Episode 1 – Introduction

“For those who would enjoy the outdoors, the Hayward geological region of Wisconsin is perhaps one of the finest locations in all of the nation, due to its almost over abundance of clean, clear lakes, its deep forests, and its rolling green hills, all of which, are glacial in origin.”
–Midwest Historical Surveyors Organization, 1906

skulls and bones
and trailer homes
grow like trees in Hayward
if you find
you’ve lost your mind
your path may have gone wayward
your path may have just led to Hayward
your path may have just led to Hayward
–American folk song

“Rolling into Hayward, one feels the same sensation of adventure which surely must have filled the early fur trappers and traders of the years gone by. Whether one is a fifteen year old boy intent on catching his first muskie, a sixteen year old girl hoping for her first summer crush, a wife intent on procuring the finest fudge or quilts for her neatly ordered home, or a jocular husband in need of respite (and perhaps a martini!) from the drudgery of providing for the other three, Hayward offers a Paradise of escape, excitement, and of course, entertainment. All home grown, all natural, all Wisconsin fun, is just around the bend in…Hayward.” Lowell threw the travel brochure over his shoulder into the backseat. His wife’s photo threw a scold at his clean shaven profile as he drove up the final hill on their approach to Hayward.

“Why do you have to mock everything?” she had often asked.

“Mock everything?” he’d say back to her, exactly as she had said it to him.

“Oh brother!” she’d reply, before laughing heartily. Her Lowell sure was a hoot. “Lowell is droll. Lowell is droll,” she’d say over and over. In his his head, he heard her say, “I guess that pamphlet does sound like it was written from about forty years ago.”

“Maybe it was,” Lowell said, out loud, to no one.

Lowell turned left into the parking lot of the Safe Haven. A convenience store and gas station endemic to Wisconsin (and branching out with trepidation into the unfamiliar territories of Minnesota and the upper peninsula of Michigan), a Safe Haven was guaranteed to be clean, stocked up on hot coffee and food to go, and most importantly to Lowell, open. “When you’re on the road as much as I am,” he said, (again to no one) “sometimes you just want something familiar.”

Lowell parked his reasonably reliable car in front of the store, opened the door and started the slow climb out of a seat he’d been sitting in for a few too many hours, a few too many miles. He stretched miserable legs and looked up at the forever night of Wisconsin’s sky and found the north star, a habit of his since childhood. Finding his answer, he walked to the store entrance, a pair of opposite doors, one marked “Safe” and the other, “Haven.”

“Well now, there’s a face I haven’t seen for awhile,” came a pleasantly drawled salutation from behind the checkout counter. Lowell knew without looking it had come from Murray. Tall and serene, Murray was at peace with working the overnight shift at Safe Haven. In his forties Murray had made peace with quite a few things and equanimity goes a long way at three in the morning.

“Hello Murray,” said Lowell. “What’s new?”

Murray paused. It was understood between the two men that this wasn’t just small talk between a clerk and customer, this was a sincere question and Murray wanted to give it a sincere response. Murray blinked, as he did whenever truly thinking, and with deliberation he said, “There’s a new school since you’ve been here last.” He thought some more. “There are several new schools since you’ve been here last. And a pool. We have a new pool.” Murray looked to the side, as if more answers might be there. Seeing none, he smiled and added, “I won’t ask what’s new with you old friend, I know better.”

Lowell smiled and knew it was true. He said to Murray, “I just come up from Boardman.”

“And how are things in Boardman?” asked Murray, blandly.

“Still the same,” answered Lowell. “Always a circus of sorts.”

Murray sighed, saying, “Isn’t it though? I suppose, it’s to be expected.”

The two men regarded each other for a still moment, in comfort and patience, their eyes scanning their faces, checking for the changes which come with age, experience, stress, time. Finding none, they nodded to one another in benediction. “Coffee’s fresh,” said Murray.

Lowell walked past the shelf lined with hard liquor and approached the coffee station. Finding the darkest brew he could, he began pouring. To his right he saw a crumpled overcoat and the smelly man in it, walk up to the liquor shelf, waveringly. The drunk stood unbalanced, trying to find the cheap stuff. Murray came over.

