Take Me Home, Country Rhodes

An hour into their monthly meeting, the Cressy Town Council has made one resolution: Despite dressing her monkey, Harold, like a child, Dacia Montero’s pet won’t be allowed to eat banana splits at the diner’s counter anymore.

The Council’s agenda shifts to the more serious subject of tourism.

“We’ve got lots of quirky odds and ends in town, but there’s no real big attraction,” Chief McLaren Pontiac notes.

Opal Carr, the Library Director, nods, her long neck making her look like a chicken pecking at specks of feed. “We have Carhenge with all those classic cars standing on end and the miniature Marvel Superhero collection, but we need something that has national recognition.”

Ariel Rhodes, the perky owner of the Novelty Nook, slowly turns her gaze toward her husband, Mayor Walker Rhodes.

“How about your baseball team’s Ted Williams National High School Trophy?”

The forty-two-year-old Mayor may have started getting grey in the temples, but his fit physique and youthful features make him look like he could still play centerfield.

“The tourists always ask about your undefeated team,” Ariel continues. “You have an empty room at town hall that nobody uses. We could turn it into our version of Cooperstown.”

Chief Pontiac’s beefy features brighten. “Sure, everybody knows the story of the Cressy Condors. Kids still idolize your team. We could sell autographed baseballs, pictures, caps. Maybe we could have a team reunion as part of the opening.”

“Perhaps we could get Mister Williams to come to Cressy,” Opal says.

Chief Pontiac rolls his eyes. “He’s dead, Opal. So, what do you think, Mayor?”

Walker’s face reddens. “I’m embarrassed to admit that I haven’t kept in touch with my teammates. They’re scattered all over the country.”

“Maybe we can start by bringing the trophy back to Cressy,” Ariel suggests.

“So where is it?” Chief Pontiac asks.

“It’s been passed around a lot over the past twenty years,” Walker says. “Our manager had it first. He kept it for two years; our catcher got it, then our right fielder, and down the line. I had it for a couple of years before our shortstop, Austin Dodge, wanted it. He lives in Aymon, North Carolina. Sounds like a town Bob Marley would live in, eh?”

The council members stare blankly at Walker.

“I’ll leave tomorrow.”

Two bulky security guards at California’s Merced Regional Airport stare at Walker. The guard with the sandy porn mustache crooks his finger at Walker, motioning him toward them.

“Is there something I can do for you, officer?”

“Just a random check,” the second officer says. “Follow us.”

The guards lead Walker into an austere waiting room, leaving him to sweat in anticipation for the next twenty minutes.

The officer with the mustache bursts in.

“Please put your suitcase on the table and open it.”

Walker complies. “Have I done something wrong?”

The officer’s nameplate reflects against the overhead fluorescent lights, making his name, “VEGA,” look like a flashing warning sign.

“This is just a routine check, sir,” Officer Vega says, sifting through Walker’s clothes.

“If it means anything, I’m a Californian like you. I’m the Mayor of Cressy, and I’m on a mission on behalf of our citizens.”

“Oh really?” Officer Vega replies, his voice laced with skepticism. “How many people are in Cressy?”

“Three hundred fifty-two. But Bambi Feddermacker is expecting twins.”

“Bambi?”

“I didn’t name her.”

Officer Vega holds up a bottle of aftershave, looking suspiciously at the green liquid.

“And your mission?”

“I’m bringing back the Ted Williams National High School Championship Trophy our team won in 2000. It’ll help attract more tourists.”

“Oh really, what are some of the attractions in Cressy?”

“We have the world’s largest mustard jar.”

“French’s, Heinz, or Grey Poupon?” Officer Vega asks.

He pulls out a baggy, staring at the white powder inside.

“…French’s… And that’s not what you think. It’s a sugar substitute for my coffee.”

Officer Vega wets his finger, sticking it inside the baggy. His face screws into a frown.

“This has to be tested.”

“How long will that take?” Walker asks.

“A couple of hours. In the meantime, I need you to strip.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need to do a full cavity search.”

By the time Walker lands in Aymon, his five-hour trip has stretched to nine hours. An Uber driver unfamiliar with the terrain adds another hour to his trip to Austin Dodge’s house.

