Small Town Bachelor Expanded Version

By Delbert Blanton

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• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 25, 2009
• ISBN: 9781449025182

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© 2009 Delbert Blanton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 9/21/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4490-2518-2 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-2517-5 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009909210

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Greetings from Kokomo, Indiana!!!

Preface 

Like Rousseau’s Memoir, Small Town Bachelor is a dramatization, an embellished work, reality sprinkled with illusion, a hybrid of fact and fiction. Similarly, like Moses leading the Hebrews out of bondage from Egypt, Small Town Bachelor is a mix between real events and the stories that evolved from the real events. The Exodus did happen, but the parting of the Red Sea did not, at least not by the hand of God with 50 foot walls of water on each side. (If you are still debating this, you should find a different book to read.) To write a completely fictitious book would require a completely different world, characters that never did exist, non-human creatures in a world yet to be discovered. Of course, science fiction best represents this genre. Objective History would be the other end of the genre spectrum. Adolf Hitler ruled Germany during WWII. This is an example. However, a lot of writing after this fact can be debated because the writing is funneled through a human being. Even Ayn Rand’s statement in Atlas Shrugged that A=A is not completely correct. This implies that there are perfectly straight lines, but all lines bend if extended into infinity. Anyway, how can Alyssia Rosenbaum (Ayn Rand) write 100 percent objective truth in a fictitious book? The truth for 90 percent of writing is that the writing is a mix of real events and the writer’s bias (journalism) or intent (novelist.) So, Historical Fiction, such as the Old Testament, Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey (and yes, there was a real city called Troy) and Tolstoy’s War and Peace, is somewhere between these two lofty aspirations, pure subjective fiction and pure objective truth. I acknowledge this gray area, and, because I acknowledge this gray area, I am writing the truth. It is the writer who doesn’t acknowledge this gray area who is here to deceive. I am not here to deceive. I am here to place bits of truth within my story. It is for the reader to order these bits of truth and their order will be according to their bias, their intentions, their a priori knowledge. Small Town Bachelor is a brief piece of literature about my life. It is similar to Jack Kerouac’s On The Road or a Bruce Springsteen song. You know there is some truth in there and that the events did happen but you are not sure it happened just like you are reading or hearing it. The examples of hybrid content are myriad. Science fiction is not for me. History is not for me. I consider each to be unobtainable. Literature is the in-between, the place where we don’t want our lives but the place where we know our lives really exist, the place of art.

Delbert Blanton

The word incredulous is used instead of the word skeptical, in reverence to the writer F. Scott Fitzgerald who repeated the word incredulous in The Great Gatsby. This writer and this book seduced me into a life of reading.

A criticism of my writing is that I often quote other writers. I do this in order to give a premise if my thoughts are a reaction to the quoted writer. Sometimes I agree. Sometimes I disagree. All thoughts are reactions to other thoughts. Within the text, I credit words and thoughts of others. The only exception is the Bible and Shakespeare. Sometimes I leave this book and this writer unanchored in knowledge. Shakespeare borrowed more than any writer born. The Bible is mythos. The truth is that no comprehensive work is 100 percent original. There can be original thoughts within the work but pure creation is also a myth. This is similar to there being no pure fiction or pure history.

Dedicated to Jerry

Part One

Chapter One 

The Place, Jerry, The Meeting, The Date, Ida May, Stick Miller, Surprise Nuptials And The Escape

Hello everyone! I am Delbert, and I live in Kokomo, Indiana. Kokomo is 50 miles north of Indianapolis on U.S. 31. It’s a town of about 50 thousand. There are two big factories in Kokomo. One is Delphi Electronics which makes stereos, electronic sensors and other gadgets for automobiles. They mainly supply General Motors, but I’m sure in today’s international world of capitalism, they sell a few products to Toyota, and maybe even Al-Qaida.

