Wilson, Pt. 1

Excerpt from The Stop and Grub - A Novel in the works by Faith Boone

Set Up for New Readers:

Setting:

Wilson, one of many characters for the novel “The Stop and Grub," is describing his background story to the main character, Emma.

Main Characters in Excerpt:

Emma Caine

A somewhat pessimistic female journalist with a lot of life obstacles popping up in her way. She decides to “run away from home” and ends up in a place she didn’t expect. She starts off as a loner, and hard to crack. She doesn’t share personal stories easily and has a hard time opening up. But, she is a good listener.

• Emma has been given the task by her editor to find a compelling feel good, human-interest story with a two-week deadline. With Emma’s current lack of enthusiasm for journalism due to some tough personal circumstances, she needs to find the story fast and make it good so her paper can win an award.

  • Emma needs to get her story done in a short amount of time

  • She needs her car to be paid for in two weeks and she doesn’t have the money

  • She is focused on the negative and has a hard time being optimistic

  • She is stuck at the Stop and Grub with nowhere to go and has to work to pay for her car

Wilson “Floater”

Birthdate: July 17, 1952

Background: Wilson is a drifter. When he was five, his family’s car flipped over a cliff. His mother and father were killed, but he survived. He was found alongside the road by police and taken to an orphanage. He ran away when he was 16 and has traveled from place to place since. He never stays in one place too long, but he is currently stuck on frequent visits to The Stop and Grub. (Connection to Emma – the effect the restaurant has on you) He has a very interesting home with pictures literally everywhere.

Reader, now that you're all set up, here we go:

DAY 2, WEEK 1

When I was walking in to work the next day, I saw Officers Patolli and Grant chatting with John while he was sitting on the ground outside of the front door. When I got closer, I could see that John’s eyes weren’t open.

“Oh no. What’s wrong with him?” I asked them. They didn’t seem to be shocked or worried, so for a second I thought I was losing my mind.

“I think he’s asleep. We’re just standing here to look out for him. He doesn’t get much sleep.” Officer Grant looked at me as he took a slurpy sip of his coffee. Officer Patolli sat down on the hood of their police cruiser and kicked his legs out in front of him.

“You’re just going to let him roast in the sun like this?”

“He’s in the shade,” Patolli squinted at me.

I looked at both of them and I felt like I was looking at Andy Griffith and Barney Fife reincarnate. I looked at John and wondered what his night must have been like. Where’s the safest place for a homeless man to sleep in the desert? How far of a walk is that from here? Maybe one day I can get him to answer my questions.

Or then again, maybe I wouldn’t. These people’s lives, their stories, the challenges they have faced are situations that may be best kept in a personal space. Who am I to barge into town and steal their memories just to make sure I can save my own ass? What kind of person does that make me?

I got into journalism because I wanted to help people. Is this going to help anyone? Is sharing their story going to make a difference, or will it just be an exploitation of a simple, lower-middle class group?

When I dropped my purse off behind the counter, I grabbed a rag and a spray bottle to wipe down the surfaces. It was then that I decided to really take a look at the people sitting in those booths. I looked closer at the young girl who smiled for the customers and held back tears when they weren’t looking. I saw the way Wendy watched her brother cook. I saw the jokes flying between the two cops.

And then, my eyes floated over to a world not as kind. A world that seemed to have problems that were more serious—more immediate. One by one, Wilson, then John, then Cindy filtered into the dinner. Cindy click-clacked her heels over to a booth right behind the officers and rifled through her purse. John slowly made his way over to the stool at the very end of the counter, closest to the kitchen door. And John walked his tough old man walk over to me.

“I miss the days when a man could sit down and smoke a cigarette at the counter of a diner. You don’t know nothing about that there, kid.” He sat down and grabbed a menu.

“Wilson, while you were traveling, how did you learn about all the people you met?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…how did you being a stranger with no ties to their community find a way to get the people to trust you and open up about themselves?”

“Aw. Honey, are you trying to make some friends? Did you need dear old papa bear to ask the kids to come outside and play?” He cackled his ever-true Wilson laugh with a good cough at the end to boot.

I threw the rag under the counter and walked around to stand next to him. “I don’t need any friends. I’m just interested in the conversation.”

“Sure you are. All drifters wander in dying for a chance to spill their beans.” He rolled his eyes and dove his hands in his pockets. He was looking for cigarettes. I needed a better game.

“Are you ever going to take me seriously?” I said in a huff. “All you seem to do is find ways to twist what I’m saying for your own delight.”

“You make it too easy, girlie. I’m just pullin’ your leg. Lighten up. Relax. If you’re going to be like me, you need to learn to let things go.”

I put my hand on my hip, “And who said I wanted to be like you old man?”

“You get bored easily. You like to ask a lot of questions. And you don’t plan on sticking around long. I take it you’re running away from something and I’m betting it’s probably a whole mess of things. People around here probably think you seem pretty–fickle.”

