No Holiday for the Rainmaker

By Scott Gertner

With his dream of eventually becoming a television star, Josh embarks on a journey that takes him from New York to California. Along the way he peels away the trappings of who he was and transitions into whom he thought he wanted to become. But he succeeds too well. And when his television character never rises above the same sparse hackneyed dialogue and stock dramatic gestures, he struggles to free himself from the stagnation of that role and implements a bold and daring strategy that strives to bring more meaning to his career and, consequently, to his life. But he learns that in having denied who he was, the repercussions are far greater than he ever imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781984577467

Scott Gertner

Scott Gertner, born and raised in New York City, studied playwriting at The University of Iowa before moving to Minneapolis-St. Paul and earning a living as the Playwright-in-Residence with the Minnesota Playwrights' Center and with Actors Theater of St. Paul. In recent years he has devoted himself exclusively to writing literary fiction. He has traveled extensively throughout the world and has lived in many parts of the United States. Gertner currently lives in central Florida with his wife, Deb Hitchcock. Holding Fast to a Slow Train is his fourth novel.

Book preview

PART I

1

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Y ou ain’t been here long, but listen good to what I say. You wanna stay away from him. You wanna stay away from all of them….

I’m here to meet and treat. Nothing more.

Good luck with that. You’ll get caught up in it soon enough. They’re all crazy, and the biggest nut is one you rarely see…..He wears that rebel uniform like he’s some big military hero….That’s just the least of it.

A confederate uniform is hard to miss.

Well, he lives up near Minton….only comes here to get his special blend o’ chewin at the tobacco shop…..an ugly bastard….skinny…. toothless mostly…You’ll know him right away, even dressed in regular clothes.

Who is he?

Who he is is probably the meanest and stupidest horse’s pitooey this area’s ever produced…. a homegrown imbecile……and not just stupid- Minton stupid.

What’s his name?

Henson Corley….

She stopped and waited for a reaction, but Culpepper just looked at her.

…..Another month and you’ll bristle at the mention.....I was married to him, I’m ashamed to say……That’s why I can’t stomach the word ‘Mrs’……. And I’ll throw in a month’s rent if you promise not to treat him if he comes to you dying….

He smiled.

.....No one gotta know, Dr. Culpepper. It’ll be our little secret.

Sorry.

You’ll see different soon enough. Don’t you know we’re still at war? That’s what he and those other nutshells believe. They wear the uniforms and play soldier in their fight for an independent South. And my ex thinks he’s a spy for the Confederacy and he’ll be spyin’ on you, that I assure you.

Why on me?

You’re new. He’ll watch you.

Then why doesn’t he live in town?.....Get closer to the enemy he wants to spy on.

Afraid of being captured. He….his massive head never stops spinning around…

She called out.

…Line..

A voice is heard.

Watchin and listenin’"

She nodded, then continued.

….watchin’ and listenin’ for anything he can report back to headquarters……I’m tellin’ ya, no amount of electricity can shock his brain back into good sense.

A loud voice now intruded.

All right….We’re almost there……. One more run through before tomorrow’s taping.

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Growing up in New York, there are three places Jesse Loudon expected never to inhabit: Mars, the Sun, and the Southern United States. The first because of inconclusive proof for the existence of intelligent life, the second because of conclusive proof there is not any, and various pockets of the South which he heard precariously straddled them both. With an ancestral link to the South, his paternal great-great grandfather, a native Tennessean and armed defender of Jefferson Davis’ confederacy, Jesse considers himself an heir to his family’s Patrician heritage. Typical of his self-deprecating humor, Jesse enjoys making and laughing hard at redneck jokes, and mocking the hillbilly accents he heard on television, although admitting his feelings of enjoyment and condescension are tinged somewhat with guilt. Jesse says he enjoys playing to Southern audiences because it provides him a chance to remedy his craving for the cornbread, grits, and country fried steak that gratified his forebears.

Manny stopped reading from a theatre program and placed it on Jesse’s makeup table.

Oh, you were cheeky then.

I wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t partly believe themselves. They joke about it, too.

They can. But a Yankee….not so much.

"A Yankee by birth. A Confederate by heritage…….We Confederates can laugh at ourselves."

And don’t forget me, Mr. Johnny Reb. I’m also laughing at you.

