West With Giraffes(20)

A gust of wind blew through the window, and he took off his hat to fan the air between us. “For sweet chrisesakes, boy, you’ve got to clean yourself up. You’re a walking pigsty!” We spied our first town a couple of miles ahead. “There. We’ll stop for some grub and the mercy of a water pump. Then we’ll find a good rest stop for the giraffes down the road.”

Excited that Red might see me in giraffe-driving action, I glanced back. The Packard wasn’t behind us anymore, though, which seemed odd.

Then the Old Man did something odd himself. When a yellow-and-red panel truck in front of us pulled over near a railroad crossing, he tensed, and as we bumped over the crossing, he stared down the tracks.

By that time, though, I was doing my own staring. A patrol car was parked by the city limit sign up ahead . . . It was the exact model as my Panhandle sheriff’s. I stiffened bad, before I saw it was only the town’s cop, hopping out of his cruiser to wave us over.

As round as he was tall, the cop guffawed and headed our way to meet the giraffes. Then he led us to a diner, where customers rushed out and waitresses appeared carrying two plates piled high with ham and eggs. They laid them on the truck’s hood and I’d wolfed down both before I realized I’d eaten the Old Man’s, too. The town newspaper’s editor was posing him with the giraffes for pictures. Then Boy gave the round cop a snake-tongue lick as Girl flicked off his cap, and the crowd hooted with delight.

As the Old Man waited for another breakfast, he said, eyebrow cocked, “You get enough to eat?”

I nodded, sheepish. To please him, I went around to the diner’s water pump out back and did a little dabbing. I was still a Dust Bowl boy never trusting a full stomach, though, so I came back through the market next door and pocketed a potato. As I settled into the driver’s seat, the Old Man crawled in the passenger side, dropped a package of dry goods and a gunnysack full of onions and apples between us, and said again, “You get enough to eat?”

I nodded again.

“Good,” he said, “because if you ever steal anything else, I will leave you on the side of the road. I cannot abide thieves or liars. Don’t make me say it again.”

“Yessir,” I answered, clutching the potato in my pocket, sure he was about to make me hand it over. Instead he shoved the dry goods package my way. “Open it.”

I tore at the brown paper. Inside were work clothes, a whole outfit. Brand-new.

“Put ’em on,” he said.

I stared at them, not quite sure what to do, as if I didn’t know how to put on clothes. The thing was, I didn’t—not new ones. I was seventeen years old and never had a thing new, not even skivvies, nothing but hand-me-downs my whole life. I started peeling off my snitched shirt.

“Jesus-Joseph-Mary—farmboy!” the Old Man groused. “Change out back. And this time, really use the water pump.”

So, after finding a suitable tree to change behind, I shed my raggedy things, did a true cleanup with the help of the water pump, and started putting on my new clothes. They were only work clothes, but they felt like a millionaire’s luxe duds. To this day, I don’t know if I’ve ever felt the same sensation those first new clothes gave me. I whipped off my holey undershirt and pulled on the new one, savoring the thought that mine was the first skin it’d touched. Next, I slipped on the new cotton twill shirt, smoothing down the fabric as I fastened each new button. Then I stepped into the denim pants, rolled up the bottoms that were amazingly too long, and cinched the new belt as far as it would go. He’d even gotten me a pair of socks. So, last, I shook off my boots and eased those beauties on, them offering the most sinful-rich feeling of all.

Tugging at everything, I headed back to the rig. The Old Man looked me up and down, giving the air between us a sniff. “Better.”

Not having much practice with thanks, I didn’t know what to say. “I’ll pay you back,” I mumbled. It was as close to a thank-you as I knew how to get, and from the shrug the Old Man gave me it was probably as much of one as he’d take.

I started up the rig. A cheer came from the crowd.

“Don’t take any wooden nickels!” the round cop called as we pulled away.

The Old Man outright cackled. “Too late,” he called back, cutting his eye at me.

But I didn’t care. I was driving the giraffes in a big, fancy rig. In new clothes. Me, Woodrow Wilson Nickel. I sat up tall, glancing back at the empty road, wishing Red could see me now.

“Remember, you’re only getting us to DC,” the Old Man said, my fine feeling being deaf to any such truth. In fact, the Old Man’s gift began to poke at some part of me wanting to confess what happened my last Dust Bowl day that was fueling my nightmare. That’s what the smallest bit of kindness could do to a seventeen-year-old orphan feeling his first bit of luck. But I knew no good could come from a guilty spiel about a sure crime when it came to my chances to keep driving to California. So I kept my mouth shut.

For a few miles, we rocked along as the Old Man looked for a good giraffe rest stop. When he spied a tall leafy tree nicely off the road, he motioned us over. As I rolled us to a stop, he popped on his fedora and got out, so I followed. “Think you can do some climbing without getting yourself killed?” he asked.

“Yessir,” I said.

“Hear me now,” he said. “These are wild animals, not farm animals. With wild animals, there’s predators and there’s prey. Predators use claws, prey use hooves. Giraffes, being prey, can kick with every hoof they got deadly enough to crack a lion’s skull or break its spine. You rile them, their front hooves can kill you and the back hooves can maim you. So don’t rile them. Just making ’em jittery can get them kicking, and I’ve got to deal with that splint. Clear?”