I took a step back. Was I that easy to read? Could everybody in that diner see right through me? If these people figure out why I’m really here, I’m not going to get anything out of this except a bunch of hard labor for nothing.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Wilson started to snap his fingers in my face. “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up! Life isn’t that hard, Emma. It’s not.”

I looked at him confused. “How can you be so sure of that?”

“Because I’ve died before. And look at me now.”

--

“Someone’s got to fill out the paperwork,” the nun shouted at the cop as he and I stood in the rain.

“Lady, I don’t have time for paperwork. I’m going to have enough paperwork dealing with what happened to this kid’s parents.” His radio sounded, and he leaned his head into the speaker. Rain dripped off the rim of his hat and onto my cheeks. I stared up at him, wondering what he meant when he said ‘what happened to this kid’s parents.

The nun looked down at me while the officer spoke into his radio. She never smiled. Her face just sagged. Her glasses collected a few droplets of rain. She touched her brow, then her heart, left shoulder, and right shoulder, and said, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

She held out her hand to me and waited for a reply. Do I wait for the cop to make a decision, or do I make my own? How will I know if it’s the right one? I was too small to understand. But, it didn’t really seem like I had that many choices. I looked at the cop, still not giving a shit about what really happens to me. And then I looked at the nun. She looked like an okay old woman.

“Can you help me find my parents?” I asked her through the rain. My clothes were completely soaked. I was almost at the point where I didn’t care if I was making the right decision or not. I just wanted to go inside where it was warm.

The officer grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. “That’s right, sonny. Sister Margarite is going to take care of you until we can all help you find your parents. Isn’t that right Sister Margarite?” She didn’t say anything. She just stared at him with a blank expression. It didn’t frighten me.

The officer patted my arm and pushed me to walk backward until the nun put her hands on my shoulders. When she had me, he tipped his hat and ran off to his car. He never looked at me again. He drove away and disappeared out of my life. The third person to do that to me that day.

The nun walked me into the home and left me standing on a rug while she closed the large front door. I looked around. Candles were lit and hanging from the walls. The windows were painted with pictures of little men with curly hair and no clothes on. They could fly, too. I was jealous.

“Who are they? Do they live here?” I pointed out the men on the windows to the nun.

“All angels live in the house of the Lord,” she walked over to me. “And now you can as well I suppose.” She folded her hands in front of her. She still didn’t smile. And she also didn’t reach out for my hand. I was so used to holding my mother’s hand. I would have to learn to live without that comfort.

“Who is the Lord?” And she didn’t skip a beat.

“As I told you on the front steps. He is the Father. The Son. And the Holy Spirit. You will learn that here. You will learn God’s message along with the other children.”

“What about my parents? Will they come and get me?”

“I do not know of your parents’ situation. We can check with the proper authorities in the morning. For now, let’s get you into some dry clothing and you can get some rest. It’s very late and the rest of the children in the home are already in bed.”

As we walked down a long hallway, my mind ran wild.

"How many other children live here? Are they little boys like me? Is that officer going to come back? And I’m awfully hungry. Can I have something to eat before I get my rest?”

“Good heavens, my boy why do you have so many questions? You must learn to take on things as they come to you and not be selfish, ask for things you do not own nor have knowledge of. We are a selfless group here and we only receive what the Lord giveth.”

I looked at her strangely. She stopped walking and opened up a linen closet in the hallway. She pulled out a few things and shut the doors gently. She handed me a white shirt, white pants, and white socks.

“Can the Lord give me some bread?” The nun straightened up and puffed at me. Her eyes grew wide, though they were still beady behind her thick glasses. She put her hand on my back and walked me down the hall. She didn’t say another word until she stopped in front of a white door. She opened it and we slowly walked inside. No lights were on and I could hear the sound of snores.

“This is where you will sleep. Change into these dry clothes and throw away the ones you are wearing into the trash bin at the end of the room. Then pick an empty bed, say your prayers, and you will be woken in the morning.”

“But, what are prayers?”

“Did your parents not teach you the ways of the Lord?”

“I don’t know who this Lord guy is but he sure has a lot of rules.” The nun pursed her lips again and puffed. She didn’t offer any further explanation. She turned her back on me and walked out the door. I could barely see, but before she closed the door I did notice an empty bed towards the middle of the room. Thanks to a dim candle light, I found it. I changed into the dry clothes Sister Margarite gave me, but I didn’t throw away my old clothes. I wrung them out and watched the rain water spill on to the floor. I looked around me to make sure the sound of the splash didn’t wake up any of the other children. I folded my clothes and shoved them underneath the bed I chose. I didn’t pull down the covers. I didn’t find a blanket. I laid my body down flat on the bed until the next morning. I never closed my eyes. That nun didn’t tell me how to pray, so I just thought of my parents. What happened to them? Would I see them again?

“And who are you? And what are you doing in Jimmy’s bed?” A little boy asked me.

“Who’s Jimmy?"

--

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