Someday Over Yonder--Chapters 3 & 4

3

I started watching the news on a regular basis, since 9/11. Dan Rather made it somewhat easier to digest. One of his homespun analogies tickled my funny bone in unison with a knock on the door: "That senator waltzed in there as if he had on bib-overalls." The comment reminded me how unpretentious Noah really was. Right then, my companions came racing across the room. I lowered the volume and pulled out my wallet. There stood a red-cheeked, young lady about my age. Her enthusiasm—colorful and to the point—matched her turquoise pants and hooded jacket.

“Two, large pepperoni-pies,” she announced with panache, flipping her hood back exposing a voluptuous head of red hair. “You guys having a party?”

A bit confused Noah answered, “We’re having pepperoni.”

“So you are. That’ll be sixteen dollars.”

“We appreciate the quick service,” I said, handing her a twenty-dollar bill. “This will be the first in a long line of pepperoni on Wednesday’s. I’m Hank Maddox and this is Noah S. Wilder. That fur ball jumping up and down completes the trio—his name is Hobo.”

“Alas, The Three Musketeers! Julie Clemens at your service.” She curtsied like an English peasant. “So, Wednesday is pizza night”

“And movie night,” Noah added enthusiastically. “We're gonna watch every animal movie ever made. Ain’t it right, Hank?”

“That’s our goal, and pepperoni is all Noah will eat.”

“I admire a man that knows what he likes,” she said, sending an alluring smile in Noah’s direction, precipitating a blush.

“I like cornbread and milk with onions on the side,” Noah got out. “Hank and me both like it. Even Hobo does, all except the onions. He’s fickle ’bout his vegetables.”

“Sounds like a great dog,” she said, not knowing whether to laugh or not. “What is tonight’s movie?”

“We got Lassie. Hank said that I would like Lassie.”

Julie Clemens smiled and moved closer to Noah. “Did you watch Lassie when you were a kid?”

“I can’t remember. Momma says it’s because I was sick when I was a baby.”

Julie tilted her head the way one does when making a mental note. “Ah-h. You’ll like Lassie, I’m sure of it. Thanks for the tip. I’ll see you all next Wednesday.”

“We’ll be here, right Hank?” I smiled at Noah and nodded goodbye to Julie Clemens, noting the effortless way she handled the situation. She was different than most people that crossed our path.

Noah devoured his share of the pie, which briefly interfered with his endless conversation about the person who delivered it.

“Hank, I’m gonna make a list.”

“What kind of list?”

“A list of all the things I like. Julie said she likes a man who knows what he likes. I’m gonna write ’em all down; what do ya think of that?”

“Is this before or after the movie?”

“I’ll start right after we eat and see how long it takes. Shouldn’t take no longer than puttin’ on an alternator.”

A short while later Hobo’s face was red from pizza sauce. He offered a happy bark and took his place beside Noah, scrutinizing every pencil mark. I watched Noah toil over his tablet and decided to make my own list.

“Noah, are you going to put the things you like in order?”

“Whadaya mean?”

“Are you going to write the thing you like best, first, then the thing you like second best, second, and so forth?”

“You think that’s the way I should do it?”

“I think that’s the way I’m going to do it.”

“Hank, you making a list?’

“Why should you have all the fun?”

“I sure wish Hobo could make a list.”

“His job will be to watch us.”

That satisfied Noah, and Hobo didn’t have any complaints either. I decided to use the exercise to take stock in my life. I also had another reason.

1. Hobo and Noah.
2. My paperback novels
3. Eden Park
4. Noah’s Ford Stepside
5. Cornbread and milk, with Vidalia onion on the side
6. The blues bar on the corner
7. Julie Clemens

My only difficulty had been with number one. I couldn’t place Noah and Hobo on a separate line. Noah is a human, of course, but Hobo was my first friend. And even though I’m trying to be objective in the commission of this story, exposing my innermost-self is an intimidating task. If I have inadvertently left any doubt in the reader’s mind as to my condition before that sick pup showed up, let me rectify the situation before proceeding further. If not for Hobo, I may have given up long before Noah rescued me that cold day in February. Silent desperation had slowly robbed my ability to hope, and I needed a friend in the worst way. Hobo kept the promise his pleading eyes made that fateful night, and his allegiance remained as constant as the earth’s rotation.