Exhausted, Walker knocks on the front door of the impressive-looking French Country Mansion, expecting Austin’s wife, Porsche, to answer.

A twenty-something brunette in Capri Pants and a sequined T-shirt proclaiming, “Let’s Party!”  working over a few pieces of bubble gum answers the chirpy doorbell.

“You’re not Porsche Dodge.”

“Nope. I’m Hazel Booth, no relation to John Wilkes. And what are you selling?”

“I’m Mayor Walker Rhodes from Cressy, California.”

“Boy, did you take a wrong turn,” Hazel says, snapping her gum.

“Does Austin Dodge still live here?”

“Nope.”

Hazel blows a bubble.

“Do you know where he is?”

The bubble pops.

“He’s in jail for embezzlement.”

When Walker shows the head guard his license, his eyebrows shoot upward.

“You’re one of the Cressy Condors, aren’t you? You were baseball royalty to kids like me when we were growing up.”

“Yeah, the whole team was on the cover of Sports Illustrated.”

“That’s supposed to be a curse, you know,” the burly, bald guard says, crossing himself. “Bad things happen to people who appear on that cover.”

“Not us.”

“Dodge told me that five of your teammates are dead, and three have substance abuse issues. And hello? You’re visiting one of three teammates serving time.”

Austin’s head swivels around the visitor’s room, watching the other convicts laugh and talk with their families. Handsome, with a generous mound of dark hair, the bags under Austin’s eyes and his slight frame illustrate he’s not made for prison.

He leans across the grey folding table, whispering, “Can’t be too careful. There are bugs and stoolies everywhere.”

“This isn’t San Quentin, Austin, and you’re not John Gotti.”

“You’re the Mayor now? Can you use your political influence to get me out of here?”

“I’d have to be the Mayor of Oz in order to do that. How did this happen, Austin?”

“I developed a habit,” Austin says solemnly.

“You were the one on the team who ate wheat grass and drank protein shakes…”

“Not a drug habit. A gambling habit. I was selling half a dozen luxury boats every week, and I was winning thousands at poker and craps.”

“…Then you started losing…”

“Yep. So, I got creative with the books. Why not? It was my company. I was sure I wasn’t going to get caught. Tina didn’t feel the same way. So, she made a deal with the feds. She’s in Aspen, living off the sale of the business, and here I am.”

“I always thought there was something funny about Tina,” Walker says.

Austin sighs dreamily. “I loved it when she yelled my name from the stands. She was my first, you know.”

“Hopefully, not your last.”

“I’m doing better than ever in that department. Did you know there are jailbird groupies? I’ve got two women writing to me every other day. They promise to take care of me when I get out. So, what brings you here? I know it’s not my stunning good looks.”

“Or your business acumen. I have a chance to help bring more tourists to Cressy. What did you do with the trophy? You didn’t pawn it, did you?”

“No, I sent it to our pitcher, Shelby Lebaron. He’d been after me for years to see it.”

“Where does he live?”

“He has a farm in Iowa. He’s raising turkeys.”

“Wasn’t he a vegetarian?”

Walker takes in the sight of hundreds of turkeys in Shelby Lebaron’s field.

“I’ve always wondered where turkeys come from,” he says to Shelby’s wife, Janet. “America owes you a debt, especially during Thanksgiving.”

Janet smiles politely, brushing the day’s dirt off her checkered shirt and jeans.

“How was the plane ride?”

“Wonderful. I sat next to Big Jack Hammer. He should have bought two seats. He’s a wrestler, and he weighs three hundred and fifty pounds. Big Jack fell asleep and cuddled me, nearly smothering me to death. When we landed, it took two attendants and the co-pilot to peel him off me… I could scarcely believe it when you told me you and Shelby ran a working farm. He was such a GQ type of guy when we were growing up. Shelby was the only guy on the team who wouldn’t slide because he didn’t want to get his uniform dirty. Where is he?”

Teary-eyed, Janet points toward a massive structure in the distance. “We buried him behind the barn. He died last year. He was pecked to death by our turkeys. You think these critters would have given Shelby a break. He didn’t eat meat, and he treated them like they were pets. But he was carryin’ a big bag of feed, and I guess the gobblers were hungry.”

