Short Haul
Gibbon. That was his name. He worked June to October hiring out to local
farmers who needed workers and flatbeds to bring newly cut silage from the
fields to their barns for winter storage. Seasonal people from the city would
employ him to move things from Millard’s Auction House in Arcade – furnishings by the house load to fill up their summer places right quick.
His birth
name had been Eustace Gibbon – a name he hated growing up. His Pa said he gave
him that name because and on account of his belief that a boy with an odd name
had to quickly learn to stand up for himself on the school grounds. Which worked well for him and by the time
he’d got to second grade, he could manage himself quite fine. At the same time,
he was no rabble rouser either.
By third grade, even the tough kids from the Hollow
called him “Eustace” in a certain tone that signified an air of muted respect.
Older folks were deferential as well, only their approach to him led to asking
him to do chores, and they paid him handsomely. Some said that with a name such
as his it must mean the family had some civility that other families lacked.
When he was
17, he already knew what he wanted to do. He didn’t plan on returning to high
school the following year. He’d saved up $500 (a tidy sum for a lad in those
days) and went and bought old Putt Smith’s beat-up 10 gear standard shift
Brockway Semi-trailer. He got himself his own phone number - the only person
under 30 to have his own personal phone number in the entire county.
That, summer
after doing these two things he spent his spare time fixing the Brockway up.
Come autumn he wangled some deal with the Ag-Tech school to give the cab a new
crisp paint job; then had one of the Thompson Brothers carefully detail
lettering on both side doors that read “Short Haul Gibbon” with that phone
number below it, and he was in business! Just – like – that.
T’was the
summer people who began to call him Short Haul directly; first because they
didn’t really know his name. And he found this so much to his liking that by
age 20, he filed papers in Probate to make the change legit and for the record.
When folks
asked his Pa iffen this warn’t some sign of disrespect he told them that his
boy made his own living, and that he was old enough to do as he pleased, that
Pa was fine with this and whyn’t they just go and mind their own danged
business.
Shortly
after this, he began getting tattooed. Never said why, and we didn’t know from
where since there were no places what did that kind of artwork around these
parts. He was private about it, sort of.
Except for a five pointed star right center on his neck, in that hollow between
the Adam’s Apple and the collar bones, all his body pictures could be
discreetly hid beneath his clothes ..
except in the summertime, which is when I first saw then and took notice.
I first made
acquaintance with Short Haul the summer I had just turned 17. He was 28. I‘d been working on one of the Mennonite
family’s farms helping thrash the hay. Short Haul took their custom made
furniture that they made and drove it all up to Oberlin for them where they
sold it to some fancy-dance appliance and household goods store. One day I working
on their farmstead and doing heavy lifting, I was big for my age, muscular and
full of spunk and vinegar and all sweated up, but it was clean, working sweat.
Short Haul
took note and said I was just the sort that he needed working in his business –
what with all the many tasks he was getting hired on to do. After all, he was
getting older and he could no longer do all the work by himself.
My folks
thought working for Short Haul would do me good. It was a step up and away from
weekends drinking up on Cream Ridge Road with the Ag-Tech boys. You know – one
of those secrets that nobody says much of by everybody knows. So I said yes
right away. Besides, I was enthralled with those tattoos.
Truth be
known, they was a whole lot more that the ink what got me curious ~ though I
wan’t ‘zactly sure how to express myself about that then – not having learnt of
greater mysteries beyond the Baby Jesus being born from a Virgin, and the odd
noise that could be heard in the caves on Covenant Mountain.
Now, Short
Haul was a right personable man. He
could also be a real charmer. The ladies would just swoon over him, but he just
kep his space from them, remaining real polite and keeping things to business.
Given he was always hiring himself out for work I figured this to be pretty
smart.
But I was
working for him for just over a year when one day I asked him if he ever planned
to take a wife. At first he looked at me plain flustered. Then, “Well, what
brings that personalness up?” He asked in such a tone that I believe my first
reaction was to blush.
And I
thought about it. My sister, Emily, had goaded me into asking. Turns out she is
friends with this shy deaf-and-dumb girl, Wisteria; her people lives just shy a
mile down the road from us. They are our closest neighbors on the way to town.
Anyway, Wisteria was sweet on Long Haul, it was no secret. It was almost painful
to watch her when he came in proximity to her at the Agway.
And while my
question was on that occasion, awkward, it also brought open a whole passel of
subjects that we, neither he nor I – ever talked about until then.
The question
altered everything – not right away, mind you – but from that point on. The
question was a beginning.
On that
occasion, there was a long and uncomfortable silence as we drove a truck full
of merchandise to Oberlin. Until we were just on the outskirts of town, when he
took my inquiry one step further, and asked of me the same thing back. And it
was the second time that day I blushed.