Jackson Culpepper. I always liked the sound of that… This role is dripping sour mash whiskey.…..Jackson Culpepper……

Good, good. Keep repeating it. Let’s hope he’s with you for a while.

Tennessee born and reared……can’t miss.

And as long as you’re good and they’re feeling good about you, I’m good. Everyone’s happy….

"But this episode is eerie. It makes me uncomfortable. I swear, Manny. The writer musta lived in Reston. He had to know Bobby Morton and Nate Powell."

Eerie makes for interesting. Audiences like that…And from what you told me about Morton and Powell, Dixie is and always will be crawling with the likes of them. I don’t know why this still bothers you….

I’m not sure either.

Well, right now you have enough to worry about with Henson Corley running amok…..

Manny smiled. Jesse did not respond.

…..You can’t fault yourself. You serve the South well, Dr. Culpepper, and I salute you for that.

Manny saluted.

You’re dismissed.

Good. My stomach’s got a date with some brisket.

When Manny left, Jesse looked at the theatre program and thought about his first trip through the South.

2

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A lthough interstate 80 would have been the most direct route to Los Angeles, Josh nixed the ideas of major highways in favor of roads and side roads. Never having explored any part of the United States, he had his opportunity now to take his time and travel through the small towns and rural roads that traversed the country. The decision to begin in the South stemmed from his belief that the deep South would be inherently more exotic than anything he had so far experienced. Everything from the syrupy southern drawl to the lard-laced regional comfort food would stand in stark contrast to the abrasive Brooklyn accent and the choking dirt and congestion he had grown up with in a major city. Combine that with his love of Tennessee Williams’ plays dripping in southern angst, The Andy Griffith Show with its charming, though fictional, setting in North Carolina, and considering the nightly news broadcasts inevitably containing at least one clip of President Johnson articulating something in his Texas accent, the lure to travel south seemed inevitable. And he expected his experiences to be at least as exotic as those of his brother in Iowa. Soon he would find out, and he became increasingly excited at the adventure before him.

Josh experienced a kaleidoscope of different emotions. Exhilaration, fear, sadness, excitement and more bombarded him and made him at once uneasy and confident about his journey ahead. After stopping at a few rest stops that provided relief and some vending machine candy, he arrived late in the day at a truck stop outside Roanoke, Virginia. Its restaurant, The Outlaw, almost challenged him to enter and confront the possible danger inside. But the families eating their dinners, the souvenir shop selling tee shirts and coffee mugs, convinced him that the only danger might come from some bad food. When he heard country music playing on a juke box, he took a seat at the counter and listened while he waited to order some eggs with scrapple, something he had never eaten, but which he knew consisted of every disgusting part of the hog from the anus to the snout. His father and brother would be proud of him, he thought, as he accepted his own dare to try it. He had passed on the waffles and fried chicken as being too mundane. When his meal arrived, the grits on the side confirmed he had indeed reached the South. And the taste of the grayish brown, greasy scrapple confirmed he had exhausted his tolerance of animal organs and the so-called culinary adventures associated with eating them. The comparatively bland grits did little to alleviate the salty unpleasant aftertaste from the lump masquerading as meat. As he shoved aside his piece of scrapple, covering it with some napkin, he listened to Conway Twitty and Tammy Wynette on the juke box. Those were easily recognizable but the songs from Hawkshaw Hawkins, and Cowboy Copas were unfamiliar to him. The music alone reminded him of the vast differences only eight hours had brought. In addition to the country music, he looked around and saw faces of people more suited to The Lawrence Welk show than to Pitzey’s deli. The straighter noses, the lighter complexions and hair color, and conversations that could be engaged in and not drowned out by the din from waiters and customers always present at Pitzey’s, confirmed he no longer was in New York. Josh soon stopped studying the faces and mannerisms of the other diners, afraid he would draw attention. So he switched to looking at the pictures and photos along the top of the wall. Aside from the usual scenery of mountains, streams, and bucks, various photos and paintings of Jesse James on Wanted Dead or Alive posters hung prominently. Josh looked around at the other walls. Jesse James had been the only cowboy to be so honored and he wondered if one of his descendants owned the restaurant or if it had only been to justify the restaurant’s name. He studied a face awash with toughness and temerity. Aside from being the infamous outlaw, Josh knew he had also been a champion for the confederate cause. Tiny confederate flags on toothpicks stood erect on the sandwiches served, a reminder that Virginia had not surrendered its past, nor did it intend to. So much seemed so different, so unlike anything Josh knew before, and he liked that. He wanted to be part of it. He also imagined himself the gunslinger, as he did many years before, and at that moment it no longer mattered whether or not he fought for justice. When he finished paying for his meal and returned to his car, the rest of his journey through the South would be as Jesse. And when he stopped later that day in Loudon County, Tennessee, Jesse Loudon would be the one travelling to Los Angeles.

