The Man on the Wall
I’m closing up for the night when I get the call: Aunt Cynthia’s been in a car accident, a bad one. Her back’s broken. Uncle Dan’s disabled too, so he’s reluctantly asking everyone in the family to come out and help if they can.
I can. The next day I cash in my vacation time, load up my head-turning 2009 Chevy Impala, and hit the road on a cross-country trip from New Hampshire to Uncle Dan’s place out near Vegas. I don’t like flying.
The four guys in the black Nissan corner me at a rest stop just outside Iowa City.
I’m heading back from the bathroom and focusing mostly on how good it feels to move my legs around, so I don’t really notice anything untoward about the black Rogue parked next to my Impala. As I cross in front of their windshield, all four doors open and a quartet of young guys about my age step out.
“Hey, man,” says the driver, who’s looking sharp in a leather hat and a T-shirt that says MY ISSUES HAVE ISSUES. He nods at the Impala. “You got the V-8 in that?”
His friends on the passenger side both slam their doors shut and peer through the Impala’s windows, like they might see the engine in there if they look hard enough. Neither one seems interested in getting out of my way.
“Uh, nope.” The hair on the back of my neck is starting to stand up. “Just the six, I’m afraid.”
The leader grins and slams his door shut, too. His right hand is hidden in his pocket. “Well, hey,” he says. “Gotta make do, right? I’m guessing it gets pretty good gas mileage, huh, boys?”
“Oh, yeah,” says the guy looking into my driver’s window. “Bet you could drive this baby all night.”
I glance around. The parking lot is empty except for us. The traffic on the highway seems far, far away. “It’s great to meet you,” I lie. “But I got a long drive ahead. If you’ll excuse me – ”
The leader grins wider. “I hear ya, man. But, you know, it might not be as long as you think. Life’s funny like that, right, boys?”
“Oh, yeah,” says the guy behind him. “Sometimes I just laugh and laugh.”
“You gotta,” the leader agrees. “You gotta. What I’m saying, man, is – ”
A battleship-gray Tahoe bearing the black-on-yellow shield of the Iowa State Patrol shoots down the exit ramp and pulls into one of the nearby spaces, and I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. The leader clocks it and whistles through his teeth. His friends back up a step.
I walk around to the passenger side of the Impala, unlock the door, and slide across the bench seat. By the time I have the engine running, the four guys are ambling off in the direction of the men’s room while a blonde lady officer in mirror shades steps out of the Tahoe and watches them go.
Once I’m on the entrance ramp I hit the gas hard, change lanes, and get myself lost in the westbound traffic as fast as I can. Then I remember to breathe.
It’s done, I tell myself. They’re behind me now. And that’s exactly where I want them.
---
I stop for the night a couple of hours later, well past Des Moines. There’s a truck stop and diner across the street from the hotel, and I stretch my legs with a quick walk over for dinner.
The place is middlin’ busy, and it’s nice to hear the murmur of conversation as I take a seat at the counter next to a grizzled old guy with a gray handlebar moustache. The counterman pours coffee, and the Iowa City guys recede even further into the rearview mirror. I sip and listen, and the tension of the day starts to drain out of my muscles.
A massive guy in cowboy boots and a battered Orioles cap bellies up to the counter on my right. “Hey, Big Al!” says the counterman. “Lemme get that for ya.” He pours coffee. “How’s life on the trail?”
Big Al takes his cap off and works the bill between his hands. I don’t know the guy, but I can see something’s not right. He looks like I probably looked just before that ISP lady pulled up. The counterman notices this too, and he peers closer. “Hey! You okay there, buddy?”
Big Al rubs his chin. “I dunno. I mean, yeah. I saw something kinda funny, that’s all. Can’t seem to shake it, I guess.” He shrugs. “Probably nothing.”
The counterman shakes his head. “Buddy. You can’t wind me up like that and then say it’s probably nothing. Spit it out and the coffee’s on the house.”
Big Al mangles his cap a bit more, then shrugs and sets it on the counter. I get the feeling he’s looking for an excuse to get whatever this is off his chest, and here’s one as good as any. “Okay, Ray,” he says. “I’ll hold you to it.”
