A Town Called New Hope
by Ron Van Sweringen
The sign read 'New Hope.' Bog Jones took it as an omen and when the freight train slowed down to cross a trestle, he jumped off. He was young and it was a good thing, an older man might have broken his neck. It wasn't an easy landing. The red clay along the tracks was hard and dry, but he was lucky, a stand of young saplings stopped his tumble in knee high weeds.
Bog made no effort to get up until the rest of the train had passed. The wind was knocked out of him and the thought that maybe this wasn't such a good idea crossed his mind; but what the hell, one place was as good as another when you were down and out. Most doors were closed to you anyway when you asked for work or begged for food no matter where you were.
A town called 'New Hope,' struck him as a place he might find whatever it was he was looking for. He was twenty three and not afraid of work, but any kind of work was hard to come by in the fall of 1934, the great depression had a hold on the country.
The first place Bog stopped at to ask for work was a filling station at the edge of town. It looked run down with only one pump and he almost passed it by, but something told him to try it. Bog gritted his teeth in anticipation of a turn down when an elderly man in overhauls met him at the door.
"Good day, Sir," Bog started, "you wouldn't have any work for a hungry man would you?" He looked down at his feet when he had finished.
"Got 40 or so tires in the field behind the station that need stacking and some other things if you really want to work," he said at length after giving Bog a good looking over.
His reply was such a shock to Bog that when he opened his mouth to thank him, only a stutter came out. The man gave a slight smile and pointed to a fence, "Stack em neat now, in two rows along the fence. when you're done, come inside and I'll tell what else I got for you to do."
Three hours later the old man inspected Bog's work. "You did a good job. What's you name young fella?"
"Bog Jones, sir," was the quick answer.
"Well, Bog Jones, let me give you a piece of advice, This here's a small town and most folks don't take kindly to drifters. Some of them even talking about patrolling the rail road tracks."
Then the old man handed Bog two one dollar bills and a piece of paper. "This here's a note for Sam White, he owns 'White's Grocery Store,' in the next block. Give it to him and he'll give you two dollars worth of credit on my account. Get yourself some food and a bar of soap." Bog took the money and the note and started to thank the old man.
"No Need to thank me," he stopped Bog, "you earned it, and if you show up here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, smelling better, I might take a look see if you know how to pump gas." Bog felt weak and overwhelmed by the thought of finding work and the fact that he hadn't eaten anything for two days.
"Can I know your name, sir," Bog said.
"Just call me Luther, boy, everybody does."
Bog left 'White's Grocery Store' with a brown paper sack full of canned goods and a bar of Lava soap. It was mid afternoon and unusually warm for September. Bog was so hungry it felt like worms were crawling around in his stomach. He opened up a loaf of bread and jammed two pieces into his mouth. "First things first," he said to himself. He needed a place to spend the night and take a bath. He also remembered what Luther had told him about drifters being unwelcome in town, so he headed back the way he came, toward the woods and the railroad tracks.
Luther arrived at the gas station as usual at seven-forty-five the next morning. He put some cash in the register and turned the pump on, halfway expecting to see Bog coming along anytime. About eight-fifteen, Mat Parker's pick up truck pulled up next to the pump.
"Fill er up, Luther," a lanky man in overalls said, climbing out of the truck, looking for a place to tobacco spit. Mat Parker was one of three Parker brothers who had a reputation as hell raisers on occasion. Their father owned Parker's Mill and a goodly portion of acreage around New Hope. Mat leaned against the pick up while Luther filled the gas tank. "Did ya hear bout last night?" he grinned.
Luther looked up slightly annoyed, the Parker brothers were no favorites of his. "No," he replied, "what about last night."
Mat's grin turned into a laugh. "We was out squirrel hunting yesterday evening and we caught us a drifter. He was taking a bath in the river. We was gonna put a load of buckshot in his rear for good measure, when we heard a freight whistle. We made the bastard jump that freight buck naked."
The door to the pick-up truck slammed and it took off down the road under a canopy of red and gold oak trees. A drizzle had begun as Luther stood looking at the two neat rows of stacked tires behind the filling station. He suddenly felt old and very tired. Because of the rain it turned out to be a slow day and Luther was considering closing at around two in the afternoon. He'd finished reading the paper and looked up to find Bog Jones standing in the doorway.
The young man was soaked through and looked tired. "Sorry Sir," he said softly, shuffling from one bare foot to the other, "I ran into a problem."
"I heard about it," Luther said, standing up. "There won't be any more problems, son. From now on you work for Luther Parkhurst and I'm going to nail up a sign to that effect out front. Now let's go find you some dry clothes."
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