Shawn Inmon - The Vigilante Life of Scott McKenzie

He got his grandfather’s old atlas out and laid it on the kitchen table. He traced his finger along the route he had followed the previous three years. It formed a large oval around the USA, but had skipped one part—the northeast.

Scott hated goodbyes, so he woke up one morning before the sun was up, left a note on the dining room table, and started walking. He walked to the bus depot, which felt like it completed a cycle in his life. He rode the Greyhound east and then north. The Finger Lakes region of upstate New York were tempting, but he was enjoying being on the move once more.

Continuing east, Scott finally stepped off the bus in the little town of Waitsfield, Vermont.

It feels like I’ve walked onto the set of a Hollywood movie.

It was a picturesque New England town, with a covered bridge, a quaint downtown area, and charm by the truckload.

I can’t put my finger on it, but this feels like home.

Before long, Scott discovered that Waitsfield had lots of snow, cold temperatures and limited daylight during the winter months. These were things that had bothered him elsewhere, but as his sister had once told him, “when you know, you know.” He never regretted the decision.

He rented a furnished room in a boarding house on his second day in town and stayed there temporarily. Eventually, his newfound love of reading led him to something more permanent. He had been haunting a used bookstore called Twice Told Tales most every day, when the lady behind the counter said, “You must love to read.”

“I do now. Never did much of it until the last few years. My grandfather got me started again.”

“I haven’t seen you around until the last few weeks. New in town?”

This was a standard small-town question. Are you from away?

“I’ve been traveling around since I got out of the service. Looking for a place to settle. I think this is it.”

“Found a place already?”

Scott looked at the woman. She appeared to be somewhere in her forties. Short, a little round, with hair gone mostly to gray. Her expression wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t cheerful, either.

“Just staying at Mrs. Carvill’s boarding house until I can find something more permanent. Places to rent seem to be hard to find.”

“You’ve just got to know people. Here, put your books on the counter and follow me.” She locked the front door and flipped the paper sign over to read, “Closed,” then led Scott through a curtained area at the back of the shop. “There’s two ways up, including a door from the outside.”

She took a key ring out of her pocket and unlocked the door at the top of the stairs. It opened into a studio apartment with a small kitchen off to one side and an equally small bathroom at the back. The front of the apartment was made up of windows that let in plenty of ambient light.

“Just had my last tenant move out a few days ago. If you don’t mind living above a bookstore…”

“I’ll take it.”

“I’m Greta. I’ll be your landlady, then.” She twisted the key off the ring and placed it in Scott’s open palm. “Seventy-five dollars a month. You can bring it to me in the shop when you move in.”

Scott had an urge to hug her, but she was not an easily-hugged woman. Instead, he offered her his hand and said, “I’m Scott McKenzie. Thank you, Greta. Do you want me to fill out an application?”

She shook her head. “No, you pass my eye test. It’s never let me down. Don’t be the first.”

Scott smiled and said, “I’ll go settle up with Mrs. Carvill and be back here soon. Thank you so much.”

If he had been physically able, he might have skipped down the stairs to the street. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he had begun to feel at home.

Scott spent a happy six months living above the bookstore. He loved how light the apartment was, and the fact that the entire building smelled like old books. Waitsfield was a small town—a population of less than two thousand people in 1977—but living right in town still felt a little too close quarters for him. In the fall leaf-peepers and other tourists made the place feel more crowded than it was.

In the early spring of 1978, he was sitting in an old armchair in front of the bank of windows reading a book about the flora and fauna of New England when there was a knock on his door.

He opened the door and said, “Hello, Greta, what’s brought you up from the store?”

Greta Gnagy looked at him shrewdly. “I like you, Scott.”

Her straightforwardness made him laugh a little. “I like you too, Greta!”

“I have someone else down in the shop, looking for a place to live.”

Scott tried to guess where she was going with this line of conversation, but failed.

“They want a little place in town, just like this.”

“You’re not kicking me out, are you?”

“I’d no more kick you out than bite off the end of my nose. But, you mentioned once that you would like to find a place a little ways out of town if you could, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but those places aren’t easy to find. Everyone wants to come to this part of Vermont and live like Thoreau.”

“They’d have to get on I-93 and drive south a few hours to do that, but I understand what you mean.”

Mental note: Don’t make a literary joke with a woman who owns a bookstore.

“Here’s why I’m asking. My brother passed away a few months back.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you. He is missed. He left his little house out in the woods to me, and I haven’t decided what to do with it. I thought about selling it, but I think I’d need to put too much into fixing it up to make it worth it. So, I’m wondering if you’d like to trade your little place here for that little cabin in the woods.”

“Yes. I’ll take it.”

“Don’t be so hasty. It needs a lot of work.”

“I understand. I’ll take it.”

“It’s only a small place, one bedroom. My brother was old and infirm for quite some time, so he hadn’t been able to maintain it.”

“How many different ways are you going to make me say I’ll take it?”

“Good enough. It’s still got all Henry’s furnishings in it. Would you be willing to move in as-is? If you would, I’ll rent it to you for the same amount I’m renting you this place.”

“Please don’t make me say I’ll take it again. If you’ve got a few boxes in your storeroom, I can be packed and ready to move this evening. Would you be willing to give me a lift in your truck and show me where it is?”

“Come on and get those boxes. I’ll tell the young woman she can have this place tomorrow. I’ll close the shop at five, and give you a ride. You can sleep out there tonight, if you want.”

Greta hadn’t oversold the place. It was truly a bachelor’s house in the woods and it needed work. The whole structure seemed to be canting at a slight angle. The forest was in the process of reclaiming the building for its own, with plants, bushes, and trees encroaching on the walls and porch. The roof was so old that it looked like moss might be the only thing holding it together. Inside, the furniture was old and there was a layer of dust on everything. The door creaked loudly when Greta opened it.

She closed one eye and said, “I didn’t remember it being quite this bad. Are you sure you want it?”