He blows out air and thinks for a minute. “So I’m stopped for dinner just outside Omaha. Jerry’s Joint. You know it?” Ray shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter,” says Big Al. “Good place, good people. Never had any trouble before. So tonight I’m having my coffee and this kid busts in.” He takes a sip. “You ever read any Mark Twain, Ray? Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, any of those?”
“Uh, sure,” says Ray. “Rafting down the mighty Mississip and all that, right?”
“Yeah, exactly. So this kid’s dressed like he stepped right outta one of those books. Straw hat, no shoes, dirty clothes that look like they came outta a museum or something. His feet are all covered in mud. And he heads straight for my table.”
At this point I’ve given up on politely pretending not to listen, and so has the handlebar moustache guy on my left. We’re both hanging on every word, and the moustache guy’s eyes are narrowed as if he doesn’t like what he’s hearing. Big Al hesitates, and Ray gives him an encouraging nod.
“He looks me straight in the eye,” says Big Al. “And he starts to talk. ‘Something’s hootin’ out there, mister!’” Big Al sort of does the accent: an exaggerated down-home Mississippi drawl. “’You gotta come see! I think it might be an owl or somethin’, mister! C’mon, mister, you gotta see the hootin’!’”
Ray tries to repress a snort and fails. “Seriously?”
“Honest to God,” says Big Al. “And so now I’m thinking, maybe this kid’s got special needs or something, and I gotta be real gentle with him. But he don’t feel like that.” I feel a chill at that, and even Ray’s face turns serious. “I don’t know why. Something about his eyes, maybe. I’m not sure. But the folks at the other tables are looking over at us like they feel it too, so I know it ain’t just me. And I decide I ain’t gonna go.”
Big Al picks up his cup, but his hand shakes and he puts it down again. “And while I’m deciding, he’s still talking: ‘C’mon, mister, you’re gonna miss the hootin’! I think it’s an owl or somethin’, mister, honest I do! You gotta see this hootin’, mister!’ But when I open my mouth to tell him no, he just stops. All of a sudden. And now he’s just looking at me, seeing what I’m gonna say. And I can’t make the words come out.”
He clears his throat. “Luckily Janice comes over then. The waitress. Good lady. She asks where his mom and dad are, and the kid just books it. Runs down the aisle and out the doors to the parking lot without another word. Slams the door open as he goes, and everyone jumps. Only here’s the thing.” Big Al tries another sip of coffee, and this time he makes it. “I’m sitting next to the window, and I look out there as he goes. And I don’t see him out in the parking lot.”
He drains the rest of his coffee, and Ray pours him more without saying a word. “So I get up to look,” says Big Al. “I go to the doors and I poke my head out. I still don’t see the kid. But there’s something else out there I didn’t see through the window.”
This time there’s a long, long pause. “What was it?” asks the handlebar moustache guy. His voice is low and smooth, like tobacco smoke, and as he speaks I get a funny feeling: he already knows.
“There was this truck,” Big Al says at last. He looks out at the darkening sky. “Rusty old thing. Looked at least seventy, maybe eighty years old. Both the headlights punched out, and the sockets just dead and black and empty. Wasn’t lit up, not at all.”
In the back, someone drops a plate, and we all flinch. “It’s pulling this diseased-looking trailer, and it’s all covered with graffiti. I remember one of the tags says “We got MR STENCH here!”, and it’s got an arrow pointing down, like MR STENCH is hiding under the trailer. And it’s just pulling out of the parking lot. Something seems wrong about it, and it takes me a minute to figure it out: no engine noise. None at all. Just the wind and the tires crunching on the gravel.”
He puts his cap back on. “And then when I poke my head out it stops, and it starts to back up. It backs under one of the lights, and it looks to me like the wheels ain’t turning right. You know on TV, when it looks like they’re spinning backwards? It looks like that.”
He sits for a long time, and we sit with him. At last he drinks more coffee. “So I duck right back inside. I wait for an hour, and then I go. Don’t see the truck again. And so now I’m here drinking your coffee instead of Jerry’s.”