The other big factory is DaimlerChrysler Corporation. This is where I work. We make transmissions. I make the rear carrier for the 604 front wheel drive automatic transmission. That is about all I know. I know my job well, but I know little else about cars, trucks, engines, transmissions or the company. They say the Germans own us now, Daimler, but I have never seen one, a German, except for my friend, Jerry. Jerry is German, but he was born here in Indiana, just north of Kokomo in Miami County. I guess that makes him German-American. I’m Appalachian-American because my parents came from the Appalachian Mountains in Harlan County, Kentucky. Jerry and I meet while we are working in department 9100. I am 23, and Jerry is around 40. I am a new hire at Chrysler and work on the assembly line. Jerry has been with the company for several years. He builds valve bodies.

It is floating around the department that I graduated from Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana. This intrigues some people, but it pisses Jerry off. Jerry doesn’t like IU. Jerry is a Purdue University fan. His brother played basketball for Purdue. His nephew plays for the Purdue football team. Jerry has a problem with his brain that makes him ask several questions in succession before getting an answer to his first. Jerry approaches me and starts his interrogation. He asks me why I am working on the assembly line when I have a college degree. He asks me why I am not in supervision. He asks me if I know this person or that person. He asks me why I don’t move to Chicago or Phoenix or Denver. He says these cities are hubs for college graduates looking for work. He asks me if I have a girlfriend.

Not right now, I answer quickly, getting in a word.

This freezes Jerry. He ponders.

Hey, hey, would you like to meet my neighbor? He responds.

What does she look like? I wonder.

She’s tall like you, not bad looking. Jerry says.

What’s her number? I’ll give her a call. I say.

Again, Jerry freezes.

Hey, you give me your number and I will have her call you. Jerry says.

I have always been an easy going person, pliable and naïve. Strangely, the assembly line stops, a problem. I quickly jot down my phone number and give the piece of paper to Jerry. The assembly line starts back up, and Jerry darts away.

That Saturday, I get a phone call.

Is this Mr. Delbert? A female voice asks.

I wonder why she is calling me Mr. Delbert?

Yes, I answer.

Hi. I’m Ida May, Jerry’s neighbor. I’m not suppose to use a phone. Ida May says.

I don’t know how to respond to this.

Would you like to meet me? She contiues.

Sure, where do you live? I’ll come by and pick you up. I answer.

No. I’m not allowed to be in cars. We’re coming to town tonight. How ‘bout we come by to see you? She says.

Whose we? I ask.

Me and my daddy, Ida May says.

How old are you? I ask.

Twenty one, she says.

What have I gotten myself into? I might as well see it through. I give Ida May my address. I sit around trying to figure out the mystery. Is Jerry her father? She said she wasn’t allowed to be in a car, but they are coming to town tonight. Are they going to walk to Kokomo from Miami County? And Jerry, this coworker, what is up with this dude? Hell, I barely know the man. Why did I give him my phone number and agree to this blind date?

I watch a football game and a couple hours pass as I wonder about Ida May, Jerry and the strange phone conversation. Outside, in the distance, I hear a sound. One that I have heard before, but one I don’t recognize.

Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip–clop, clip––—clop, clip––––clop, clip–––––––––CLOP!

I raise the blinds and look outside my window. I see a horse and a black buggy. Two people are inside. It hits me like a great discovery. This is my date.

Oh my God! She’s Amish! I scream.

I let the blinds slam against the window pane. I stand in shock. I raise the blinds again. There they sit in that black buggy, the horse jerking its head around. I see a snoopy neighbor make her way out on her porch. Another neighbor pokes their head out. I’ve got to do something. I walk outside. The horse gives a loud nay and jerks its head. Then………it takes a dump. A huge, solid piece of horse shit bounces off the street. Out pops a middle sized man about 50 years old. He wears some gray bib overhauls and a black hat with a stiff, hard bill that circumvents his head. He has a short gray beard that is cut along his chin and a bare upper lip, no mustache. He is a pilgrim. He has ridden his buggy through time, straight from Mayflower to my front door.

Hi ya! Hi ya! Don’t worry about tat. Don’t’ worry about tat. The Amish man says.

How he knew the horse took a shit is a mystery to me. The Amish man reaches inside his buggy and pulls out a miniature short handled shovel. He scoops up the log of horse shit like a short stop backhanding a baseball hit in the hole. He dumps the log in a bucket in the back of the buggy. He wipes his hands on a rag and rushes over to me, reaching out his hand. We shake.

