Harris the Asst. Hotel Manager

Harris likes to talk about the quality of his car’s alignment. When riding with him in his car, he will often say things like, “who needs hands when you’ve got alignment like this.” Following this comment he will cross his arms and look around as if unsure if he is in a car at all, and not, say, a wagon. This is not to imply that he is a car fanatic or that he knows anything remotely to do with the working parts of anything mechanical let alone an automobile, he just has a certain pride in things he doesn’t know much about— though just enough to recognize its importance to most motorists. If Harris isn’t talking about his car’s alignment he can also be heard talking up his car’s fuel intake.

In either case he’s an assistant manager at a hotel and knows very little about cars. However, what he lacks in knowledge of automobiles he makes up for in knowledge about people. Harris knows people. He understands them. In fact the only reason he speaks so highly the importance of a car’s alignment is because a hotel guest named Seymour Trotter had valued the alignment of his car so much, and just the alignment now, he registered it as a collectible with the federal government, somehow making it tax deductible, though Harris has never been certain how, taxes are also not one of his specialties. Another hotel guest’s love was so great for his fuel intake he wrote a novel about it entitled, “That’s Right Trotter, My Fuel Intake is Better Than Yours.”

It turns out, or so the book claims, the author, Mr. Author Flannery, knew Seymour Trotter, both one time guests at Harris’ hotel, and had previously been at war with him for over five years over whose automobile had better fuel intake. Flannery left Harris a free copy of the book so that he could, as he put it, “set the record straight once and for all, by God.” Harris smiled and gladly accepted the book.

That same night he read it from cover to cover and from there on told the story as legend again and again to any traveler wanting to hear a good story. Being that the hotel was quite popular he had it memorized right down to the air pressure in the gentlemen’s tires, 34 psi.

A man and woman were sitting at one of the many couches in the lobby. They had come out to the couches from the bar with full glasses of wine and had both made several trips back to the bar when they were emptied. When Harris approached them he was upset to see that one such glass had been accidentally emptied onto the floor. He didn’t get mad however, it at least gave him something to do and the couple seemed nice enough to disregard any suspicion that it was purposeful.

The bar had closed several hours prior by the time he walked over to the two to take their empty glasses and a couple soiled napkins. They smiled and thanked him time and time again, one for every napkin it seemed, and when he acknowledged the spill they plead apologetically that they would cover the fee to replace the Oriental rug. Harris said it was not a problem because he would just throw it in the washer and the wine would come right out.

“It’s not really from the Orient,” Harris smiled, “it’s from Minnesota.”

With this, the two offered up a seat on an adjoining leather chair for Harris to sit on and sit he did. The two were quite drunk—drunk and in love and that whole thing— cuddled and full of berries to exaggerate their entertainment of being at a hotel with fake Oriental rugs.

“Just passing through town then?”

The man smiled ceremoniously. “How could you tell?” The woman playfully slapped his knee.

“We’ve sold more wine tonight than we did all last month,” Harris replied with a smile causing the two to laugh quite feverishly.

“Yes, we have had our fair share of wine haven’t we dear?” The man and woman continued to laugh. “So what’s a little more then?” He then finished off the rest of the dark brine and the woman followed suit.

They introduced themselves as Brad and Carolyn Turner. Harris introduced himself as Harris, Assistant Manager. They asked if he had any good stories and it just so happened that he did.

Trotter’s main argument for his 1992 Chevy Silverado was that because his truck weighed so much more than Flannery’s 1989 Ford Bronco II, it was unfair to compare the two vehicles without taking into account some outstanding variables. Unfortunately neither had a penchant for algebra and so, mathematics aside, the battle over weight was put to yet another test in a long line of like tests performed against the opposite’s vehicle. However, the weigh station had just switched to the European standard of measurement, but seeing as neither could convert grams to pounds, the weighing seemed pointless.

Not to be foiled, Trotter sought out a notebook he once had growing up with the conversion tables on the inside of the cover but no such notebook could be found.

Flannery accused Trotter of “fixing the numbers” though neither really knew how such numbers, as foreign as they were, could be “fixed”. But as preposterous as Flannery’s claim against Trotters was, it caused quite a blow against his reputation and formed a shadow of doubt over his entire campaign. People were beginning to doubt if he had a fuel intake in his Silverado at all. But the allegations against Trotter finally waned when he pointed out that his truck not only had a fuel intake, it had two extra tires attached to the back axel as well.