There’s a beat, and then Ray busts out laughing. “You sly old dog!” he yells. “You had me going there, you really did. Go on, drink up.” He fills Big Al’s coffee to the brim. “I guess you earned it. You sly old dog.” He walks off shaking his head.
Big Al slumps in his seat. He looks at his coffee and he shakes his head.
The handlebar moustache guy leans over and claps Big Al on the shoulder. Big Al looks at him, startled.
“I believe you,” the guy says. He sticks out a hand. “Ben.”
Big Al blinks, then takes the hand and shakes. “Al. You mean you…” he trails off.
Ben nods. “I mean I think you made a real good choice. And I think maybe you want to keep driving tonight. Just for a bit.” He thinks for a moment. “You know the Court Jester? Just past Des Moines? They’ll fix you up a great steak. Tell ‘em Ben sent you.” He glances over his shoulder; Ray is taking a customer’s order at the far end of the bar. “But you don’t wanna eat here. Not tonight.”
Big Al thinks for a minute. Then he gets up, tosses a couple bills on the counter, and shakes hands again. “Thanks, Ben. Your coffee’s on me. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“I hope so,” says Ben. Big Al nods and heads for the door.
Ben takes charge of the bills and lays them neatly on the counter beside his coffee cup. Ray comes back, and Ben orders a steak. I say I need a minute.
When Ray’s gone, I turn to Ben. “Should, uh, should we be leaving too?” I want to ask more, but I’m not sure how to put it.
Ben smiles and shakes his head. “Nah. It’s a good place. Even Ray’s a decent enough guy, really. Bad listener, but what can you do?” He sips. “I been out here a long time, though, and I thought Al might be more comfortable somewhere else tonight. That’s all. You’ll be fine. Just – ” He stops and shrugs. “You’ll be fine.”
I think about that. “I’m Tim,” I say at last. “And it’s none of my business, but – ”
“Good to meet you, Tim.” Ben’s handshake is firm and confident. “No, you got a right to ask, after listening to all that. Order up and we’ll talk.” I catch Ray’s eye and put in an order for a delightful breakfast-dinner. Meanwhile Ben is glancing around the bar, and his gaze lingers on a man sitting alone in a corner booth.
The guy is fiftyish, graying, dressed like a trucker – or almost like a trucker. Something’s off, and after squinting for a moment I decide it’s that his clothes are too new. His Caterpillar cap is stiff and shiny, and the bill is too straight for his head. He looks like a guy who got drafted to play a trucker in some sort of theater production, and ran out of time to put the finishing touches on his costume.
“That’s Walter.” Ben pitches his voice low. “He’s waiting to meet someone.”
“Oh, yeah?” I don’t want to pry.
“Yeah. Guy from the dark web. Said he’d sell Walter an untraceable poison.”
I start in my seat and give Walter another look. He’s fidgeting and pushing the food around on his plate. A cup of coffee grows cold on the table in front of him.
Ben grips my arm. “Okay, easy now. Don’t want to make him nervous. He’s got a lot on his mind.” We turn back to our coffees, and with impeccable timing Ray drops two steaming plates on the counter in front of us.
I pick up my bacon and look at it. “What’s, uh, what’s he want an untraceable poison for?”
“Murder his wife.” Ben salts his steak and digs into it. “He’s tried it twice already. Last time she was in bed for a week. Thought it was food poisoning.” He takes a bite. “Oh, that’s good.”
It’s a funny thing. My bacon’s gone, and I don’t remember tasting it. I fill the gap with more coffee. “Um. Are you a police officer, then, Ben?”
Ben chuckles, but it seems a bit humorless. “Nope. Gotta be real clear about that. Just a guy.” He looks out the window. It’s getting dark for real, now; beyond the parking lot are mostly fields, and only the hotel shows a few glowing lights against the gloom.
“You stay on these roads long enough,” says Ben, “and you’ll start to see ‘em. Not a lot of ‘em, not really. But enough.”
“Uh, a lot of who?” I can’t figure out if he means would-be murderers like Walter, or what. Maybe Ben is one of those guys who catches criminals on the Internet? He doesn’t look the part, somehow.