Hi ya, I’m Stick Miller. I live next door to Jarry. You work with Jarry, right? You’re Delbert, right? Stick Miller asks.

Yes, I answer.

Good, good. This is good. It’s a beautiful day. Isn’t it? Stick says. She’s inside. You want to see her?

I look and see a woman inside the buggy. She’s huge, all cramped up and hunched over. If this is an auction, there is no one around to out bid me.

Yea, uh, sure. I say, completely lost.

Stick goes over and opens the buggy door. Out steps Ida May. When she straightens up, she has to be six feet two. She is not heavy, but she’s not thin. She’s a power forward, big and sturdy, big shoulders, big hands, big feet, and………big breasts. I’m sure she could kick my ass. Ida May has blondish, brown hair that is tied up and sits beneath a white bonnet. She has on a button down, long sleeve gray shirt and a long gray skirt with black boots. She might look good in Broad Ripple. Maybe I could take her to this artsy Indianapolis community and get her a tattoo above her huge ass.

Hello, I say.

Please to meet you, Mr. Delbert. Ida May says in very good English.

She must have finished the eighth grade.

I look at Ida May and Ida May looks down at the ground.

Ya, ya, this is good. This is good. Stick says. You kids want to get something to eat?

Now Ida May looks up and gives me a little smile.

Sure, I say.

I look over at my car, and I look back at Stick. He gives me a frown.

Let’s take the buggy. He says.

Could I? Would I? If I say no, I will go back inside and watch another football game. If I say yes, I might do an Amish woman. I give a wave to all my snoopy neighbors and hop in the buggy.

Let’s go Betsy. Stick says and gives the reins a snap.

Betsy the horse starts a trot. I sit in front with Stick. Big Ida May is scrunched up in the back.

Daddy, it’s crowded back here. Ida May says.

Ah, ya, let’s move the bench up. Stick says in his German accent.

He reaches for a lever beneath the bench, and we pull our hind ends forward. The bench snaps into place.

This is a new buggy. It has all the modern stuff. Stick says.

I’m a good sport and conversationalist, but I have no idea what to say. Sensing I’m in shock, Stick does all the talking as Ida May and I sit quietly.

So you work at Chrysler? Stick offers as he turns Betsy onto Washington, the busiest street in Kokomo.

Yes, I work at Chrysler. I answer.

Cars and trucks back up behind us. Betsy trots along. The cars and trucks slowly pull around the Amish horse and buggy. No one honks. The Amish are not a strange site on the streets of Kokomo. For me, though, this is a new view. I am inside the buggy.

Do you like factory work? Stick asks.

It’s ok. I say.

Have you ever raised a barn? Stick asks.

I glance over.

You’re kind of skinny. Stick says to me.

Yes, I guess so. I answer.

Don’t you eat much? Stick asks.

Daddy, don’t ask him stuff like that. Sorry, Mr. Delbert. Daddy asks a lot of questions. Ida May says.

Now, Ida May might not be the best thing to look at but she’s a good cook and that looks like what you need, a good cook to fatten you up some, and she’s strong, can chop a cord of wood in a couple hours. This will come in handy when having babies…..a strong woman. Don’t want no skinny woman for babies. I guess you’re the skinny one. Stick says, and gives a chuckle.

Daddy, please! Ida May says, raising her voice.

OK, why don’t you two talk? Stick says.

I don’t know what to say so I look out the side window. For some strange reason, my sister Debbie is in her car in the next lane. I lean forward in excitement and knock on the window.

Oh! Debbie! Debbie! I scream.

What is it? Stick asks.

My sister is next to us. I say.

You want her to come along? Stick asks.

No, no. I………… was just surprised. I say

The light turns green. Debbie looks up at the buggy. At the sight of me, she lets out a shriek and veers to her right almost hitting the car in the far right hand lane. Debbie straightens our her car and pulls away on Washington Street as Stick turns the buggy left onto Markland Avenue. I am alone again with the Amish.

Let’s go to Noble Romans. I like their breadsticks. Stick says.

He trots Betsy up Markland Avenue towards the Markland Mall. The front right wheel makes a thump with each revolution. Strangely, I notice an orange electrical cord on the floor. I keep my mouth shut.