Fetching sticks in the river was one example of his loyalty. After Hobo fought the current to arrive at a tossed stick, I could throw another ten feet to his left, or right, and he would drop the first and swim for the second. After its retrieval he would begin returning to shore. I suppose he might continue this process until he was incapable of going on. Hobo’s heart was big enough for an elephant.

“How do you spell chocolate, Hank?”

“C-h-o-c-o-l-a-t-e.”

I was anxious to see what occupied Noah’s first spot. For me, the rest was easy. I added Julie’s name when I realized there was only one other human on my list. She was impressive! There was Know It All Harry and Guitar Slim at the corner bar, although, our conversation usually never rose beyond a superficial chatter. It was actually the music that lured me there. Each performer would interpret the same song in a different way, not bound by convention or expectations. Often the same performer would play the same tune differently from night to night, allowing their deepest emotions to be expressed at that very moment. These spontaneous communications freed and magically lifted my spirit, as if my grief joined together with the musician’s grief—which seemed to be a universal grief that contained some higher purpose—even though the remedy never provided a lasting cure.

“Hank, ya wanna hear my list? Hobo’s already seen it.”

“That was quick. What is number one on your list?”

“Well, I put Momma first. Momma loves me a whole lot and takes care of me.
Then I put Hobo, then you. You ain’t mad are ya Hank?”

“Of course not, that brings up something we need to talk about. I think your mother should know about your episode. She would be sad if anything happened to you.”

“She doesn’t need to know; those things just worry Momma. It’s because I was sick when I was little.”

“What kind of sickness did your mother say it was?”

“I can’t remember. Hank, that was a long time ago.”

“What say we take you for a doctor’s visit? So Hobo and I won’t worry.”

“Ya know I don’t like doctors. Didn’t I tell ya that?”

The moment his sincere, green eyes met mine, I spoke in a firm voice. “I was afraid that you were going to hurt me, and maybe Hobo.”

Noah made a long face. “Ya know I’d never hurt you or Hobo. Let's watch the movie. OK?”

“I’m responsible for you when you’re here—those are the rules. You need to make up your mind. It’s either your mother or the doctor. I won’t take no for an answer.”

“OK, Hank. Can we watch Lassie? I’ll make up my mind, I promise.”

Noah was more subdued than usual and left immediately after the movie. However, he did promise to have an answer the following Sunday. His list lay on the table.

1. Momma.
2. Hobo. My best friend
3. Hank. My other best friend
4. My hat
5. The park
6. Julie. She has pretty red hair
7. Cornbread and milk with Hank’s onions
8. Movies with animals
9. Chocolate milk and fried chicken and pizza
10. When I almost remember things

It never occurred to me that Noah might have amnesia. Number ten on his list, along with his remark to the pizza girl, sparked a thorough review of our past conversations. I began scrutinizing every nuance of Noah’s explanations; they nearly all dealt with the present or very near past. I remembered him using a famous line from the movie Coolhand Luke when he diagnosed the van. He told me later that he had never heard of the movie and was simply referring to the breakdown between the alternator and the battery.

It’s common knowledge that humans don’t remember the origin of most of the information they assimilate, but many of Noah’s admissions were difficult to understand. He once asked me to explain the origin of Noah’s Ark, after he heard a comedian use it in a skit. His duel personality complicated the matter further. When he attempted to communicate on more than a superficial level, he would shift into his child-like mode, even though he never talked about his childhood. There was also the frightening episode to consider, and his headaches. To be forthright, it was beyond my comprehension. Hobo sensed my anxiety and made it his business to jump in my lap at every opportunity.