“Well, take that kid, for instance. The Huck Finn kid who wanted to show Big Al all the hootin’. You won’t see him again, I don’t think – that story of his didn’t work out for him – but you’ll see others. They’ll come in with a story, too.”
Ben pauses for steak. “I been driving across this great nation of ours for more than thirty years now, and I’ve had my own rig for about twenty of that. I’ve seen ‘em fifty, maybe sixty times – always at night, always in places like this that cater to folks far from home. The, uh, quality varies. But the goal stays the same.” He points his knife at me. “They want you to leave with them. Just you. No one else.”
I’m definitely cold now. I shiver and gulp some more coffee. It helps, sort of. Ray stops by with a refill, and I watch as the steaming liquid gurgles into the cup. Behind me, the bell on the door jingles as a customer departs into the night.
I’m not sure I really want the answer to my next question, but I ask it anyway. “Why? What happens if you go?”
Ben shrugs. “Not sure, exactly. But I can tell you two things. That truck Al saw is always waiting outside when it happens. And the ones who go never come back.”
“And all that stuff with the silent running and the wheels spinning backwards – you think Al was right about all that?”
“I know he was.”
We sit in silence for a moment. I’m not sure what to think. Ben doesn’t come off as if he’s trying to impress me, not at all. His voice is quiet and a little bit tired. I get the impression that he’d rather not be talking about this at all, but he really thinks I have a right to know if I’m willing to listen.
And I decide I want to take him up on that. Even if he’s wrong, or even a bit crazy, something about these people and their truck scared Big Al badly, and Ben treated him in that moment with dignity and respect. I’ve had my own narrow escape today, and so I appreciate that even more than I usually would.
“Well, let me ask this,” I say at last. “It sounds like it might be a kidnapping ring or something – one of the gang gets the victim to come outside, and then they stuff him in the back of the truck, maybe? I don’t understand the thing with the wheels, but let’s forget that for a second. What I want to know is, how come these guys can’t come up with a better story? Who’s gonna follow a stranger into the dark to hear an owl?”
Beneath his steel-gray moustache, Ben smiles – and it’s a real smile, tired but warm. “Well,” he says. “It’s funny you should ask that. You ever heard of the scammers from Mars, Tim?”
I blink. “Uh, David Bowie, right?”
Ben chuckles. “Close. It’s actually something my nephew told me about. You know those scam emails you get, where the guy claims to be a Nigerian prince or whatever, and he needs you to put millions of dollars in your bank account for him?” I nod; I have, in fact, at least a dozen of those emails sitting in my inbox at this very moment.
“Sure you do,” says Ben. “Well, you don’t think the scammers typed all that up by hand just for you, right? They got these scripts they use, and they send ‘em out to lots of people all at once, rinse and repeat. Well, few years back there was a good Samaritan who was trying to figure a way to protect people from getting scammed. And what he realized was that the scammers were lazy, and they weren’t writing or even reading the scripts they were sending out. Mostly they just stole them from other scammers.”
Ben chuckles again and drinks coffee. “No honor among thieves, I guess. So this Sam, he writes his own script. It says he’s a lawyer on Mars who wants to help one lucky citizen claim a prize of ten million Galactic credits. And he emails it out to lots of known scammers. And the scammers, being scammers, they steal it and they send it onto their own victims without reading it too carefully.”
He signals for a refill. “Pretty soon, lots of Grandmas and Grandpas are getting emails from lawyers on Mars. And it’s ridiculous, so no one bites – except for the Sam and his friends. They engage the scammers and they make it look like this Mars story is hot stuff. Guaranteed to pull the suckers in.”
“So the scammers keep sending it. And Grandma and Grandpa are a bit safer, because now the lies don’t look true.” He pushes his plate back. “You want dessert, Tim? I’m buying. You’re a good listener and I appreciate your company.”
Before I can answer, the bell above the door jingles. And the Iowa City guys walk in.
---
The leader spots me before the door swings shut. He grins like a shark. “Impala man!” His friends whistle and clap as he saunters over and seats himself on Big Al’s stool. He chucks his leather hat onto the counter and grins again. “Man, it really is a small world, ain’t it?”