“Do you know anything about the Ted Williams National High School Trophy?”

“Oh, sure. Shelby drank beer out of it for a year. Then he passed it on to Lincoln Maserati.”

A flock of turkeys approaches. The largest one struts toward Walker.

“Should I pet it?”

“If you wanna lose a hand. That’s Trevor. He’s turkey security.”

Trever gobbles loudly, pecking at Walker’s leg.

“OW!”

“You wearing aftershave? He hates that.”

“OW!”

Walker starts trotting toward his car. “Does Lincoln still live in Los Angeles?”

“Must be a while since you’ve talked. He lives in Chickaloon.”

“Where’s that?”

“Alaska.”

“OW!”

“I think Trevor’s starting to like you.”

Walker’s plane skids across the runway three hours late, landing during a blizzard.

Walker watches a luggage cart topple in the snow. Bags, suitcases, and valises are scattered across the whitening tarmac, and Walker knows some of them are his.

Looking for a ride to the Dewdrop Inn and a plane to Lincoln’s house, Walker bounces from cabbies to Uber drivers to limousine services. All of them say they’re off duty.

“Are you nuts?” one cabbie utters. “The roads are impassable. You’re better off sleeping at the terminal. And you could lose your life trying to get to Lincoln Maserati’s house even on a good day.”

An elderly man in coveralls with a long grey beard overhears his dilemma.

“Name’s Edsel Ford, entrepreneur. I can help you out. I got a plane, and I can fly you to the Maseratis. I also happen to own the Dewdrop Inn. I can get you there.”

“How?” Walker asks.

Walker hunkers down inside the dog sled. Covering himself in blankets, he wipes the snow off his goggles.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Walker asks, looking into the teeth of the snowstorm.

“Sure. My huskies, Ralph and Alf, have been doin’ this for years.”

“I hate to inform you, Edsel, but they’re not huskies. They’re wolves. They’ll eat us if we get stranded.”

“I always wondered why they howled at the moon.”

Edsel confidently pilots the sled through the whiteout, bellowing out “Show Me the Way to Go Home” as snow wafts over the sled.

Edsel makes a sharp turn, nearly knocking Walker out of the sled.

Walker’s cry of “…What the?...” is stifled when Edsel points to the sheer cliff they narrowly missed.

The sled comes to a halt in front of a clapboard lodge.

“Home sweet home! I’ll take your bags up to your room, son. You relax in the lounge.”

The bar has three customers dressed in Eskimo furs. Two of them have passed out. A man with a bad toupee is singing off-key to a king-sized woman with an equally bad wig.

Walker anesthetizes himself with half a dozen shots before heading to his room. Once inside his suite, Walker notices he’s not alone. Bedbugs have taken over the lumpy mattress, so he sleeps on the floor.

The following day, after choking down what passes as an egg and cheese sandwich, Walker follows Edsel to his plane.

“Snow’s let up considerable,” Edsel says. “Trip should be a breeze.”

Edsel’s weary-looking, single-engine Cessna prop plane has YOU GONNA DIE written all over it.

“They don’t make ‘em like this anymore,” Edsel brags, the engine sputtering as they take off.

“I can see why. Didn’t Lindbergh fly in this thing?”

“Nah. But I once flew John Denver, the singer of ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’.”

“Newsflash. He died in a plane crash.”

“It wasn’t one’a mine.”

“You’ve crashed before?”

“Yep. But I’ve always walked away. You might wanna fasten your seat belt, though.”

“You mean this rope next to me?”

“Yeah. It’s real strong. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Edsel banks the plane to the left. It shakes, rattling loudly.

Edsel can feel his so-called continental breakfast climbing through his windpipe.

“You don’t have to try and impress me. Just fly the plane.”

“What? You don’t like the way I’m flyin’, son?”

Edsel pulls the steering wheel out of its mount, handing it to Walker.

“Here, you fly the plane.”

Walker shrieks as the plane goes into a dive.

“You’re doing a great job! Fly the plane!”

“I thought you might see things through my goggles.”

Edsel circles a large, stylish log cabin.

“Tighten up yer rope, son. We’re comin’ in for a landin’.”

Walker looks out the window at a long, narrow strip of pavement.