Over time, the arguments and counter arguments grew tiresome to not only the two men, who still tried to show conviction with every slander filled statement they said across the bar and town, but it was growing tiresome to the residents as well. What was once a powerful war, a pure war, filled with battle after blood letting battle, became nothing more than a small civil strife, an uprising at best, and the residents of Mallard were none to impressed with uprisings.

For four and half years the front pages of Mallard Monthly were filled with interviews, bios, and photos of the two men and their trucks, but it was becoming rare to even get a blurb in the “Letter’s to the editor,” section, and even if it did, it would be nothing more than a small bit usually starting with the line, “What ever happened to?” Needless to say the fire was losing much of its flare.

All that was left, all that could be done to bring the fire back to Mallard was to have one final battle between the two men. No more talking and no more judging, just driving. To the shock, surprise, and outright joy of the town, a date was finally set.

On a Tuesday morning Flannery and Trotter filled their tanks with eighteen gallons of gasoline, unleaded, 87 octane, and drove side by side down country road 680—a road known around the area as “Ol’ 680.” They drove at exactly forty-five miles per hour, which was the speed agreed upon by seven men known as “those ol’ wise men” who had sat outside the Dino Self Service Gas Station everyday between the hours of 9:30 am to 7:30 pm for as long as anyone could remember.

Even men older than the seven couldn’t think of a day in which those men weren’t out there talking and smoking and watching the countryside wake and sleep. The seven men knew all to well the importance of the legendary war over the fuel intakes and were therefore looked to for council on the rules and regulations of the final battle to end the war whose legend had spread as far as the surrounding townships of Buckworth and Fairstone.

By ten in the morning, about the time Trotter and Flannery had just finished screwing the gas caps back over the tanks of their Silverado and Bronco II, respectively, the crowd had grown to over three hundred, half the population of Mallard. If it were a holiday, which it would later become, one would guess that there was a parade coming through for there were coolers and lawn chairs, blankets and umbrellas, filling up the area surrounding the station and stretching down the road a full half mile. The men talked, the women talked, and the children talked, they all talked, louder and louder, so loud that when the megaphone announced that the men were pulling out of the gas station, it was not uncommon to hear the phrase “What did that megaphone just say?” However, their questions were answered when the honking of the trucks began as they lined up bumper to bumper on Ol’ 680 facing west. The crowd grew louder and louder, but this time it was not out of excitement, but confusion.

Apparently, the flyers, newspapers, and radio commentators had all said that the two men were going to be heading east and therefore all the spectators had lined up along the eastern stretch of Ol’ 680 past Dino Self Service Gas Station. Several spectators ran out in front of the two automobiles to hold them up so they wouldn’t drive off, causing “Those ol’ wise men” to come out to the street to discuss the matter.

After some deliberation the seven spoke to the crowd. They said that although they didn’t know the exact reason for the communication breakdown, they figured it had something to do with their choice of sending the details of the race to the newspaper by way of a mallard duck. A flurry of grunts came from the crowd as the tallest of the seven continued, that while they still agreed that the duck was the most exquisite of animals, they were willing to accept the fact that they were not the best of messengers. “Guess we’ll have to leave that to the pigeons,” the man concluded.

Though distraught by the revelation of the mallard’s postal weakness, they championed on and made the announcement that the race was to go west, not east, as everyone had thought.

Instant talks of conspiracy broke out across the crowds, but were silenced by an announcement that confessed it was actually the man at the post office that read the letter wrong and that it was received perfectly intact by the mallard. With this, the spectators calmed their threats of boycott and the race was delayed long enough for the crowd to reposition themselves along the west stretch of Ol’ 680.

Trotter and Flannery, though shaken by the ordeal agreed to the regulation that both gas tanks would have to be siphoned and refilled so that an exact measurement of the gas in each tank could be made once again.

After the gas had been emptied, the two men got in their trucks with a wave and appropriate cheer from the crowd, which was quickly silenced by the sound of their engines not starting. It seems not much fore thought had gone into the emptying of the trucks gas tanks and they couldn’t pull into the gas station as expected. One of those ol’ wise men tried to pull one of the gas pump hoses to the closest truck, Flannery’s, but the hose didn’t reach. Red faced, the seven men asked for the assistance of some of the spectators to help push the trucks back into the gas station.

Eighteen gallons later and a minor argument over who was going to pay for the extra thirty six gallons of gas that was being used, a bill the head editor of the Mallard Monthly credited, to the applause of the crowd, Flannery and Trotter pulled their trucks back onto Ol’ 680 facing west.