I ease my phone out of my pocket. Ben is watching carefully, his expression blank. I look the leader in the eyes. “Excuse me. I’m eating.” I take a bite of eggs to prove it.
The leader nods sagely. “I get ya, man. Gotta feed the machine. And speakin’ of…” he leans forward and speaks in low, confidential tones. “I notice you parked that Impala of yours in a handicapped spot, my man.” He holds out a palm. “So me and the boys, we figured we might go ahead and move it for you. Kind of payin’ it forward, like. You toss me the keys, man, we’ll get it done.” He smiles wider. “Might save you some trouble later, you know?” Behind him, his friends chuckle and smirk.
“No, thanks.” I glance over at Ben. His face appears to be carved out of granite, and the leader’s gaze flicks to him.
“Howdy, pops.” The leader plasters on a sunny smile and jerks a thumb in my direction. “You know this guy?”
Ben considers this, then shrugs. “Who among us can know a man?” he asks. He turns away, pulls a battered smartphone out of his pocket, and starts typing on it.
The leader throws back his head and laughs. “Hey, that’s real deep, pops. I can tell you and me are gonna get along just like a house on fire.” He leans back, signals Ray, and tips me a wink. “No offense taken, man. None at all. We’re hungry anyway, ain’t we, boys?”
“Starving,” one of his friends says.
“I could eat a horse,” says another. The three of them saunter over to an empty booth.
“That’s a fact, man,” says the leader. “We’ll all have us a good old meal, just like mama used to make. And then maybe we’ll see about that parking job later, am I right?” Ray arrives, order pad at the ready, and the leader turns the grin on him. “You got any vegan options here, bud?”
I glance at Ben again as Ray answers, but he’s still turned mostly away, and it looks like he’s totally engrossed in his phone and his coffee. I don’t have any right to feel shocked and saddened by this, I realize – Ben doesn’t really owe me anything, and he doesn’t know the Iowa City guys like I do anyway – but I can’t help it. He seemed, somehow, like exactly the guy you’d want to have next to you when things go south. And yet there he sits – and it looks like I’m alone.
I hold my coffee cup in front of my face to hide my expression, and I’m trying to run through my options – leave now? Call the police? And tell them what? – when the bell jingles again. And a young lady bursts in.
She is tall, dark-haired, statuesque. Her luxuriant curls are styled in the fashion of a bygone age, and they bounce back and forth as she looks wildly around at the diners. “Oh, please!” she says, in a breathless gasp that is almost a scream. “You’ve got to come quickly – someone, please! It’s a scandal!”
Ray drops his order pad and makes like he’s going to approach her, and Ben reaches out and grabs his arm. Ray looks at him, startled, and Ben shakes his head so minutely that, even with my nerves keyed up as they are, I nearly miss it. I examine the lady a bit more closely, and as she looks from one face to another I realize that her clothes are from another time, too: she’s wearing a luxuriant dress of royal purple velvet, the sort of thing a Disney princess might wear to a formal ball.
“That truck out there!” she whisper-shrieks. “It’s completely nude! Not a stitch on it! Oh, the scandal, the scandal – won’t someone please come and help?” No one does; the faces of the other diners range from puzzled to annoyed to wary, but no one rushes to her aid. In their booth, the other three Iowa City guys are starting to snicker.
Ben sighs and rolls his eyes in the leader’s direction. “Aw, not this again,” he says. “How does she have any money left to waste on this?” He has not let go of Ray’s arm.
The leader rubs his chin and looks in the woman’s direction. She has renewed her appeal but is still finding no takers. “What money’s that, pops?”
Ben shakes his head again. “That’s Clara Smart. Inherited about half the county from her old dad. Now she goes around roping people into these stupid theatre skits. She’s a nut, of course.” He shrugs. “Last time it was two dragons fightin’. This time it’s nude trucks, I guess. Nice work if you can get it, maybe, but I ain’t takin’ money from a sick woman.”
“You don’t say.” The leader is sitting up very straight now. “How much money we talkin’ here?”