That night after Noah left, I considered the subtle differences between not knowing and not remembering. What if I hadn’t known what happened to my parents? Would I be different? I anxiously waited for Sunday and Noah’s answer. I envisioned Noah’s mother explaining his condition and solving all our problems. Suddenly, a vivid recollection replaced this pleasant daydream: I was in the second grade. The orphanage superintendent was explaining to me—under the threat of paddling—the importance of accepting reality and acting accordingly.

“Providence has taken your parents and left you with us,” he said. “And you must accept God’s will, Hank Maddox, if you want to develop into a normal person.” The noble superintendent was a stickler on independence, too. Years later, at my graduation, he made it clear that I should not return seeking assistance, for none would be rendered. I was given a party, the five hundred dollars I had accumulated, and my final walking papers.

It would be a long three days until Noah was due to return. I worked overtime that Saturday. Termination always loomed over the assembly line. The foreman watched for the smallest infraction, ready to pounce at any moment. His predatory impulse was caused, in no small part, because his bonuses were tied to our production. My performance, and certainly my attendance, improved since I befriended Noah. Nevertheless, the foreman’s mind was set in my regard. Several months earlier I had absent-mindedly sat in his chair, committing a cardinal sin. His bitter eyes glared when he entered the room. He wasn’t much taller, or older, than me, but the dark circles above his cheekbones shone like bruises on his narrowly chiseled face.

“That chair is reserved for working men,” he said gruffly, motioning for me to get up. “Not slackers with enough energy to read books at break time. What are you reading now?”

“The Strange Case Of Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde.”

“A bookworm—and a strange one to boot,” he said, surveying the room. Most of the workers didn’t react to his comment. A Mexican lady did giggle, and a formidable Jamaican man rolled his eyes. I sat down by him and no more was said. As you can imagine, I never repeated the offense, but the foreman’s lowly assessment of my character was forever cemented.

This particular Saturday the foreman was in a favorable mood and time passed quickly without his distasteful outbursts. Notwithstanding, before the day was over, he did get in one haughty remark in my direction.

“It’s about time you got that piece-of-a-shit van running right.”

I decided to accept this crude observation as a backhanded compliment, even though it wouldn’t change my opinion of him or my newly found gumption. My previous method of employment selection had been simple: choose what paid the highest wage and required the least amount of effort. In regard to effort, I knew it was time for a change. I had a family now. It was high time to start building a life for myself. I wanted a job more interesting than assembling containers for nuts and bolts.

I arrived at the Efficiency at 9:00 p.m. The night harnessed the wind and uneasiness accompanied the stillness. The dull glow from the streetlamps caused the misshapen branches to appear yellow. The maple trees were drastically cut back (so as not to interfere with the electric lines) and brought to mind stick drawings made by children. As always, I locked the van. The shadowy figures, lingering at the edges of the light, had lost their innocence and imagination long ago. Drugs exchanging hands and drinking alcohol out of brown paper bags was as common as kids shooting hoops at the playground. I decided to walk down to the corner and have an Irish whiskey. There was never much trouble this time of day, and I figured a small celebration was in order. Tomorrow, I would search the Sunday Enquirer for new opportunities, and Noah would have his answer.

The building was narrow in width, but long. The bar took up the majority of space on the left side of the room, leaving barely enough clearance on the right side for traffic to the restrooms and the tables and chairs up front. The stage was at the far end. Wild Willie Long—an elderly blues-man who had been famous in the sixties, and now wore exotic clothes and colored wigs—tickled his keyboard and taunted a young lady in the front row. “Ya ain’t never had nothin’ ’till ya had Willie Long, better get with me baby before I’m gone.”

I secured a drink and chose a table near the end of the bar. A man in his sixties with blotchy skin pulled up a chair and lit a generic cigarette. He spoke in almost a whisper.

“Ain’t seen you lately. Been worried. Ever’thing all right?”

“Sure Slim,” I said. “How you doing?”

“Like greased lightin’.”

“You going to set in with Willie tonight?”

“You know how he is—he don’t want nobody stealing the show, ya know.”