Noble Romans is in the mall parking lot next to Sears. Stick guides Betsy into a spot far away from any cars. I get out and Stick gets out and Ida May climbs over the bench somehow. She is big, agile, a good athlete. We could make some huge babies.

Inside, we take a booth. Ida May sits on the side with her dad. If I look at her, she looks away. Shy, I guess. We order some breadsticks, and Stick starts up again.

Now, my granddad raised Big Ben. Stick says.

Big Ben? I wonder.

Ya, ya, Big Ben, Stick says again.

You mean the cow in Highland Park? I ask.

Stick gives me an incredulous, condescending look

We gelded Big Ben, Stick says.

My balls tighten. I look at Stick.

Big Ben was a steer, not a cow, Sticks says, giving me a little frown, firmly realizing that I am a city boy.

A picture comes into my mind, Big Ben, the world’s largest steer, weighing over 5000 pounds, and an incredible 16 feet long. In 1910, Big Ben slipped on some ice and broke his leg. He was put to death and his stuffed body resides in Highland Park in Kokomo, Indiana, minus what must have been the biggest balls in the world.

Are you sure? I thought those people were named Murphy. I say.

Ya, ya, I’m sure. The Murphy’s are on my mother’s side. We still have some of the meat from Big Ben. Stick says.

Ida May giggles. The waitress brings our drinks.

I thought he was raised in Howard County. I say.

No, no. Miami County. On our farm. Come on out sometime, and I’ll show you. Why, we could ride out tonight. Stick says.

I think I have ridden enough in the black buggy. I only like horses from a distance, like when they are racing in the Kentucky Derby. I think I want to go back to my car.

Excuse me. I need to go to the restroom. I say.

When a man’s got to go, a man’s got to go. Stick says and Ida May giggles.

Of course, I don’t have to piss. In the restroom, I splash some water on my face and look in the mirror. I just need some reflection. I need to know if this is real or some dream. I go into the stall and get some paper and blow my nose. I go back and look in the mirror. I blast out laughing. HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! This Jerry guy is a real trip, setting me up on a blind date with an Amish woman. I open the door to leave and see Ida May standing in the hallway against the wall.

What’s so funny in there? She starts.

Uh, what are you doing here? I ask.

I wanted to see you. She says.

I was coming right back. I say.

Ida May is not shy. Ida May takes a step forward. I’m 6’4" and she is looking me straight in the eyes. She takes another step forward, pressing her giant breasts gently into me. Ida May has me pinned.

We can’t talk out there in front of daddy. She says.

Uh, look, let’s just go back to the table, ok? I say.

I duck down beneath the giant breasts and squirm away. I walk back to the booth and take my seat. A moment later, Ida May shows. She sits next to her daddy. The waitress brings the breadsticks, and things get extra weird.

Would you like a little wine with your bread? Stick asks me.

They sell wine here? I ask.

I don’t know. I brought some home brew. Stick says.

He reaches into one of the many pockets on his bib overhauls and pulls out a wine sack.

This is made of goat skin. Stick says.

He points the nozzle towards his open mouth and squeezes the wine sack together. A stream of red wine shoots into the back of his throat. He passes it over to me. I hold the goat sack and give it a strange look as I feel Ida May’s big boot going up my leg.

Easy, I say.

Yea, that’s right, easy. You don’t want to shoot too much in. Stick says.

It feels good. I say, holding the goat sack.

Ida May gives me a little smile.

Now, that’s real goat skin. Stick says.

Where did you get it? I ask.

I bought it up in Shipshewana, ya, ya. It’s been very good to me. Go ahead. Have a squirt……..ah, wait, have some bread first. Stick says.

Ida May takes the top of her boot and rubs it on the inside of my leg. She must be double jointed. Now, when I look at her, she smiles big, like Betsy the horse. I look at Stick to make sure he isn’t smiling. Stick holds a breadstick out towards me and I break off a piece. I take a bite and chew it up and swallow. Then, I hold the goat sack up and squirt some red wine into my mouth. They watch me intensely. I take another squirt of red wine and hand the goat sack back to Stick.

Ah ha! There you go my boy! It’s almost done! Stick says and slaps his knee.

