Matthew Stokoe - Empty Mile

“You’ll need that for your insurance company.”

On the way home my father was pensive and didn’t speak much. I tried to make conversation once or twice but each time, when he responded, it was as though I had dragged him into the present from someplace far away. In the end I left him alone and listened to the radio instead.

That night at dinner, when my father wasn’t looking, Stan kicked me under the table and silently mouthed, Plantasaurus . The warehouse was costing us money each day and good business sense dictated that we begin our operation as soon as possible, so I really couldn’t put off telling my father about the scheme much longer. But right then, with the crash and Pat’s death still so close about him, didn’t seem the best time to tell him something I was certain he was going to object to. So I shook my head at Stan and he and I ate silently and watched my father pick distractedly at the food on his plate.

Aweek later, when we officially started work on Plantasaurus, I still hadn’t told my father about it. Stan and I went over to the garden center midmorning and found the place full of men in coveralls loading everything that could be moved into trucks outside. Rachel showed us the plants Bill had said Stan could have. There were forty assorted centerpiece shrubs around six feet high-dracaenas, weeping figs, kentia palms, etc.-ten large trays of smaller subtropical plants, and a pallet of potting mix.

It took us two hours to lug the plants and the soil over to our warehouse. When we were done we drove to a copy shop in Oakridge. Earlier that morning we’d sketched out a design for the fliers that were to be our principal means of advertising-I’d written a description of our services and above this Stan had drawn a smiling, cartoon-style brontosaurus holding a big flower in its mouth. We talked through the design with the copy guy and ordered five thousand fliers.

After that, we hit the road for Burton. There was a plastic-molding business there that had the kind of containers we needed as planters for the displays Stan had in mind.

The hour-long drive felt like an adventure-the day was beautiful and we were on a mission, out in the world actively pursuing the dream of self-employment. Stan was twitching with excitement.

“Hey, Johnny, you think we should get the truck painted too?”

“With a dinosaur?”

“Yeah, and the name, so people will know as soon as they see us.”

“This truck?”

“It’d look cool.”

“Would we have to have the flower as well?”

Stan laughed. “Hey, Johnny, you know what? I’m stoked.”

Burton was twice the size of Oakridge and it took us a while to find the molding factory that made the planters. When we did, we bought what the pickup would carry of the models we wanted-cylindrical drums and long rectangular troughs-and placed a wholesale order for more to be delivered the next day.

It was early afternoon when we got back to our warehouse. The workmen had gone from the garden center and the complex was closed and locked and already had an air of abandonment about it. After we’d carried our planters inside Stan showed me how to build a display.

I followed his instructions on how high to fill the planters with soil and what plants to use and where to place them so that they looked good and gave a balanced effect. The drums were simple. A layer of pumice stones, several inches of potting mix, remove the black plastic wrapping from the root mass of a single palm or dracaena, center it in the pot, and fill it up with potting mix.

After we’d done a few of these we moved on and prepared a couple of troughs. Stan called these “display planters” and they took more time since a selection of plants had to be used to create a symmetrical display that rose gradually from the ends of the box toward a high point in the center.

It was pleasant being there like that. The scent of the dark moist earth and the green humidity of the plants made the work seem clean and real and good, and for the two hours we spent at it there was no need to think too deeply about things.

Even so, I couldn’t help moments of vague unease. I’d had to pay Bill Prentice the first three months of the lease up front and even though he’d given us a good price, that and the deal we’d just done for the planters had taken more than half my savings. We still had Stan’s money, but there would be more plants and soil to buy, and there would be bills too-electricity, insurance, the cost of running the pickup…

Toward midafternoon, while we were still working, I heard a car pull up. Shortly afterwards, faintly, beyond the tin walls of our warehouse, it seemed to me that someone was walking around the outside of the garden center. I assumed it was someone who’d come to buy garden supplies and that they’d go away when they finally figured out the place had gone out of business. But when there were still noises five minutes later Stan and I went outside to take a look.

Midway between the garden center and our warehouse a man stood looking carefully at the section of land. Though he could not have failed to notice us he gave no immediate indication of it. Instead, his gaze continued to wander over the buildings as though he was taking an inventory. Beyond him, in the parking lot, a red convertible E-type Jaguar bounced sun off its paintwork.

When he’d finished his inspection the man walked over to where we were. For an instant, as he looked at me, an expression of hatred rippled across his face, then he smiled and it was gone and he stuck out his hand.

“Jeremy Tripp. You’re Johnny Richardson. And you’re Stan.”

Stan made a surprised noise. “Wow, how’d you know?”

Jeremy Tripp waved his hand dismissively. “A man moves into a new town, he does his homework.” He gazed toward the trees that lined the road. “This is a very nice spot.”

There were two wooden benches in front of the warehouse, put there to add a little rustic charm to the metal shed. Jeremy Tripp sat down on one, leaned back comfortably, and gazed at us. He was in his late forties and a few inches under average height. He had brown hair that had been highlighted and a body that, while not overweight, was more padded by fat than muscle. He looked like a man who was used to dealing with people. He waved at the other bench.

“Sit down, it’s a beautiful day.”

I found his proprietary air offensive but as we were just starting a business it seemed sensible not to be offensive back. Stan and I sat and I forced myself to make conversation.

“So you’re new in town?”

“Mmm, arrived yesterday. Got a place on the Slopes.”

“What brings you to Oakridge?”

He looked levelly at me and took some time to reply. “I’m thinking about building a small hotel here.”

“Oh? Whereabouts?”

“I’m not certain yet, though I have a possibility in mind.”

“Is that what you do, build hotels?”

“I ran a telecommunications company. I’m taking a leave of absence. I was getting flaccid. The challenges in that world are really not so interesting. The boardroom is bullshit. What I’m interested in is something real. We’re like children, John, always children. We have to keep pushing at the walls of our playpens. Without that there isn’t a whole lot else to do.”

“I guess.”

“You don’t sound as though you know your own mind. You should watch that. The mind is the most powerful thing we have. A big, strong guy can beat someone up. But a smart guy can destroy a whole life.”

“If he wanted to.”

“If the person deserved it, it would be satisfying, don’t you think? Manipulating events to get that result.”

Despite the dictates of good business sense, I was thinking of getting up and leaving him to pontificate to himself, but he laughed and shook his head.