I nodded my head. Guitar Slim played in decent bands in his younger days, but he was past it now. He coughed through the cloud of smoke and nursed his beer, hands twitching. As the sax player wailed on the lower registers, and Slim lost himself in the music, my oversized neighbor stumbled out of the restroom. He pointed his finger right at me, angrily, as if to say, you better keep that damn dog quiet if you know what’s good for ya. Thankfully, he careened through the crowd and out the door. Slim came out of his stupor, momentarily, and then nodded back off to the slow blues. My heart rate was returning to normal when Know It All Harry touched my shoulder and offered his opinion.

“That dude is trouble, got a crazy streak. Best you stay away from him.”
Harry stocked the beer coolers in exchange for drinks. He walked on stick-like legs and had a protruding beer-belly that made him look pregnant, even though he was skinny. Harry never missed a thing, that’s how he got his name. Guitar Slim joked that Know It All Harry could tell if a barfly was thinking evil or just getting indigestion. Both these lost souls took an interest (of sorts) in my affairs. I suppose they recognized a younger version of themselves—damaged goods—and instinctively wanted me to do better. My thoughts turned to the musketeers, and living where the trees were allowed to grow and shadowy figures didn’t exist.

4

Hobo’s stares had an accusing tone the next morning. I finally conceded that something was wrong; Noah had never been this late before. By lunchtime I was blaming myself for giving him the ultimatum. Noah was afraid of doctors, and there was obviously some complication with his mother. I wanted to search the park, but worried he would show up while I was gone. I couldn’t believe that I treated Noah so callously, the way my childhood guardians had treated me.

Hobo refused to eat. I half-heartedly examined the classifieds to discover what occupations were in demand. It seemed that nurses and truck drivers could write their own ticket. Makes sense, I thought, I’m not qualified for the first and ill suited for the second. Since kindergarten, thick spectacles corrected my nearsightedness but offered no cure for poor night-vision. It didn’t matter; these endeavors didn’t interest me any more than the dead-end jobs that were available for people like me. Besides, I’d never fit in. If only the stars had been aligned differently . . . I might have been a photographer for National Geographic, a violinist in an orchestra, or possibly an important novelist. My thoughts wondered from here to there—half-cocked—but never far from the smile that warmed my heart.

I made several failed attempts to prepare a resume. So things passed until Wednesday. I decided to order two pizzas and hope Noah hadn’t lost his appetite. He never showed, though Julie Clemens delivered the goods and to my surprise invited herself to supper. The curtsying peasant ate like a dockworker. It turned out that she didn’t unload trucks (even though she was perfectly fit), but she studied psychology at the University of Cincinnati.

While I attempted small talk, Julie Clemens sat patiently and only interrupted to ask questions about Noah. I soon found myself explaining how he and I met, his unique behavior, and that he hadn’t returned since last Wednesday.

Julie consoled Hobo in her lap. “I can have my friends keep an eye out on campus. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Have you been to the park?”

“I stopped on the way home. I hoped by now to have talked with his mother.”

“Noah may have amnesia,” she said all at once. Her dark, brown eyes were striking against her freckled, alabaster skin. “Of course, I’m not a doctor, but I have studied the subject. Noah said he couldn’t remember because of a childhood sickness. That’s been on my mind.”

“That’s what his mother supposedly told him,” I said.

“Don’t you believe him?”

“Yes . . . I guess, although he could have some personality disorder, or be slightly retarded. He gets these terrible headaches.”

“Anything is possible,” she said. “The mechanical ability you described is telling. Most retarded people aren’t capable of mastering an occupation that requires a high degree of diagnosing problems—that’s not to say Noah doesn’t have some brain dysfunction. Amnesia is very complicated; it comes in many forms and often overlaps. It has two causes: organic and functional. Organic involves damage to the brain through trauma or disease. Functional amnesia is caused by psychological factors such as defense mechanisms. Hysterical post-traumatic amnesia is one example. Very, very complicated. Retrograde amnesia is when a person can’t recall the events that occurred before the onset of the amnesia.”

“That could explain why Noah never talks about his childhood.”

Julie straightened her shoulders. “That’s what I’m talking about, but your explanation of Noah only referencing his near past is confusing. We definitely need to talk to his mother. May I use your bathroom?”