Yea, yea, daddy! Ida May says.

What’s almost done? I ask.

Now, just sit tight, my boy, ya, ya, it’s almost done, ya, ya. Stick says.

I don’t like Stick calling me my boy. Stick stands up and pulls a Bible out of another pouch on his bib overhauls. He opens the Bible and starts reading out loud in a foreign language. It sounds like a harsh yodel.

Is that German? I ask Ida May.

It’s Beachy, a German dialect, like Pennsylvania Dutch. We use it for all wedding ceremonies. She says.

I cock my head and give a small, incredulous smile.

Who’s getting married? I ask.

Why, we are silly. She says.

I look at Stick, and I look at Ida May. I slowly cock my head back towards Stick, and it hits me. These Amish people are fucking serious!

Hey, wait a minute. Hold up. I say to Stick.

Stick lowers the Bible and looks at me.

What’s wrong, my boy? He asks.

What’s going on here? I ask him.

I’m marrying you two so you can come to church with us where we can get a Deacon to give us a proper wedding. You’ll be accepted into the church. You won’t be an Englishman anymore. You’ll be one of us. You’ll be Amish, ya, ya. Stick explains.

Are you crazy? I never said anything about getting married, and I’m not an Englishman! I say, raising my voice.

Everyone is an Englishman except us, and Jarry said you wanted to get married. That’s why we made this long trip into town. Stick says.

He’s going to leave, daddy, make him stay. He said he was going to marry me! Ida May screams.

She scoots out of the booth and stands up in the aisle. She’s huge, 6’2, 200. I might weigh 170. My body shakes as I stand up in the aisle and we square off. People glance over their shoulders to get a look. I hear laughter. Ida May is going to kick my ass.

"Listen, I’m not marrying you! I’m not marrying anyone!" I shout looking at Ida May, then to Stick.

Now, my boy, you ate the bread and drank the wine. That’s telling our Lord that you are ready to get married, ya, ya. Stick says.

Stick grits on me hard. My balls shrivel up. I don’t want to marry any woman and I don’t want to be like Big Ben. I decide to make a run for it.

Hey, I’m out of here. I say.

Ida May gives me a stare. I brush past her and she gives me a shoulder in the chest. I bump into a table and knock over a pitcher of coke. The cooks come up front. They gyrate up and down and smack their bellies. I hustle by the counter and out the door. I start running towards the Markland Mall. A car pulls up beside me.

Hey, what’s going on? Someone says.

I turn and see it’s my sister Debbie.

Let’s get out of here! I scream and jump in her car.

Was that you in that horse and buggy on Washington Street? She asks.

Yea, I answer.

What were you doing? She wonders.

It’s a long story, Debbie. Let’s get out of here before they catch us. I say.

Before who catches us? She asks.

The Amish people! They’re after me! Let’s go! I shout.

Chapter Two 

Back At Work, Jerry The Athlete, The Secret Of Stick Miller, A Myth Revealed, And A Strange Offer

I head back to work at Chrysler. I stand on the assembly line. I don’t stand next to the assembly line. I stand on the assembly line. The Line moves through me, my exterior, my realm, my spirit. It is a J-Bar assembly line. The transmission sits inside an iron J. The iron J is painted orange. It is locked into a position. There are 55 J-Bars that are next to each other on The Line. A chain overhead moves the J-Bars with the transmissions slowly past us workers so we can do our jobs. Some workers use levers to move the J-Bar to different positions. This allows the worker easier access to the transmission. The Line creeps along. It moves slowly, and I move slowly. We are sure of ourselves, me and The Line. I’ve got to come to terms with The Line or The Line will take my mind and my spirit. I do the same movements over and over and someone gets a new car. This is the itemization of labor. This is capitalism. The Line is not far away, only inches from my physical body. It is far away from my special place, the place that makes my atoms different from the atoms in the iron. For some people, this is God, their connection to God, their soul. For me, it is art. Or, I should write, the part of me that wants to create, the part of me that reaches for art. It is the part of me that cannot be quantified. It is my essence. If The Line gets this, I am dead.