“Well.” Ben sips coffee. “Last time it was a thousand bucks. Guy pretended to fight the dragons and she paid him cash on the spot. Sad, really.” He grimaces as Clara launches into her spiel again.
“Oh, yeah.” The leader stands up and claps his leather hat back onto his head. “I’m cryin’ on the inside, that’s for sure. Thanks, pops.” He gestures to his team. “C’mon, boys, you heard the lady. Let’s give her a hand with this nude truck problem.”
His team breaks into raucous laughter and follows him up the aisle. Clara fixes her eyes on him as he approaches, and she wrings her hands together. “Oh, please, sir,” she begs. “Can’t you help? That truck out there, sir – it’s completely nude!”
The leader favors her with a smile and a bow. “My lady,” he says, “I am at your service. You want me to hold onto that purse of yours till it’s safe out there?”
“Oh, thank you, sir – thank you!” Clara cries. The leader opens the door for her; she backs through, still thanking him and wringing her hands, and his three friends follow her out like hyenas stalking a wounded gazelle.
The leader pauses in the door and looks at me. “Don’t go nowhere, Impala man,” he says. “We’ll be right back.”
He turns. The bell jingles. And he is gone.
Ben lets go of Ray’s arm. He exhales, and I realize that I have been holding in my breath as well. I let it out, and Ben claps me on the shoulder. “How about that dessert, Tim? I’m still buyin’.”
I glance over at the door, but night has fallen and I see only the reflection of the diners in the darkened glass. “Uh, maybe I should go. In case they come back.”
“They won’t.” Ben relaxes in his seat and picks up a menu. “Clara, now, she’ll come back another night. Got what she wanted, after all. But they won’t.”
And they don’t.
Ben and I each enjoy a slice of Ray’s homemade peach pie, and Ben tells me a few well-chosen tales of his travels across the continent. When we’re maybe halfway through, Walter gets up from his booth and fast-walks past us with his hands in his pockets and his Caterpillar cap pulled low over his eyes. “Hey,” I whisper as the doorbell jingles to his departure. “Didn’t you want to – ”
Ben smiles and taps the smartphone in his shirt pocket. “Well, it’s a funny thing, Tim. Round about the time those hard boys walked in, Walter got an email from his untraceable poison guy. Turns out this meet was being watched by a rival gang, or something. He had to reschedule.” He forks in another peach. “Don’t worry. Walter’ll be around when he’s needed. Which’ll be in about – ” He checks his watch. “Oh, shoot. Is that the time?” He stands and raises an arm. “Ray! Check, please!”
---
We shake hands in the parking lot. Ben starts to climb up into the cab of a shiny blue big rig with a sunrise painted on the door. “Well, it’s sure been a pleasure, Tim. You stay safe and take good care of your aunt, all right?”
“I will.” I can’t decide how much more to add. I think I’ve figured out more about Ben and his work than he’s actually said, but most of it sounds crazy in my own head, and I can’t figure out a natural way to bring it up. “The, uh, stories,” I say at last. “They used to be better, didn’t they?”
“They did, yeah.” Ben stares off down the highway. “Some good people got caught up. Some still do, I’m sure.”
“But not as many.”
“Not as many, nope. And most nights I can sit with that.”
I think about that for a minute. “How long have you been doing this?”
He looks into the distance again. “Longer than I’d like. If I thought there was someone to hand it off to…”
He stops and shakes his head, then grins as he hoists himself up into the cab. “Well. It’s like the man said, Tim. You show me civilization, I’ll show you a guy on a wall who’s seen more than he wants to. Maybe I’m meant to be up here a little while longer, and that’s okay, I guess.”
He checks his watch again and waves as he keys the truck’s engine. “Gotta go. Wouldn’t want to disappoint Walter a second time. You text me when you get in, all right? I like to know my friends are safe.”
---
Aunt Cynthia’s operation goes well, and by the time I leave three weeks later she’s doing a lot better. The trip back is uneventful, I’m relieved to say, although every time I stop to eat I find myself glancing a bit too often at the door.
No one ever comes in but honest folk in search of a hot meal and a friendly face, and as I make my way home I am grateful: for my family, for the man on the wall, and most of all for the scammers from Mars.