When Julie returned I showed her Noah’s list and explained his reason for making it. She chuckled when she read her name. I confessed it was only after reading the list that I considered he might have amnesia.

“Number ten is very telling,” Julie said, her eyes darting around the room. I suspected my pathetic Efficiency was telling her plenty about me. “What’s important, now, of course,” she continued in a studious voice, “is that we find Noah.”

After several awkward, seesaw attempts at finishing the conversation, we exchanged numbers and she left. I didn’t tell her about Noah’s episode. I felt that would have betrayed his trust. Besides, I barely knew her, even though I divulged more than I intended. In fact, it was the longest conversation I’d ever managed with a female. Its closest rival: the previous New Year's Eve at the corner bar. An intoxicated lady shared her life story with me, until I could no longer afford the expensive drinks she was consuming at record pace. Up to that point, she said I was quite the gentleman and nothing like her bum of a husband.

I hoped Julie didn’t have an ulterior motive. Then, I felt ridiculous. Julie was trying to help. It had been my ultimatum that forced Noah’s dilemma.

After Julie left, the demands of my childhood came recklessly back to haunt me. The stern superintendent, who professed to always know what was best for me, demanded that I conform or suffer the consequences of my actions. Once, he had said, “The reason you can’t get adopted is because you worry yourself sick. Nobody wants a sick kid, and you always break the rules, Maddox.” On a chilly afternoon, a week earlier, a bully stole my jacket and the superintendent caught me improperly dressed running to the dining hall. That same year a cabin counselor refused to let me keep a stray puppy; the rules permitted one animal per building. I remember his exact words: “Maybe if you didn’t whine so much about not having parents, you would deserve a pet.” Those were significant moments in my life. I was seven-years old, alone, and at odds with the world.

I drove out two tanks of gas on the Westside, without so much as a glimpse of the red Stepside. Street after street of Row Houses, duplexes, and apartment buildings, in such close proximity, began to merge together until I could no longer focus. Part of me wanted to believe that Noah was home safe with his mother. The orphan in me suspected the child in Noah was alone, at odds with the world.

The sun neared the top of the buildings, and the grayish hue began replacing the light. I gassed up and headed for the Efficiency. A positive thought finally arrived: maybe Noah realized everything will be all right and is waiting on the stoop. It was a mild evening. Men with multiple layers of clothing, pushing shopping carts, soon tempered my hopefulness. I turned on the radio. Two opposing pundits were discussing America’s reliance on foreign oil. I changed the station and decided to cruise several more streets around the university.

Ludlow Avenue was bustling with students out for drinks and camaraderie. The traffic light at Clifton Avenue remained red for the longest time; I contemplated my next move: crossing Martin Luther King over to Short Vine. It was there that I once pointed out a music venue to Noah, promising to take him when Keb’ Mo’ came. The black artist wrote a song entitled Just Like You. The chorus left a penetrating refrain in my heart: ’cause I feel just like you, and I cry just like you, but I heal just like you, and under my skin I’m just like you.

Halfway up Clifton Avenue traffic congestion forced me to stop—that’s when I saw him. Noah was sitting on the sidewalk holding a duffle bag. A campus security-officer was high stepping right in Noah’s direction. I had to illegally park. By the time I maneuvered across the street, he had Noah on his feet.

“This ain’t no joke—you understand me? There isn’t a bay or shrimp boats around here.” The officer was small in stature and rightly apprehensive.

Noah’s eyes were cold and determined. I heard him say: “You best loose of my arm, the tide is ready to go out.”

“Wait!” I screamed. “Officer, this man is a friend of mine. He gets a little confused.”

Noah jerked his arm loose. “I don’t know who this runt is, but I’m not going anywhere with either one of you cutthroats.” By this time a Cincinnati Police Officer landed on the scene. Things got ugly. Noah knocked the first officer to the ground and lunged for the second, who was obviously well trained and blocked Noah’s initial assault. Noah absorbed multiple blows from the baton, seemingly without ill effect, before landing a solid, left hook, which downed the policeman. Noah looked at me, calculating his next response. That’s when the first officer, still wobbly on his feet, emptied a can of pepper spray. Noah hit the ground coughing and gagging, which produced an aftershock, and the vibration settled in my stomach.