Not far from me, Jerry is working. He is working off the assembly line. He is sitting at a table building valve bodies. The valve bodies will go to a worker on The Line. With each pass of a J-Bar, a worker will insert a valve body into a transmission. Jerry’s back is to me. Near break, he gets up and gets some coffee. He walks over to me and stands next to me on The Line.

How was your date? Jerry starts.

What the hell was that about? I return sharply.

What? He asks.

Why didn’t you tell me she was Amish? I counter.

Would you have gone? Jerry wonders.

I look at Jerry. We both know the answer.

That Stick guy tried to have some Amish wedding ceremony right there in Noble Romans! I say.

Hey, you didn’t have to take communion. You could have said no. Jerry says.

I didn’t know I was taking communion! I shout. How do you know about that anyway?

They told me. He says.

You talked to these people? I ask.

I talk to those people every day. They’re my people. He says.

You’re Amish? I ask.

Not anymore, Jerry says.

You use to be? I ask.

When I was a kid, Jerry says.

What are you doing? Covering their ass for them? You still could have told me. I say.

I thought we solved this problem. You wouldn’t have gone on the date. Jerry says.

What are you saying? I ask.

It was good for you. Jerry says.

I am lost. Jerry is either a fucking genius or a fucking idiot. I guess it is a close call. Take Bruce Springsteen and give him an acoustic guitar and a harmonica and you have a genius. Now, put some cymbals between his knees. I’m trying to figure out if Jerry has cymbals between his knees.

What’s that suppose to mean? I ask.

Did you smell the shit? Jerry asks back.

My mind freezes. I look at Jerry.

The shit……the shit that Stick scooped up…Betsy took a shit……the horse, remember…..Stick scooped it up and put it in the buggy. Jerry continues.

Yea, yea, I remember. I say

Did you smell it….the shit….when you were riding in the buggy? Jerry asks.

Um, no, I didn’t. I answer.

You see……this means you are a good person……..you were so keyed up for your date that you didn’t even smell the shit that you were riding with…….even if you did smell the shit you wouldn’t have said anything to embarrass them………you were showing you are considerate……….you two would have made a good match……..Ida May would have fucked your balls off. Jerry says.

Jerry is giving me a compliment. He is insightful. He is looking out for my balls. I decide he has no cymbals between his knees. I decide Jerry is a genius.

I never really thought of that. I say.

I look over at Jerry and give a little smile. Jerry stands there holding a styro foam coffee cup. It is full of coffee. When he talks, his body moves and coffee spills from his cup. Jerry is big. He’s around 6’3. He probably weighs 250. This is even bigger than Ida May. Jerry has brown hair and gray eyes that dart back and forth. He tells me his brother is 6’8. All these Amish and pseudo-Amish seem to be huge. I wonder what happened to little Stick Miller. Stick must have been the runt.

The buzzer sounds and the assembly line stops. I glance at Jerry as I walk past him towards the john. He looks out of shape. He has a tad of a belly. A co-worker walks next to me on his way to take a leak. I ask if he knows Jerry. Of course he knows Jerry. He says everyone knows Jerry. He tells me Jerry was a track star at Maconaquah High School in Miami County, says he almost ran a four minute mile. I’m incredulous. I cross reference with some other co-worker while I let my dyck hang out and wiz into the urinal.

Yea, he was something else. He had a weird stride. Looked like he was speed walking, but he was really quick. He ran a 4:13 mile in ’68. The guy says, zipping up.

A 4:13 mile? I say, incredulous.

Yea, I saw him run. He would start off fast and end fast, strong, steady, like he never tired. They should have made him a marathoner. He could have been something. He says.

I am shocked. This was back in Jim Ryun’s days, back when the four minute mile was still new and spectacular, especially for a high school runner. Outside the john a few others vouch for Jerry’s one time athletic prowess. Jerry did tell me that his 6’8" brother played basketball for Purdue, and I know his nephew plays for the Purdue football team because I saw him on TV. I guess Jerry had to get some of these genes.

I walk over to the vending machine and buy a Mountain Dew. I walk back to my job, and Jerry is talking to the supervisor. The supervisor looks at me and smiles.

Heard you had an interesting date, He says.

