nope. It was back to all Chief Wenonga, all the time for this woman. The decision made my heart heavy, but it was for the best, for Johnny and me.

My hot shower felt heavenly, and I brushed my teeth for two full minutes, managing to wonder only briefly what had driven me to lift the guest list from the cleaner’s cart. I didn’t know Bob, and no one but Johnny, Mrs. Berns, and Bernard knew that I had spent the night at the motel. Nope, look forward instead of back. That was my new motto. I crumpled the list into a ball and tossed it into the nearest basket and reached for clean clothes.

I still had a light headache and my stomach was not interested in entertaining company, but I had a day of work to stumble through. The library didn’t open until noon on Sundays, but I had to snap photos of dancers at the a.m. Bavaria Boogie-thon for the paper, the last of my Octoberfest newspaper assignments, before heading to the library early to type up the Glokkmann/Swydecker debate article. Then, a short, five-hour shift and back to my blessed bed. I stepped into my room to look at it, warm sunlight falling on my fluffy duvet, and almost wept. “Soon,” I whispered. “I’ll be back soon.”

As consolation, I made time to tend to my indoor plants. To say I love to garden is like saying I don’t mind being sane. Having my fingers in dirt and smelling the peppery spice of fresh-crushed leaves grounds me and keeps me from walking naked through town wearing only a pair of mukluks, asking for purple space cookies and hugs, or any other various shades of crazy I’d adopt if it weren’t for my connection to the soil.

Living in Minnesota, creativity was a requirement if I was to stay on my rocker in the colder months, and this year I was prepared. I’d ordered two dwarf orange and lemon trees from a catalog along with a spice house, a miniature indoor greenhouse that hung from the ceiling by a plant hook in direct sunlight. The front of Sunny’s doublewide was a huge bay window facing the lake in which my succulents, ferns, ivies, and now tropical fruits and spices vied for golden rays. The orange and lemon trees had a rough start but were presently bursting with sweet-scented white blossoms. The orange tree even had a pea-sized, rebelliously lime-green fruit hard as a nugget nestled in a bundle of leaves. I gently patted the baby fruit each time I watered it.

The spices were at the gawky toddler stage, clumsy heads bending their slim stalks. They’d just started to distinguish themselves from one another, the parsley bursting ridges along the previously-smooth edges of its leaves to set itself apart from the basil still primly holding to its spade-shape. I also had cilantro, oregano, spiky thyme, and a dill I’d planted for comic relief. Every time I parted the plastic to water the seedlings, I was enveloped in the warm, brown and green scent of growing things, and it made my heart jump. I was in love with plants. Give me Chief Wenonga and a garden, and I’d call life good.

I stepped outside into the appropriately gray day and turned back to grab a scarf. It was cold. The change of seasons was upon us. My car windows even sported a light layer of rime, but not enough to require a scraper beyond the side of my hand. I drove in on the west side of town to avoid passing the motel. This route took me past the Trinity Lutheran Church, which was more packed than usual. As I cruised past, I counted at least a dozen camera crews outside. At the debate yesterday, both candidates had promised that they’d be attending church this morning, Glokkmann at the Catholic church and Swydecker at the Lutheran, but that didn’t seem particularly newsworthy. Shows what I know about politics.

Parking in the high school parking lot for the second time in as many days, I was struck at how trampled the grounds looked compared to yesterday. Glittering beer bottles littered the frost-crunched grass. I grabbed the digital camera and strode toward the main tent, the sour smell of a day-old party assaulting my nostrils and sliding down the back of my throat like thick oil. My stomach bucked, but I persevered. For all my laziness, I had a good work ethic, and snapping photos was a job I enjoyed. At least I used to enjoy it. Unfortunately, what was sashaying out of the main tent and toward me wearing clothes like a truck wore tires could squeeze the joy out of potato chips.