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Jesse reached for his detailed map whose creases seemed to create additional roads, finally pinpointing his destination just to the right of the coffee stain and below a chunk of onion. Plantation County, Jesse letting the words roll about in his mind until he felt confident that he would soon reach an area dense with poplar, sycamore, and magnolia. An antebellum grandeur he imagined, despite finding himself soon immersed in a rural area pockmarked with dilapidated wooden shacks half sinking into the muddy ground on which they sat. He assured himself poverty does not have to mean horrid or dangerous, did not need to have the same meaning it did growing up in New York, and he allowed his mind to once again conjure images of old pillared homes, a melody in every one’s cadence, and two inseparable first names. But as the roads became narrower, and landmines from cavernous potholes rocked his car, his eagerness waned. Before long he arrived at an old wooden sign with Plantation County in painted, unevenly sized letters. Jesse stopped again, examining the map that seemed to be playing a bad joke on him. Continuing his drive, he soon reached a road that made him nostalgic for the previous one. The gravel emitted miniature dust storms, erasing the road in front of him. He slowed down, and as the dust subsided, so did his enthusiasm. A boarded up Piggly Wiggly grocery hinted of more prosperous times long gone. The bleak, barren fields appeared to grow nothing but more dirt, and the only sycamores and magnolias were the names on the street signs he saw when he drew closer to town. A crumbling water tower painted with the word Reston, faded to the point of near indecipherability, typified the neglect and deterioration Jesse encountered in this, his final destination. On the outskirts two black men and an elderly black woman sat on their porch, looking at him, then looking away. He stared at the house, its clumsily painted sign announcing work needed and another one advertising sweet potato pies and homemade potato salad, both menu items sitting on an open ice chest next to them and only partly shaded from the intense heat. Jesse knew the local emergency room would be standing room only. As he passed them, he strained to see any similarities with the life he just left a few days ago. Jesse soon came upon large tracts of mud, which he guessed had once been cotton fields, but now were overrun with near collapsing makeshift houses. Shack after shack with black families, only black families, sitting out front on splintered steps and vegetable crates. Almost six miles and fifteen minutes later, Jesse arrived in Reston. A grocery that advertised bags of ice cubes for thirty-nine cents each, a post office with an oversized American flag out front, a small restaurant touting its fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits, and a faded white, dried and splintering Baptist church awaited his arrival. Process of elimination told him the church moonlighted as a community theatre. When he parked and walked up to the tickets available sign Scotch taped on a side door, he knew he had been correct. He dreaded going inside, already regretted his decision to audition, but he dared himself to enter and see for himself the extent of his bad judgment. But after passing a lobby that could accommodate five people, three of them comfortably, the small theatre in the round venue charmed him. He estimated twenty, twenty-five people tops, but enough of an audience to provide feedback that could impact his artistic growth. Similarly, he hoped to draw very positive reviews in the area newspaper that could bolster his career and ticket sales, if the production stood a chance of being more than a one night only performance. Soon a voice startled him.

Dr. Farnsworth, I presume?

He turned around to face a slovenly dressed man of about fifty, bald on top except for an island of tufted hair in the center reminiscent of Clarabel on Howdy Doody or Mr. Weatherbee in the Archie comics, and wearing a rumpled plaid shirt with threadbare slacks, shiny from excessive use. The man stuck out his hand and smiled.

…I take it you’re here for an audition.

Yes. How did you know?...

As soon as the words left his lips, he realized their absurdity.

…….Of course. I’m the only stranger here.

He almost said why else would anyone be here, but caught himself.

And I’m the director, Bob Crabtree, of this play and all others.

Jesse extended his hand.

Jessie Loudon.

You timed this well. We’re just starting a new production.

Actually, I saw your notice when I stopped for gas.

How lucky for you.

Jesse forced a smile.

Worried about filling the theatre?

