A Soul In Danger

I was pulling out of Martin Hollow Road onto State Route 12 when I first saw the man.

It was raining. H e was standing there by the STOP sign. He made no effort to get out of the rain. He just stood there and kind of stared at my old, rusty Dodge truck as I stopped. He was a wiry sort of guy. It looked like he was dressed in some sort of a work uniform that looked maybe a size too big for him. The fact that his shirt was untucked added to his sad sack appearance. He was wearing a straw hat, so at least, his head wasn’t getting wet. He was an older guy. I could tell that by the unkempt looking white hair poking out from under his hat and the day’s growth of facial hair.

I hated to see him getting soaked, so I opened my vent widow and hollered, “Hey, stranger, need a lift?” He waved, ran around to the passenger side of my truck, opened the door and climbed in.

I had just got back from the Applegate farm where I had helped Pop Applegate and his boys finish stripping the year’s tobacco crop. I had finished the ham and cheese sandwich that Mom Applegate had handed me when Pop had paid me and about half of the carton of chocolate milk she had given me was left. I had a check for a week’s pay in the pocket of my jeans and was feeling pretty good. Tired, but good.

“Where are you headed?” I asked my rider.

“Vanceville,” he said in a soft, reedy voice.

“Me, too,” I said. “I live there. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you. You from around here?”

“No, ain’t from here.” He seemed to not be interested in talking much.

I held out my hand to shake.

“Tim Montgomery,” I introduced myself. “they call me Timmy around here. I used to hate it, but I’ve learned to live with it.”

He shook my hand. He gripped my hand loosely. His hand was soft, almost like a woman’s hand. He didn’t give his name and I didn’t ask.

I turned on the radio. Dad had borrowed my truck yesterday and he had tuned in 105.5. A bass singer was barking out that everybody was gonna be happy over there. This was about two years before I met Jesus at a tent revival and, at the time, this kind of thing didn’t interest me. I switched to 103.7. Hank was informing the world that country folk could and would survive. I tuned over to 99.1. Phil Collins was singing “in The Air Tonight”. I had heard Phil had witnessed a murder and wrote this song about the guy who did it. The story goes that the killer came to a concert Phil was doing. Phil had the lighting guy shine a spotlight on the guy and had the song directly to him. Probably not true, but I liked it.

The stranger reached into his shirt pocket and removed a can of Prince Albert and a pack of rolling papers.

“Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“Smoke’em if ya got’em,” I replied.”The lighter in the truck works if you need one.”

He rolled the cigarette expertly, pulled out a lighter, and lit the cigarette.

“Just out of curiosity, why are you going to Vanceville?” I asked. “There ain’t much there, to be honest with you.”

He took a long drag off the cigarette and hesitated a few seconds before he answered.

“They’s a soul in danger over there,” he responded.

“Soul in danger? You sound like some kind of preacher, bud. I can switch back to the Gospel station of you like.”

Another drag off the cigarette and he shook his head.

“Ain’t no need,” he drawled.

At this point, we were halfway there.

“Where ya headed in Vanceville? Where can I drop you?”

“You know where the secondhand store is? They closed it down?”

“Sure, I know it! McDuff’s?”

“Yeah, that’s it! They’s a trailer next door?”

“Yeah, a guy named Bo Irish lives there. He’s shacked up with Stephanie Hurt. I know’em from high school.”

I didn’t tell the whole story. I despised Bo Irish. I had had fistfights with him all through school. He was nothing more than a punk in my opinion. A punk who did hard drugs and couldn’t hold a job as a taste tester in a pie factory. How he ended up with a sweetie like Stephanie was one of life’s great mysteries. She was pretty, smart, and sweet. I had secretly been in love with her since sixth grade.

“So, that’s the soul in danger?” I was confused.

“ I ain’t getting’ into the details with you, compadre,” he sounded like I was getting on his nerves.

“OK, bud, I can git you there!”

We got to the sign that said VANCEVILLE CITY LIMITS, Population 1,022. We passed macey’s Grocery, the Volunteer Fire Department, First Baptist Church, Slick’s Garage, the Watkins place, the Ballard place, my house, yeah I was going out of my way, then came the Vanceville Auction Barn, and the right turn for Railroad Road. We passed a few more houses before we crossed the railroad tracks and made a left. First came a sheet metal building with a sign in front that read: MCDUFF’S SECOND HAND STORE, High Quality Pre-Owned Furniture, Appliances, and Clothing.

“Why did they close that?” the stranger asked me.

“ Old Man McDuff died. His wife is an invalid. His boys are too busy takin’ drugs. His daughter, Millie, got a college degree and moved out to California.”

At the mention of Millie McDuff’s name, I felt my face and neck grow hot. During the summers of my junior high years, I would ride my bike out by the McDuff place. I made the trip for one reason-I knew that sweet Millie would be in her bikini, lying on a quilt, sunbathing, and reading a Tiger Beat or a People Magazine. As I pedaled by, she would usually look up and give me a knowing smile.

Millie McDuff helped this old boy get through puberty.

The trailer next door was a single wide and looked like it had been through a war. Bo’s beat up Ford Truck was parked in the yard. The back left tire was flat. His beat up Ford made my beat up Dodge look like a showroom model. Stephanie’s Camaro was parked in the driveway. I pulled in behind it.

“Many thanks, compadre,” the stranger drawled. He climbed out of the truck and rolled another cigarette. The rain was down to a mist.

As my erstwhile rider was lighting his cigarette, the front door opened. There stood the object of my desire, Stephanie Hurt. She was wearing a Bob Segar T shirt, cutoff shorts that showed off her long legs and bare feet. She waved. I honked my horn. She motioned for me to roll down my window and I did.

“Timmy Montgomery, is that you, old buddy?”

“It sure is!”

She suddenly seemed to notice the cigarette smoking stranger and she waved at him.

“You made it! Well, come on in!”

He threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. Then, he strolled to the trailer. He entered the trailer and the door closed behind him.

I backed out of the driveway and, as I pulled away, I wondered whose soul was actually in danger.