Truman Chipotle

Forty rows of empty oak pews shuddered in unison, though the organ produced no audible note.

Julian kept the heavy lead weight pinned against the bottom C pedal, leaving the 32-foot wooden rank wide open on its chest. A column of displaced air surged from the pipes—frigid and sharp with the scent of wet river silt. The pitch lived below the threshold of hearing, a 16 Hz tremor rolling beneath the limestone flagstones.

“Truly breathtaking,” said the aging sacristan from his metal folding chair down in the nave, cradling a communion chalice against his flannel apron. He worked a dab of chalky paste into the tarnished stem, his rag moving in slow, practiced circles.

Julian lifted the lead weight, seated his boot back against the low C, and depressed two manual keys in the Great division. No chord sounded, but the displaced draft bent the votive flames flat against their brass cups. In the choir stalls, the dark oak paneling groaned in sympathy, and twenty feet away, the heavy vellum pages of the baptismal register fluttered shut.

“Going to miss the old girl. She’s served this parish well for over a century,” the old man said, setting down the chalice, “I remember sitting on my father’s lap while he played. It always brings such comfort. Going to miss the old girl.”

Julian stood and walked to the ledge at the edge of the chancel where his toolbox sat atop an old frayed towel, trading his brass tuning hammer for a rawhide mallet. “Any idea where this one’s going? We got the order to prep it for final service on Sunday but nothing about moving it afterward.”

The old man smiled, picked up and began polishing the next communion chalice.

“Ok then,” Julian said quietly. He slid back onto the worn walnut bench and fingered out 'Heart and Soul.' Rich, honeyed tones filled the vaulted nave until his boot drove into the pedal. Instantly, the music collapsed—the sound sucked clean out of the room as an infrasonic roar rattled the rafters, dusting the chalices in white lime. The sacristan tapped his foot unperturbed as century-old plaster drifted through the shafts of dust.

With a dull groan of iron latchwork, the cathedral’s double oak portal drifted inward against the draft. A broad apron of low autumn sun cut across the worn flagstones, illuminating decades of limestone grit. The threshold stood empty.

Julian stood from the bench, brushing lime dust from his trousers. “Listen. Sorry I couldn’t get it completely tuned. The low C just refuses—”

“It sounds great. Thank you so much. It will be a truly glorious day. Going to miss the old girl.”

The organ tuner methodically wrapped his mallets in white cloth, gently placing them back inside his toolbox according to size. He shut the toolbox and turned to give the organ another lookover, slowly scanning the old machine from pedal to pipe and back again before turning and bidding the old man good day.

Under the yellow halogen deck flood, the surface of the Green River looked thicker than cold motor oil. The sound of the boat engine died away as Silas let the ferry float in place, letting the debris float by, an old highway sign for the Ferryman’s Road exit.

Ezra sat on the hood of his Ford pick-up, pulling his sherpa-lined trucker’s jacket a little tighter. Across the dark water, bullfrogs croaked from the riverbank shallows, their low calls competing with the dry rattle of cicadas in the willows.

“I usually don’t stop the ferry for those but that one looked pretty good size.” Silas grabbed a rock from a bowl by the steering wheel and tossed it at the sign, just missing. He threw a second. Metal rang sharp down the river canyon as Silas chuckled.

“That’s fine. I’m gonna be early as it is. Was trying to think of some ways to kill some time when I get down river.”

“Pretty funny it’s called Ferryman’s Road.”

“How’s that?”

“You don’t need a ferryman if you’re on a road.”

Ezra smiled. “No, I guess not.” He hopped down from the hood of his truck and walked over to the railing. Black water churned silent against the steel hull.

“So with the bridge, you get Ferryman Road. Without the bridge, you get me, a Ferryman.”

“How long has the bridge been out?”

“Since seventy-four,” Silas said. He turned the ignition key. The single-cylinder diesel coughed to life, drowning out the river frogs in a haze of exhaust. Raising his voice over the sporadic iron rattle and constant low hum, he said, 'Some nights you can still see the headlights of cars driving over like they was before, right where the road deck used to hang. I’m guessin’ it’s just reflections or something. Fog’ll play tricks on ya.”

Ezra nodded.

“None of my business but where you headed to?”

“Mason. My dad passed. Supposedly his land is now my land.”

“Oh my. Mason’s a booming town.”

“Yep. Already getting offers.”

The two men stood in silence for a moment.

Squinting, Ezra noted, “Maybe those headlights people see are stars. I think I see a few through the fog.”

“Maybe. Maybe. Maybe they’s ghosts.” Silas drew and held Ezra’s gaze for a few beats before he burst out laughing. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Almost to port if you want to hop in your truck.”

Black-and-white footage cycled through simple maps and footage from the featured area, kids playing, nuclear explosion, kids playing, plane crash, kids playing, tidal wave. Lewellyn grabbed the folded up map from his dashboard and stepped into the night, the sound of his idling engine filling the empty soundscape. Lewellyn turned his attention to the beam of light following it to the projection booth. An old man sat inside, light reflecting off his glasses hiding his eyes, rubbing pieces of foil together in front of a microphone. A faded sign below the booth read “For audio turn your dial to 1620 AM”.