Just as they did the first time, the two men got out of their trucks, stood in front of them, and waited for their name to be announced along with the make and model of the truck they were driving before they got back into their respective ride. As if for the first time, the crowd cheered again, louder even, despite the hour and a half delay.

Trotter was announced first. He nodded his head and gave a casual wave to the crowd which had grown to over six hundred with more than a hundred from both Buckworth and Fairstone.

When Flannery’s name was announced he jumped on the hood of his Bronco II, saluted the crowd and blew a kiss to a young lady he mistook for Abby Prophet, a girl he had been in love with since seventh grade and who at that moment was out of town eloping with Travis Reed, a doctor from Atlanta who she had met the previous day while waiting on him at “Smile and Say Griddle,” a diner Flannery ate at every Tuesday and Thursday. However, it was actually Lisa Murphy, who assumed Trotter’s kiss had been for someone else for she was at least fifteen years his junior and dating Cory Lisbon, captain of the Mallard High Mallard’s football team. Flannery would not learn about Abby’s disappearance till the next day. He never ate at “Smile and Say Griddle” again even though she quit and moved to Atlanta a week later.

Flannery was still smiling wide when he got into his truck knowing Abby had come out to see him finally put an end to the war with a victory.

Mayor Fox walked into the middle of the road, megaphone in hand, and announced for the gentleman to start their engines, followed by a crowd of cheers and murmurs by those wondering what had been said. When the mayor raised his arm to the air, gun in hand, and pulled the trigger, lifting the birds from the fields for miles around, there was no flare of engines roaring off into the mid afternoon heat, but instead, a relaxed acceleration, keeping the two trucks at exact odds, slowly moving forward. The trucks started out so slow that when some of the children broke free from their parents’ arms to race after the trucks they caught up quite quickly and even walked along side them as they accelerated casually until either the children lost interest and turned around or their mom caught them, nodding a hello to Flannery or Trotter while doing so. One teenage boy thought it funny to walk up to Flannery’s truck and set his drink and paper plate full of food on its hood as he walked along side it.

The slow start was apart of an agreement by both men to drive at a specified pace so that they would both reach forty-five miles per hour exactly five minutes from the starting line. The gas station even installed a large clock over its entrance and with each passing minute the cheering grew exponentially. Hidden among the cheers were several comments on how they had never known five minutes to take so long. But eventually and with great triumph, both trucks disappeared over the horizon line.

When Trotter’s Silverado finally ran out of gas he realized that he had not eaten in nearly twelve hours. Seeing that he was now alone on a deserted country road, Ol’ 680 or not, with no means of transit, the sun setting, he realized perhaps some rations wouldn’t have been such a bad idea.

One mile further up the road the same thoughts were going through Flannery’s head for he too forgot to bring along provisions, and being the obvious victor his appetite was growing larger than even his ego.

They met on foot, halfway between the two vehicles, both with the hope that the other had remembered the necessities for survival, for both were realizing quickly, as they stood facing each other, the sun nearly gone, that fuel intake pride alone could not nourish the body. In fact, the only thing that could nourish the body at that point, they decided at last, was each man’s pride of their own truck’s alignment. The two therefore argued the entire walk back to Dino Self Service Gas Station, where, “We arrived just as the sun was coming up to the sleep deprived, but excited eyes of over six hundred. And I knew then that it had all been worth it.”

Brad and Carolyn Turner who were holding each other, nearly asleep, stayed quiet for a long pause. Harris smiled at himself and to the couple before slyly getting up to retrieve a blanket, thinking it better to just let the two sleep and not wake them for he knew how much he hated to be woken up. When he turned, Brad whispered, “Harris.”

Harris turned softly.

“Great story.”

Harris nodded appreciation, “Thanks.”

“Good night,” the man said.

“Good night,” Harris said back before walking away from the couple, thinking once again about the story he had told so many times before. He thought about Flannery and if he had ever got the story published or not. The Waldenbooks in Deer Brook never had it in stock and claimed they had not heard of the book or its author, which led Harris to believe that Flannery was still, “shopping around,” as he had put it, for an editor. He then thought about Trotter and how vigilant he was about having Mallard’s most esteemed alignment. He wondered if perhaps Trotter also had a story out there that was waiting to get published, but in the mean time was being told again and again by another hotel assistant manager, to guest after guest after guest.