“Right there friend, bottom shelf, to your left,” said Murray, not kindly or rudely, just evenly. The man was a drunk and chastising him wasn’t changing his place in the universe. Murray understood. Better to help him on his quest and let him be on his way. He wasn’t driving, Murray knew. The man lived in the God forsaken apartment complex built fifty yards from the Safe Haven. He’d made what Murray knew all too well was a most dreadful fifty yard walk in order to fortify his blood alcohol level before passing out. He’d made the dreadful fifty yard walk to make sure there’d be some booze for the morning, after he’d passed out.

The drunk’s head swayed, his balance dangerously threatened by his search for the right bottle.

“No friend, your other left,” Murray coached him, gently. “Next to the red bottle there on the bottom.”

Trying his other left, the drunk had more success and this also assisted him with finding his balance. His head zeroed in on a plastic jug of what purported to be some kind of vodka and he coaxed his left arm out, reaching for his temporary salvation. Grasping it, his balance was once again threatened and for a moment it seemed as if the entire shelf might be required to break his fall. But a firm hand, attached incongruously to a thin wrist planted itself on his shoulder. Seeking comprehension, the drunk looked up the hand and then up the wrist into the doleful eyes of Lowell. Lowell looked at the drunk with some of the same measure of evenness with which Murray had spoken. “You okay sir?” asked Lowell.

“T-t-thank you,” the drunk managed to say carefully, not wanting anyone to know he’d been drinking. Lowell nodded to him and let go of his shoulder. Holding his coffee in his other hand Lowell watched as the drunk staggered to the counter.

“$7.99,” said Murray, like glass. Murray blinked as the drunk tried to remember which pocket his wallet was in. Murray waited calmly while the drunk tried both of his jacket’s side pockets and then the inside pocket. Finding nothing the drunk patted the front pockets of his pants. He looked up at Murray, pleading for pity. Ever the gas station monk, Murray said politely, “Back pocket.”

The drunk’s eyes lit up with holy fire as he realized a miracle had been granted to him: He had back pockets! He eagerly sought his Holy Grail and found it in one of them. With apostolic zeal he lifted his wallet out from the pocket and from under his jacket and presented it to Murray, his hand shaking badly, his eyebrows knitted into a mountain of hope.

Murray understood immediately. In his current state the man was not able to open his wallet let alone finger out dollars. Murray gracefully plucked the wallet from the drunk’s hand and opened it up. He carefully and broadly counted out enough dollars for the transaction and then handed the wallet back to drunk.

Lowell understood that Murray hadn’t done this for the drunk’s benefit, it was likely the drunk wouldn’t even remember having gone to the Safe Haven–there was no way he was going to remember Murray counting out the money. No, Murray had done all of this in full view of one of the many security cameras positioned through out the store. Safe Havens really were safe, their security precautions precluded all but the dumbest stickup men from visiting them (no matter the hour). If the drunk came back the next day claiming Murray had ripped him off (the drunk having forgotten how much money he’d come with), Murray’s innocence would be testified to by the camera gods. Not that Murray was in any way worried by this, it was just a hassle he could avoid with a little piece of effort.

Murray put the jug of poison into a plastic bag and, tilting his head in a parental way, said to the drunk, “It’s probably best to get home before opening this friend.” He held the bag of treasure just out of the reach. The drunk looked up at the tall saint and nodded. Murray gave him the bag and as the drunk turned to leave, Murray recited the Safe Haven motto, “See you again…hopefully.”

Lowell watched through the glass door as the drunk careened into the brick lining the facade of the store, bumping his way down the sidewalk until he was met with the challenge of the parking lot and its wild west expansion. Exiting past the last of the parking lot street lights, the drunk disappeared, his apartment complex somewhere in the void. Turning toward Murray, Lowell asked, “Ever get tired of it?”

Murray blinked. Again searching for a real answer to a real question. “No. I don’t. That man has his own space, his own role to fill, I suppose.” Murray was looking inward now. “I don’t understand it but, I’m not sure it’s my responsibility to understand it.”

“I understand he’s a drunk,” said Lowell.

“And we both understand how hard that can be my friend–being a drunk.” Murray and Lowell regarded each other for a long moment before Murray added, “Am I right?”