Across the empty gravel parking lot from the projection booth, gnats swarmed the warm halogen bulbs that lit the concession stand. He unfolded his map as he made his way over to stand next to the window. The smell of burnt popcorn hung in the air. Inside, a young man’s face was lit by the glow of a small tv. Lewellyn tapped on the window. Harlan turned down the volume and turned to Lewellyn. “Sorry, the popcorn machine’s down. But if you want, I got a couple of bags and a microwave.”

“No, that’s quite alright. I’m just driving through and trying to find, well, it’s an old settlement. Got submerged when they electrified the region and built a dam. Would have been decades ago.”

“Ah, yep. One second, I’ll come down.”

Harlan hopped down from his stool behind the concession stand counter and made his way through a side door exit. Short in stature, Harlan hiked up his pants and walked over. “Let’s see whatcha got.”

Lewellyn lowered the map and pointed to a large body of water. “Admittedly, sleep deprivation may be getting the better of me. I believe it’s around here, but I’m not exactly sure where I’m at presently.”

“Ah, yep. You’re just on the northern edge of town here. You’re gonna want ta go south on the road you turned in here on and back down to FM320. It’s just past the travel plaza. Head east.”

“Thank you kindly. Reckon I’ll just hang out in my car until sunrise. Rest my eyes a bit. Say, I didn’t see anywhere to buy a ticket.”

“Oh it’s free. But like I say, our popcorn machine’s down. But if you want, I got a couple of bags and a microwave.”

“That’d be fine. I’ll take a bag please,” Lewellyn said, taking out a couple of ones from his wallet.

Back in the sedan, warm popcorn bag resting in his lap, Lewellyn dialed 1620 AM. Through the dash speaker, crushed foil crackled. On the faded screen, black-and-white reels cycled in silence: a lion tamer and his cats, a nuclear detonation, clowns on tricycles, a nuclear detonation, trapeze artists, a nuclear detonation.

Arthur dialed 555-0142 on the jukebox wheel, waited for the internal relay to click, and set his coffee mug on the counter as a rotary dial tone filled the room.

"That's a good one. Haven't heard it in a while," Hollis said, wiping a bit of coffee from his bushy mustache.

...Craig, it's Sal. The FBI is requesting the school board turn over the boll weevil mascot costume for evidence...

Arthur chuckled as Hollis smiled. Beyond the laminate countertop, a recorded thundercrack rattled the ceiling speakers, followed by a burst of taped applause. Down on lane 7, the mechanical sweep dropped into the dark, resetting pins that hadn’t been touched since the last patron stumbled home.

Arthur poured himself another cup of coffee, half from the orange carafe and half from the regular one. He raised his eyebrow at Hollis.

Hollis eyed his keys resting on the counter. "Ah, no. I'm good."

…Well, they don’t care if there's a championship game, Craig. There was blood all over the mask…

Another thundercrack followed by a round of applause laden with cheers.

“Five years ago, this time of night, it was standing room only. Praying everyone you were squished up against wore deodorant,” Hollis stared distantly into the blackness of his coffee.

“I reckon it’s time to close up for good. Thinking about selling the building and moving me and Sandy off to the Breas.”

“Don’t blame ya. Kudos for being the last one standing on Route 61.”

Arthur raised his mug. “I’ll drink to that!”

…Craig, there’s something else. When I got assigned this case, Laragua Falls was the last place I wanted to be, but then I met you, Craig…

The sound of air horns rattled the overhead speakers.

…Mrs. Powers! I didn’t know you were on the line. No, I know. I’m sorry. Craig is a married man. I understand that. We just got close working—I know, Mrs. Powers. Yes. The kids.—I’m sorry…

“I’ll miss this place. Some good times were had here,” Hollis said. He reached into his back pocket to pull out his wallet.

“Don’t worry about it, Hollis. This round was on the house.”

Hollis nodded and pushed through the glass double doors as Arthur reached behind the counter to flip the master switch, the recording cutting off mid cheer into silence.

“Why don’t we just do a burn like the ones yesterday?” Miller asked as Greg parked the truck outside the derelict switching relay station.

“I wish. This is an older relay. Surprised it’s still up and running at all honestly. But the old boards here don’t have any thermal resistance like the newer models. So we gotta do it the old fashioned way.”

Setting his toolbox down outside the station door, Greg tried the knob but felt some resistance as he was only able to push the door open an inch or two. He shook his head and rammed his shoulder into the barrier, the resistance giving way to a mostly dark room of blinking lights and low hums. Dust particles floated aimlessly through the air catching rays of light from the CRT monitors. Under a crust of soot and spongy green lichen, the monitors were rapidly cycling through topographical maps, none of them recognizable.

Miller coughed before putting on an N95 mask. “Geez,” he muttered through the filter. “Why is this place even in operation anymore?”

Greg, kneeling beside his open toolbox, raised his eyebrow, “Well, there’s still a population out here in Blackwood Cut. The last remnant of the Holdouts. Admin won’t upgrade ‘cause they’re still hoping these people ‘see the light’ and sell.”

