In the former life of one of Warhaven’s newest residents you might have witnessed the following scene, repeated so many times as the sad state of affairs that were his burden. Yet for your narrator, positive change is always possible, and, well, as Alexander Pope wrote in 1732, “Hope springs eternal.”
“An odious fate has befallen me!” Clovis Truwitt exclaimed in his tremulous, pitched voice. “Someone has stolen my pants!”
Inebriation had never served him well.
“Heaven save my soul!” He wailed. “I’m a sorry wretch!”
It was mid-morning, the sun now high and bright and here sits squinting in the light Clovis Truwitt, head in hands, trembling with the start of tears, lamenting against his pallid luck broken upon the rocky, barnacle-covered shores of some shallow cove of redemption.
“Tippling will be the death of me!” he howled.
“Aye aye aye!” he bemoaned. “My head throbs as a strobe light bleats, light to sound, pulsating, reverberating as if some maniac musician plays Stravinsky in a Calypso beat upon steel drums in my weary cranium!
“What I need is hair of the dog!” But the cupboard was bare.
Clo rose geologically, as if the weight of the world were upon breast and shoulders. Poor Atlas!
Clovis Truwitt was a petty thief, an inept cat burglar, but imagined himself a swashbuckling pirate, a buccaneer whose exploits would be told around genteel fireplaces generations hence. He was a dreamer, yes, and even owned a tricorn hat which he donned each October for Halloween. As a child his mother, partial to English literature, had read to him the adventure stories of DeFoe, Stevenson, Kipling, and Conan Doyle. He loved the writings of Robert Louis Stevenson. And like that writer’s antagonists, Clo swam in a sea of rum, tainting his rascally perspective.
Clovis had done time on several occasions during his auspicious career as a crook. Most of his notorious work had been in Garfield, which was the site of three of his four incarcerations.
The last of these lock-ups was in New Hope County where he had been stopped for speeding and then unceremoniously detained for a bench warrant back in Garfield. Well, the authorities kept him there, which was his blessing because he mandatorily received treatment which led to Clovis’ commitment to twelve-step programs.
When Clo was finally freed from confinement, he stumbled across Warhaven, instantly growing fond of the place. He realized his good fortune, found himself an honest job, interviewed and hired on the spot by Tootie McDaniels, as a stocker at the L and M Merc, and turned honest. His grand accomplishment was staying clear of John Barleycorn, a wicked companion who could lead any mere mortal astray with a wink or a nod. Tootie and Clo’s AA sponsor were neighbors; he had advocated for Clo.
He swore off theft for Clo sensed that the powerbrokers of Warhaven would not demonstrate much patience for a mischievous ne’er-do-well. Clo walked the straight and narrow fearing the silent, nighttime justice of a small town’s vigilante, as peaceful small towns never arrived there without some sacrifice to freedom and personal liberty.
Too he steered clear of former Garfield colleagues Billy Bacon and Boston Beans, culprits of limited self-restraint. And he actually began attending church, choosing the safe route of the Methodists who served grape juice at communion — as well as for the pretty facade of their Wesleyan Hall.
Freckle-faced, red-haired and possessing a smile of contagious mirth, Clovis got on well in town. He brought to the aisles of the L and M Merc a ready lightheartedness to customer service. He had a knack for visual memorization, a skill developed in his former work, and it seemed to management, that he knew the lay of the aisles instantaneously.
One winter afternoon as the sun set outside, Clo was kneeling, busy straightening jars of jams, jellies, and conserves on the left shelves of aisle five, concentrating on order.
His attention was called for by a soft lilting feminine voice asking, “Excuse me?”
Clo looked up into the most lovely blue eyes he had ever witnessed in a woman, he mused, ‘Like the azure seas sailed by captains Flint and Silver.’ She too was red-headed and freckled, so, of course, he felt in the company of another member of his tribe.
“Where would I find the gnocchi?”
His smile beamed like the sunset that was forming out of doors. “Let me show you.”
He rose, glancing at her lovely hesitant smile. He strolled with her to the cooler displays. “Right here, with the ravioli and tortellini,” he said, pointing out the array of fresh pastas.
She was taken with him and he with her. Perhaps an electrical current passed between them?
Brazenly she asked, “Have you ever cooked this stuff? I heard about it on TV, and it sounded yummy!”
Clovis chuckled. “They are. I like them with fried okra and green tomatoes.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh — okra. Isn’t it all gooey and yucky-like?
“No, no,” he redirected.
“I’m willing to try,” she nudged.
Clo took a deep breath, “Well, it’s winter and all, but we could cook up some frozen okra and fresh romas from California — over in produce as we speak.”
And that chance encounter cemented the foundation of Warhaven’s newest romance.
•••
The City Council is a work of fiction, written by Jim Tindall, appearing every other week in Columbia Gorge News.
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