The Longing Wayside of a Road

The road stretched on for what those from out of town would say was miles.  Folks from town however knew that it was only one mile from Charlie Reade’s home to the barbershop on the outskirts of town.  It was a long, quiet, yet peaceable road.  To Mr. Charlie Reade it was also a friendly road.  

As the spring sun crept up above the maples that skirted the road, a rabbit crossed at a tortoise’s pace.  Mr. Reade watched the rabbit and wondered whether it was heading back to its hole, or out to some crisp grass for breakfast.  He walked his usual determined pace which startled the rabbit, causing it to hop along.  The townsfolk knew Mr. Reade’s pace.  Yes, they could set their watches to his steps, his arrival to his barbershop, and then back home again.  After forty years, one would think a man might step off at the wrong tempo, or perhaps have to turn around for some forgotten item while walking that long road, but not Mr. Reade.  

            A highly respected man and barber, he became a therapist for many, and a clergyman to some.  He listened to his customers, rarely saying a word in return.  Many admired his quietness and often wondered what religion he followed, because they never saw him at church, or any other town function for that matter. Those who knew him when he was young had mostly passed away.  He had become a town myth, while still being present amongst his community.  

            This spring morning, he unlocked his shop, and stared up the street while placing the key back in his vest pocket.  He turned the faded “closed” sign around, switched on the lights, and prepared himself for another day.  Another day of listening to others.  Others, he had watched grow up and make families of their own.  Family.  Something he never had, and honestly, he could not remember whether he ever wanted it.  Those days felt like a lifetime ago to him, or perhaps even longer.  

            It was a rarity to have someone walk up to his shop anymore.  No one walked more than one block in his town.  The town had lost its hustle and bustle, which he did remember.  It felt like a ghost town, that he was a part of.  While the storefronts and sidewalks lay desolate, the road itself grew active as the day wore on.  Tractor trailers rumbled through, reminding Mr. Reade that progress and growth were still occurring.  The road had long been paved over, but the big trucks wreaked havoc on its delicate, yet rugged surface.  Staring out at the road, Mr. Charlie Reade rubbed his clean-shaven face.  That delicate, yet rugged surface. 

            The quick arrival of a car parking in front of his shop awoke him with a start.  “The first customer of the day,” he thought.  It was the town’s mayor.  A tall, lanky fellow who had grown up on the other side of town.  To be mayor of a town like that you had to have grown up there.  Otherwise, who would want to run it?  Yes, thought Charlie, you have to love the town to run it.  You have to at least love this town. 

            Charlie gave the mayor his usual haircut and shave.  Everyone in town knew when the end of their haircut was nearing.  Charlie always stood in the same spot, turning the chair as he worked his trade.  As your cut was progressing, you spun and had to stare at the old, creaking walls of each side of the shop, until lastly, you were back to facing the mirror again.  The mayor noticed this progression, just as if he was realizing when his own teeth had a good enough brushing.  He stared at Charlie in the mirror and spoke up, “Have you heard about the old Cobb place?”

            Charlie, never stopping his clipping said that he had not.  “A family from up north bought it and moved in last week. I’m headed up there today to meet them and welcome them to the town.  Word is they have two boys.”

            “That’s good to hear.  Someone needed to get in there before the old place fell down.  It will be good for the house.  It will have love inside of it again.”

            The mayor grinned and said, “Heck, it will be good for the town.  Lord knows we need some fresh blood.  It will be good for the road too.  That eyesore will hopefully change into something beautiful again.”

            The rest of the day Charlie pondered about what the mayor said.  He agreed that the old house was an eyesore along the road.  He had forgotten just how much it was and he walked past it twice every day.  It was the only house he crossed, and yet he had forgotten its existence entirely.  This came as a shock to him.  What was an even bigger shock was that it was a shock at all.  He was never bothered by the changes in his town before. 

            A week went by and nothing changed, except Charlie’s thoughts.  Each time he passed by the old Cobb place he wondered who the new people were and what plans they had dreamt of the house for themselves.  Maybe, what plans they had for the town.  Yet, Mr. Charlie Reade kept up his pace to and from the shop.  The long road was never a letdown to him.  It was the one steady, long-running fact that never swerved away from him.  He always remained firmly planted on his road.  

            Then, one afternoon he was walking home along the road, when he saw this new family out in front of their new home.  The young man was doing yard work while the boys chased one another.  Mr. Reade stopped in his tracks.  Observing the family from afar, as one acts at a zoo or a circus, he stood motionless.  The whirl of a car passing woke him from his daydream.  Never, as far as anyone in town or Charlie himself could recall, had he stopped for what felt like an insurmountable amount of time.  Feeling immensely embarrassed for staring, the warm blush on his cheeks quickly ran out and he quickened his pace home. 

            Subsequent to that afternoon, Mr. Charlie Reade’s walk along the long road was forever altered.  He felt like he needed something that was outside his own reach, but he could not grasp it.  As the men in town continued to come into his shop and conversation after conversation passed between them, Mr. Charlie Reade never said a word about how he felt towards that landmark along the road.  It puzzled him incessantly.  Those in town keeping their watches set to Charlie’s pace would have noticed it sped up in front of the old Cobb place and then slowed down again.  

As everyone in town were familiar with Mr. Charlie Reade’s daily commute, so the new family grew to expect seeing him walk by every morning and afternoon.  Finally, one cloudy afternoon the youngest son of the new family ran out to greet this phantom of a man.  Startled by such an intrusion along the road, Charlie hustled by without a word to the boy. 

Yet, each afternoon the boy would greet Charlie, and Charlie would give a quick “hello” and hurry on.  He could not figure out why he was so abrupt with the boy.  Did the boy remind him of himself?  He could not say.  But he grew to enjoy this daily greeting along the road.  Occasionally, the boy’s brother or mother would join him. 

Yes, Mr. Charlie Reade’s walk on the long road had gained a human feature, which deep down under that delicate, yet rugged surface he never realized how much he had longed for it.  Things were never the same for Charlie, or the town again.