Scraping the brittle bryophyta from the screens was time consuming but satisfying, the soft crunch as the moss released its grip from the plastics and the glass of the monitors almost always put Greg in a zenlike state. His moment interrupted as Miller scraped off the speakers, the hum growing almost deafeningly loud.

“I usually save those for last,” Greg said.

“Sorry. I’ll remember that next time.”

“It’s alright. Just cut the vines back from that row of switches over there and we’ll call it a day.”

With each slice through the xylem, the speakers whined a half step higher then lower, milky sap bubbling where the severed stems bridged the live copper leads. “Weird. Whoa, hey. Check this out.” Miller started slashing at the vines in a rhythm that Greg quickly identified as Beethoven’s Fur Elise.

With a self-satisfied grin, Miller turned back to a stone faced Greg.

“You done?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Think we got this place back to GE grade.”

“GE grade?”

“Good Enough.”

The attendant pushed his broom through a wake of green sawdust, stopping occasionally to tap coin returns with the brass head of a flashlight. Catching his reflection in the dryer window of drum 19, he took a moment to straighten his bowtie and rake a small mustache comb through his pure white mustache knocking a few crumbs loose.

Samara fumbled with the corners of her fitted sheet, glancing up at the clock precisely at the moment it flipped from 2:14 AM to 2:15 AM. She’d been at it for 3 hours. “This sure would be easier with a second person,” she said aloud to no one in particular.

“Ope.” The attendant turned around as fast as his old bones would allow. “Coming! Coming!”

Samara watched the minutes tick by as the attendant shuffled over.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize we had any patrons, or I would have been over much more quickly.”

“No worries at all,” she told him. “I’m just having fitted sheet issues.”

The attendant squinted in the general direction of Samara’s sheet. He pulled a pair of thick rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket that magnified his eyes tenfold. His face scrunched in perplexity behind the thick lenses. He pointed his flashlight at the sheet, not adding much light to the already extremely bright overhead fluorescent lighting.

“I’m afraid I won’t be much help. We’re not allowed to help with the patrons’ laundry. Union rules. Now if you’re having any issues with any of the machines themselves, I’d be more than happy to help or at least point you to someone who could help you. Are you having any problems with any of the machines?”

“No problem with the machines—”

A loud banjo tune abruptly emanated from drum 14 causing Samara and the attendant to raise their voices. Still smiling. Still maintaining a matched politeness.

“THE NEW MACHINES ARE NICE. THE OLD MACHINES KEPT GIVING ME OTHER PEOPLE’S LAUNDRY.”

The attendant smiled. “THE NEWS ARTICLES ABOUT PEOPLE’S CLOTHES DISAPPEARING FROM THEIR HOMES AND WINDING UP HERE REALLY WAS A BOON FOR BUSINESS!”

The banjo tune dissolved into a chorus of wet bullfrogs and cicadas. Deep inside the drum, two-man crosscut saws tore through old cedar, men shouting “Timber!” over the hiss of exhaust as the strings struck up again.

“YOU KNOW, I THINK I’LL JUST TAKE THE FITTED SHEET HOME AND FOLD IT THERE.”

“I DON’T BLAME YOU ONE BIT!” the attendant called out, extending his hand.

Samara wadded up the fitted sheet and threw it in her laundry basket before reaching deep in her pocket and pulling out a handful of quarters. She placed them in the attendant’s hand.

Looking back as she exited into the humid night, she could see the attendant shuffling toward drum 14, quarters clinking in his palm, excited to purchase another twenty minutes of pine forest.

Raymond logged line 408 under 'ambient weather,' stamped the sheet in purple ink, and slid the headphones off one ear. He sighed before taking a quick sip of his lukewarm and stale coffee knowing it would be quite some time before he sat at his desk again. The buttons on the reel to reel made satisfying clicks as he pressed and depressed them. He clicked the release, drew the spool off its spindle, and taped the leader flap against the rim before dropping it into a tin canister. Hobbling over to the box marked “FOR DIGITIZATION” he debated whether this would be the last reel or if he could fit a few more. He sealed the cardboard flaps with brown tape, slapped a shipping tag across the seam, and scrawled ‘Northeast Station’ in purple ink. 

Back at his desk, Raymond slid his headphones on, glad to be shielded from the arrhythmic hum of the fluorescent light bulbs. Looking over the lines of green text on the old CRT monitor, he landed on line 236 ‘lighthouse repair hotline’. For as much as he grumbles, he had to admit seniority has its perks. A new reel in place, he depressed the buttons bringing the reel up to speed and hit record. Through the headset beyond the 400 Hz  tone he heard seagulls squawking and waves lapping, two voices drifting in and out of the static talking about leaving the phone off the cradle to buy an hour’s peace.

Raymond closed his eyes and was almost relaxed when the smell of raw sewage seeped in from the nearby facilities. Another trek up to maintenance to let them know. The Archive of Unclaimed Dial Tones kept no active phones on site. Admin claimed trainees would confuse internal versus external dial tones or that there might be cross contamination in the recordings, but Raymond knew they were just being cheap.

Five flights of stairs later, the sign on the maintenance door read ‘Sorry! Be back later.’