"He didn’t use the pooper scooper……….Stick says you didn’t use the pooper scooper………….you should have scooped the shit………if you would have scooped the shit then you would be a really good person……….you were probably in shock………..you didn’t smell the shit, though……this is good…….Ida May isn’t bad looking……..she liked you……..you’re tall………you two could have made it………… you could have had babies, tall babies……….you say you love basketball……..you two could have made some basketball players…….you…………." Jerry is saying, rambling on.

I figure out that Jerry has two mental modes, the one-liner and the ramble. Now, he rambles. The buzzer sounds and the assembly line moves. I move slowly through my pattern as I do my job. My mind goes to automatic. I call it cognitive abeyance. My attention is on the past or the future as my hands move through the present to pass the widget, the transmission, down The Line. If anything is amiss, my attention will snap into the present and correct the aberration.

By the end of the day, everyone knows about my Amish date, and Jerry is my new friend. He makes me laugh, and my blind date with Ida May is our genesis. Later that week, Jerry reveals a big secret to me. Stick Miller has a car. In fact, Stick Miller has a truck, a tractor and a giant Recreational Vehicle. Jerry says the Amish and their buggies and their Pilgrim look is all for show. Jerry calls them a bunch of hypocrites. He says they are a cult. I think this is a little rough, but Jerry is adamant. Jerry says only the Pennsylvania Amish are for real. I am in shock about all this. In Indiana, people love the Amish. Everyone respects their difficult life. They think it is charming. People look at the Amish and wonder. They wonder about their own life and if they are living their life in the right way. The Amish are a constant check on the lifestyle of the modern world, forcing us to analyze our walk. I don’t want to lose this view of the Amish. I go home. I go back to work. I go home again, eat, jack-it-off, and sleep. One day at work, I think back to my date with Ida May and I remember the orange electrical cord on the floor of the buggy. Fuck. Another myth revealed. First, it is the Easter Bunny, then Santa Clause, and then if you get good grades and work hard and do the right thing, life will be good. Now, the Amish are bullshit. Maybe everything is bullshit. Maybe, I should have let Stick finish his ceremony. Hell, Stick drives a car. Stick accepts his hypocrisy. Surely he wouldn’t care if I watched some football on the weekends while Ida May harvested the corn. I even liked Ida May a little. I could have fucked her. I could have fucked her to Kingdom Come. I could have fucked her in the buggy. I just wouldn’t have let her on top. That would have been scary.

Around Christmas, Jerry comes to me with a proposition. Seems ole Stick Miller has a problem. Stick is in Arizona and he needs his car in Sarasota, Florida. He doesn’t want to drive his RV all the way back to Indiana to get his car. Stick calls Jerry. Jerry has to help out his buddy. The Amish scratch each other’s back. Jerry thinks of me and makes his play while I do my pattern on The Line.

Hey you want to go to Florida for Christmas? Jerry starts.

When are you leaving? I ask.

The 24th, Jerry responds.

I’ve got to go to my sister’s for Christmas. I say.

Hey, hey…….drive down on the 26th……..you can drive Stick’s car…….he’s in Arizona……..he needs his car in Florida……you can leave after you have Christmas at your sister’s place……..I can take you out to his place and show you the car………..meet me at the time clock………follow me out into the country. Jerry says.

After work, I hook up with Jerry in the parking lot. I follow him northeast out of Kokomo. We drive to a large, white farmhouse in Miami County. We get out of our cars. I walk behind Jerry to a garage door. He raises the door. There sits a blue, 1988 Chrysler New Yorker. It looks like it just came off the show room floor. It’s very cold outside. I shiver and watch my hot breath in the cold air as Jerry opens the driver’s door and takes a seat. He reaches under the seat and shows me the keys. I lean in and look at the odometer. It’s barely been driven, 2,800 miles on the thing.

This is it. Jerry says.

Where is Stick? I ask.

I told you…….he’s in Arizona…….he’s going to Sarasota for Christmas…….he’s in his RV……..he wants his car down there………have Christmas with your family……..come over here the day after…….drive it to Sarasota. Jerry says, looking at me to see if I can digest all of this.

Is Ida May going to be down there? I ask.

Ida May? Jerry wonders.

Yea, you know, the Amish girl you set me up with. I say.

"She got married……..lives in