I guess…yes-

-Because I worry about it every night of every production. But we do lots of advertising. ….And we’re the only game in a forty-mile radius. It’s us or cow pie tossing, pecan pie bakeoffs, pulled pork competitions, or the same old same old on television……We’ll get you an audience, especially if you’re any good. Are you any good?

I…. I think so…..Yes, I am.

Well, we’ll see, won’t we?

Jesse worried his words would raise Crabtree’s expectations. He also feared his inexperience, or to be more precise, his lack of any acting experience, would reveal itself within the first minute of his audition.

"…..Know anything about Practice Makes Perfect and the role you’re here for?"

Only what I read in the advertisement. ‘A seriocomic look at a doctor, of dubious ability, who retires to a small town to practice medicine and escape his demons’.

Your memory is good. That’s an absolute must for an actor.

I would think you’d want someone older in that role.

You showed up. You have a pulse. You’re perfect…..and for once I won’t have to play the lead.

Jesse liked having to forego the audition. And he grew excited when Crabtree described the part in more detail.

You’re a doctor seemingly without a past and that invites curiosity and suspicion. One of your patients then discovers you had failed to diagnose a cancer in time and that resulted in the person’s death. But here’s the kicker, Jesse. Even though your patient knows this, he also recognizes that you are needed in the town and so becomes your ally. And you’re given a chance to redeem yourself. But we’ll go over this after our first read-through. Remember, you are a qualified doctor who just did not have any of the high-tech apparatus to give you the early diagnosis, etc, etc. having worked in a small town, in poor, backwoods America….

He paused.

…..It’s really not that bad a play…. a touch of intrigue in it…..written by the lady who taught our Sunday school…kind of fashions herself an Agatha Christie of sorts….She studied some playwriting at the community college along with a few writing courses by mail….Quite the character really….heard she ordered a new lavender silk and satin hat for the opening….but poor thing died three weeks ago. Funny how that goes sometimes….

Jesse nodded.

….Anyway, how does that sound to you?

Jesse welcomed a role and a story he now saw as more interesting than he first imagined. With the guidance and flexibility from the director, Jesse knew he could create and develop his character to where the transition to the Southern country doctor is complete and convincing in every gesture and every syllable he uttered. He had always been good at this, but on a much smaller scale. Now his complete transformation into someone else could be realized. He pictured himself wearing a straw hat and suspenders whose ballooned cheek cradled a plug of tobacco while he spit and chewed between sips of oak barrel aged bourbon. An old coot, Jesse thought, but he would make him much less a stereotype and much more a character with a distinct personality.

….Now that you’ve survived the intense competition for this role, I’m guessing you’re gonna look for somewhere to stay. You mighta noticed we don’t have a Motel 6 here or even a Motel 1….

He stopped and chuckled at his joke.

…..but I can get you a floor to sleep on……real cheap.

Hopefully a soft floor.

Jesse smiled. Crabtree ignored his remark and continued.

Good. Then Tom Shelby’s your man…..owns the grocery…..a good man. I’ll talk to him first, fill in the details, make sure all is okay. But he owes me a few favors…..How about stopping by there in about an hour?

Of course. Thank you.

In the meantime you can go across to Ada’s and get yourself a coffee or whatever…..She also makes buttermilk biscuits and sausage gravy to die for. File that for when you’re ready to have breakfast.

Sure.

After Crabtree left, he went to get a coffee and sat nursing it before he went across to the grocery. When he entered, a man approached him immediately.

"Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton. If I’m not mistaken, yours is the suite overlooking the water……Tom Shelby…."

He shook Jesse’s hand and smiled. Jesse could not help but notice tartar dripping from his teeth like stretched strands of melted mozzarella.

…..won’t have time to give it much of a scrub down. No matter……there’s really not much you can do with it anyway….

Jesse’s already low expectations fell further.

…Just let me finish unpacking this ice cream…..

Jesse watched for a few moments before asking.

Is there a lease I should sign? Or a deposit?

Shelby laughed.

Lease? Deposit? Those words are best left in New York. Around here a handshake is all you gonna need…..but you’re all taken care of, don’t worry…

Jesse felt stupid. He also felt awkward watching Shelby stack the freezer without knowing what else to say or do. Finally his landlord spoke, to his relief and dismay.

…Lots of Jews in East Marion.