Lowell went and grabbed a few more items from the shelves. He tried, unsuccessfully to stay away from the candy aisle. Drinking his coffee, he felt it trickle down the dryness of his throat. He’d been chain smoking on his drive here, a terrible habit of his. He wasn’t normally much for smoking but car trips, road trips of any length, they seemingly gave him permission to burn his lungs out. And he had.

His free hand clutching bags of colored sugar and his arm braced against his torso, Lowell approached the checkout counter. He released the bags to Murray, who gave a knowing smile.

“I called Sentry over at the Drive In Motel, you know he never sleeps anyway…told him you were back. He’s getting a suite ready for you.”

“A ‘suite?’” said Lowell. “That’s a little generous, isn’t it?”

Murray blinked. He waited. After a moment he said, “Yes, I suppose. But this is Hayward L.W., and for Hayward, at least this part of it, it’s a suite.” He said it factually, it being true. For Hayward (at least this part of it) any place with anything more than a bed and toilet, was a suite. That hadn’t changed. It never would. Not in this part of town. “There’s always the casino my friend,” added Murray, but not with any measure of optimism, optimism not being a feeling he ever experienced in his current state of being.

Lowell grunted. “We both know I don’t go there, unless I’m invited.” At this, Murray smiled a bit. He did know. He bagged Lowell’s items up and took his card to charge it all. “Receipt?”

“Always,” said Lowell.

“Always a receipt,” said Murray. “Always a receipt.”

Bags in one hand and his coffee in the other, Lowell nodded to Murray and pushed open the Haven door.

“See you again,” said his old friend Murray. Watching Lowell climb into his reasonable car he added, “Hopefully.”

 

II – WELCOME TO THE MOTEL HAYWARD, SUCH A DRUDGY PLACE, SUCH A PUDGY FACE

Lowell looked into the mirror. He liked to think he looked thin and worn, pale, taut, intense. But he really had no idea what he looked like. He did know what his “suite” looked like–it looked like someone had carved out one fourth of a trailer home from the seventies and inserted it into a motel. The wood paneling was splintering off of the building’s frame. And the carpeting, which he remembered as having been orange, was worn to a burnt brown. The dresser was an avocado green and the wardrobe was an Easter purple. The Drive In Motel’s owner, Sentry, hadn’t even met him when he arrived, he’d simply left a key in the door, having indicated Lowell’s room by turning on a light. None of this was new to either of them though, and he found some comfort in the familiarity of routine.

Lowell scanned down on the second bed. As was his custom whenever he booked into a double room, he’d thrown all of his bags on the second bed, keeping them off of the floor. He creased his eyes and felt the nicotine coating them. Lord he was tired! He’d made his calls, he’d check in with Chicago, and he was as unpacked as he need to be. The sun rising diligently in the backdrop told him it was time to lay down, time to ease his road driven mind, time to sleep, time to dream.

He had business in Hayward, the kind of business best done with a clear, well rested mind, there being no room for error in his line of work.

Lowell stretched himself out along the mattress and looked at the black suitcase opened on the other bed. He shook his head. People just never understood these things. Not really. For all of the talk, all of the explanations, the false prophets, the false religions…it all really came down to good and evil.

Good and evil were not of the universe, not of the Milky Way, and they were not of the earth. Good and evil were of man, humanity, men and women, boys and girls…people…it was in each of them, each of us, in everyone…everywhere you found people, you found good and evil, sometimes in different quantities, sometimes hidden, sometimes in full glorious view…but there nonetheless.

Lowell looked at the tools and equipment in his suitcase, watched as the blinking light from the Drive In Motel vacancy sign flashed upon them in unwavering rhythm. He thought it reminded him of that ol’ universe being born, light flashing out from the void in the creation beyond human comprehension. Nicotine and caffeine could still do this to him mused Lowell–make his craziest thoughts seem almost lucid, almost ordered, almost sane. He felt his lips spread to something like a smile and his eyes saw God give birth to everything one last time before his eyelids closed.

“Lowell is droll, Lowell is droll,” he murmured, in his sleep.

NEXT CHAPTER: THE WOLVES OF SPOONER DON’T HOWL, THEY BLOW