Getting Noah in the police cruiser was a considerable task, and my emotional plea fell on deaf ears. I was hastily informed that he would be taken to the Hamilton County Jail and charged with vagrancy, disorderly conduct, and assaulting a police officer. I retrieved Noah’s floppy hat and watched the cruiser pull away.

The next morning (after receiving the third degree for calling off work) I headed downtown to the courthouse. I didn’t have a clue what to expect. My companion never carried a wallet; I wondered which personality would work best without identification. Certainly not a sailor bound for the bay.

I passed through the metal detector and was directed to the courtroom where Noah would be arraigned. Many of the people waiting brought to mind the shadowy figures that lingered at the edges of the light. Their realities followed them: domestic violence, child abuse, robbery, arson, home invasion, and the distribution of dangerous narcotics. There were also others who were nervous and afraid and wore their Sunday best.

An elderly woman frail as peanut brittle, who couldn’t have weighted a hundred pounds, stood with her shoulders back when asked to give account for herself. Her polka-dotted cotton dress was worn thin, but pressed. The charge: shoplifting.

“Your Honor,” she said in a wavy voice, “after I pay the rent, utilities, and buy my medicine—I have to have my medicine—there’s ninety-nine dollars left from my check for the rest of the month. I stole the food, like they say and deserve the punishment coming to me. I’m ashamed. Sometimes life can be hard.”

The balding judge dispensed swift justice, admonishing this one or that one. “That’s no excuse. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t show up in my courtroom again.”

It was almost lunchtime when Noah was brought in. His eyes scanned the room and quickly found mine. I winked. The judge read the charges and asked to hear from the prosecutor, who, up to this point, displayed a cut-and-dried personality devoid of any compassionate tendencies.

“Your Honor—the accused is homeless, has no identification, and appears to have some form of diminished capacity. The deputies were unable to secure prints; his fingertips have been permanently damaged. He has no priors, as far as we can determine, and there are no reports of a missing person matching his description. There appears to be mitigating factors.”

The judge raised his eyebrow and cautiously nodded at the public defender. The stout woman cleared her throat and spoke with a German accent. “Your Honor—the accused says he was afraid, confused, and taken by surprise. He deeply regrets his actions. This poor man has obviously fallen on hard times. The good prosecutor agreed to drop the misdemeanors and recommends probation on the assault charge, pending a psychological review to insure public safety.”

The judge’s stern eyes turned to the prosecutor. “And you agree to this?”

“Yes, your Honor. It would be in the city’s best interest. He has no assets. It would help if someone knew him.”

The judge rubbed his bald head and looked out over the room. “Does anyone know this man?”

“Yes sir,” I shouted. “His name is Noah.”

I wasted no time in explaining Noah’s story to the judge—everything except the part about his mother and his last name. I couldn’t fail him again. I saw Noah smile out of the corner of my eye. As they escorted him out the room, he yelled, “Tell Hobo I’m all right!”

Later that afternoon Noah was assigned a caseworker, and I was informed a court date would be scheduled after his evaluation. Tuesday was the earliest I could visit—five days away. I wondered if this was how parents felt when their teenagers had a brush with the law. One thing was certain: I was partially responsible for Noah’s predicament.

It was obvious that I was in over my head. It was late that Friday when I made the call to Julie Clemens. I rehearsed the entire situation over the phone. She was put off by the deliberate admission of Noah’s earlier episode and stiffly reiterated the necessity of my complete honesty. I reassured her that wouldn’t be a problem. Julie interpreted the altercation with the police as a dangerous sign, but thought it might stimulate Noah’s memory. The earliest she could see me was the following Wednesday. I told her I wouldn’t be in the mood for pizza.

ID: 1370409   (Rated: 13+) Someday Over Yonder--Chapters 5 & 6  Hank meets Noah's mother by Coolhand