Sorry?

If you want to go worshipping, the only Jewish churches around here are in East Marion.

What makes you think I’m Jewish?

"You’re a doctor from New York. All your people are doctors or lawyers. They’re a lot smarter than the bubbas down here....although you musta flunked out of medical school to be here….Well, no matter…."

Jesse attempted to digest Shelby’s words, not answering right away.

...So aren’t you?

Smarter?

…Jewish?

Jesse shook his head.

….You sure? Naw….I don’t blame you…..I once knew one, but this man was very Jew. Not like you.

Very Jew?

Wouldn’t eat this and only ate that.

Oh, Kosher.

That’s it. A kosher Jew.

What was he doing here?

Don’t know. Stayed to himself. ….. didn’t bother no one.

No, I meant what brought him here.

Just passing through with a friend. They stopped in to eat. But he had only a pop and a bag of chips…..I heard the other one try and talk him into a burger or fries across the street, but he wouldn’t budge…….His loss. He passed on some of the best food around…….You sure you ain’t one of them? I won’t care one way or the other. It’s just I gotta know in case there’s something you can’t do or be around.

I already told you. I’m not Jewish.

Suit yourself……..

When he finished stacking the shelves and breaking down the boxes, he went behind the counter to retrieve a key.

……This’ll let you in after we close at eight.

Does it work on my door, too?

Shelby appeared confused.

What door? Your room is right upstairs…

Jesse’s expectations dropped one more notch.

…..I tell you what, Doc. Just let me run upstairs and make sure there’s nothing that’s gonna spook you and in the meantime grab yourself some stuff to eat. And by grab, I mean ‘buy’.

He then went upstairs. Jesse had debated whether to correct the landlord’s misconception about his occupation. Obviously, Crabtree referring to him as Dr. Farnsworth, meant as a joke or merely a slip-up, triggered in the landlord a whole series of deductions that he would allow no one to refute. So for now, Jesse chose to remain Dr. Farnsworth and just allow his landlord to enjoy the conclusions he came to about him.

Jesse meandered through the aisles, checking the haphazard arrangement of cookies, cereals, and everything else. When he picked up a box of cookies, even the grocery’s poorly lit interior could not conceal chocolate icing white from age and an expiration date six months prior. He then walked to the back of the store where the meat display featured hog’s testicles, knuckles, and snout. An entire head was also available, eyes and all. Jesse smiled when he thought back to the Wednesday night competition dinners with his father and brother and wondered which of these items would he have chosen for his entree. He could not decide, concluding it all depended on the sauce used and his mood that night. He turned away from the meat case and continued looking. Collard greens, potatoes, and turnips rested on a side table. In the refrigerated case he saw a package of Angel cake ice cream and wondered if it was part cake or entirely ice cream that tasted like cake. Jesse felt disappointed with the food selection and ultimately chose three boxes of Saltines, a jar of grape jelly, a can of meat ravioli which had just passed the expiration date, a few Milky Way candy bars, and a grape soda. He proceeded to the front where the inducements at the checkout included chewin’ tobacco, the Reston breath cologne as he would later refer to it, beef jerky, and Moonpies.

Before he went upstairs to his room he heard and saw a black man asking for one o’ dem strawbehwy pie wid da whippin’ cweam, pleez, and some boys laughing and challenging each other to see who could blow the biggest snot bubbles after gulping Mountain Dew. When he walked into his room, the odor almost choked him. Years of chain smokers had drenched the walls and floorboards, creating an almost sepia effect to what he saw. He could not understand why so many cardboard storage boxes would be placed in proximity to anyone who chose to smoke. And he also could not pinpoint the pungent smell of wet chicken feathers that competed with the stale cigarette air. He looked around and expected to see either a flapping creature or a decaying one. He finally attributed that odor to mold and mildew from his rusty and rattling air conditioning. He then saw a beetle, which he at first thought was a turtle, run under some storage boxes. He soon realized that he saw not a beetle but a cockroach large enough to be saddled and ridden. Since his small refrigerator barely cooled, he decided to use it to protect his cakes and crackers from any roaches or mice eager to share in what he had. After nearly cracking his skull on a low ceiling beam, Jesse readied himself to eat his meal.

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The rehearsal process began as smoothly as could be expected considering the pool of available talent. Aside from the woman playing his wife, Elizabeth