“Wait a minute. That’s your landing strip? It looks like somebody’s driveway.”

“It is. It’s the Maserati’s. Sure glad Lincoln’s caretaker plowed and moved the RV. That’ll give us a few extra feet.”

Edsel dives toward the driveway.

Walker covers his eyes. He feels the plane bounce before skidding sideways and coming to a halt a few feet from the house.

Walker jumps out of the plane, kissing the driveway.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” Edsel says.

“Why not? I feel lucky to be alive.”

Walker’s lips stick to the driveway.

“That’s why. It’s minus ten degrees. Don’t worry, son. I’ll have the caretaker boil some water. It might cause you some pain, and I might have to cut some skin off your lips, but I’ll get you loose.”

Walker is pleasantly surprised by the cabin’s luxury. The spacious living room has expensive leather couches, a crackling stone fireplace, and glossy wooden floors. Walker follows Edsel into the kitchen. A woman in full makeup dressed in an embroidered white blouse and a flashy blue skirt with gold trim is methodically chopping the heads off a series of blackfish with a cleaver.

Edsel greets her with, “Mornin’ Mercedes! I brung you a visitor! This here’s Mayor Walker Rhodes, Lincoln’s old teammate.”

Mercedes chuckles to herself as she looks at Walker’s swollen lips.

“Hurt much?”

Walker answers, “A little,” but his puffy lips make it sound like he says, “A whittle.”

Mercedes brings the cleaver down with a threatening THWACK!

“So, you’ve come a long way. What do you want?”

“I’m here to see Lincoln.”

THWACK!

“I threw his cheating carcass out two weeks ago. He took our helicopter and left. He’s in Los Angeles with his latest cupcake.”

Walker tries to steady himself.

“…You mean I flew across this wasteland with Captain Kamikaze, and he’s not here?”

THWACK!

“Next time, call.”

“Yeah, I should have thought of that. He didn’t happen to leave a large trophy behind, did he?”

Mercedes stops in mid-hack. “Be right back.”

“She seems pleasant,” Walker says after her departure.

“She’s livin’ in splendor alone. It snows out here nine months of the year. Her nearest neighbor’s twenty minutes away and probably doesn’t speak English. Her caretaker helps out, but they don’t get along, so Mercedes can get a bit testy. I ain’t surprised she’s not Miss Congeniality.”

Mercedes re-enters the kitchen, holding the trophy.

She lays the trophy across the cutting board, picking up the cleaver.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Putting the pieces in a paper bag, she hands it to Walker.

Walker lets out a muffled whimper. “Why did you do that?”

“Because it’s part of Lincoln. He loved that thing.”

Mercedes picks up the cleaver, shaking it at Walker. “I should have broken it over his head after his mistress called and asked me when I was moving out. You’re lucky you came when you did. I’ll find out if this luxurious prison is mine or his next week. If Lincoln gets this place in the divorce settlement, I’ll make sure there’s nothing left but a burnt-out hole in the ground.”

“You wanna come back to town with us?” Edsel asks.

“And stay at your fleabag hotel? No thanks.”

THWACK!

Walker turns to leave.

“If it means anything to you, Walker, Lincoln always said the day you won the trophy and spending time with his teammates were the best moments in his life.”

“Where are you?” Ariel asks.

“Mulkeytown, Illinois, population one hundred and sixty-two, and, so far, eleven field mice. The bus I was taking to the nearest airport caught fire. I’ll be home soon, even if I have to make it by ox cart. But I’ve got some bad news. Lincoln’s wife destroyed the trophy. So, I need you to do me a favor…”

Walker and Ariel stand before the elegant case displaying the Ted Williams Trophy.

“You think anyone will notice it’s a phony?” Walker asks.

“Well, it is a bit too shiny for a twenty-four-year-old trophy that’s been passed around more than a collection plate on Sunday,” Ariel answers. “And there’s one glaring problem. Cressy is spelled with one ‘S’.”

Walker groans, rubbing his forehead.

“The trophy company is in Palm Springs. Even if I call in the correction today, a replacement could take days to get here. Someone’s libel to see the mistake by then and realize this trophy’s a fake.”

“I have the perfect solution. Why don’t you fly there?”