PER DONNIE RAYE

I looked at the little weigh station, the scale house where large trucks with cargo were weighed—before the factory burned down. At an improbably idyllic setting down by the river, the whole facility was now deserted, the buildings silent, but markings attesting to the commerce that once took place there still lingered. It wasn’t that long ago that fire ended the operations here. Outside the scale house was the message, neatly stenciled in spray paint on the old bricks:
NO TRUCKS TO BE LEFT ON THE SCALE
PER DONNIE RAYE

Another piece of information, again neatly lettered on the outside of the little weigh station:

HOURS OF OPERATION
MON-FRI 7:30 AM---2:30 PM
PER DONNIE RAYE

The door had been forced open, so I went inside. The guard that watches over this place was parked down by the main factory buildings, saw no reason to linger at the little brick station that measured probably fifteen feet by ten feet. Inside was Donnie Raye’s world, left as it probably appeared the night of the fire. There had been some damage by vandals, and the place looked more than a little ransacked, but his paperwork and old metal desk stood where Donnie Raye had been a sentry—weighing trucks and logging in the numbers, then sending them on their way. His photocopier was overturned, and some other office machines had been upset as well, but there was a sheet he’d filled in, had logged the weight of probably the last truck. There, in the space for the signature of the person in charge, were clearly marked the initials: D.R.. The drab little building had been cool in the summer, with the hill and greenery just to the rear, and a large air-conditioner forced through the wall. Someone had ripped the big air-conditioner out, but had carried the project no further: It now rested in the little office just behind Donnie Raye’s worn swivel chair. A drawer had been pulled open, with the office man’s condiments and lunch fixings exposed in the metal compartments: Squeezed tubes of ketchup lay flattened in the top of the drawer. Pens and pencils and folders for the work that kept him busy were still piled where he’d left them. They had not been disturbed. The vandals had left untouched the things that I found most interesting, had focused their efforts instead on the few electronic gadgets that had made Donnie Raye’s life in the little building easier. Those people of industry who laid claim to this factory had seen it burn, had been interested in the eventual outcome—which was that the factory would be closed forever. The little scale-house held no interest for them, because no trucks would ever be weighed again. The few meager items that made up its contents were of no consequence. The activities of the man who’d so importantly posted instructions and admonitions in his little corner of the enterprise were to cease in that place, and occupy no one’s thoughts anymore.

I looked through the stacks of papers on the desk, uncovered more documents and then two license plates. One was from Maryland, the other from Maine, and had a nice green background. The two had most likely fallen off the big trucks that lumbered onto the scale in front of the tiny building. I took both of them, secured them to the bike rack just recently installed on my new bicycle, and headed for the park. The first person I encountered—a retired man with field glasses to watch birds with—had a baseball cap with the large capital letters ME. He was from Maine.

I later had dinner and drove down town, to the area I call the “quartier vivant,” which has a reputation for extreme rowdiness. So I avoid it, but on this night I wanted to hear some jazz, wanted to insert myself further into the local music scene, see what might come of it. The player I came to hear had played with another trio in another place, and had made me aware that he also had this gig in this place. When I entered, there were strange mixtures of violin, saxophone, keyboard, and stand-up bass. No drums. I listened, took a seat, listened some more, and then two people of my acquaintance showed up, were out looking around town that night, just seeing what was happening. We gathered together, the three of us—a somewhat unlikely match-up. We had drinks and then settled in to listen to the musical offerings. At some point the drummer arrived—an imposing man who pulled up to the curb in a cab and unloaded his equipment from the trunk. I thought it was kind of a stylish way to make an entrance. He paid the driver and was left with the black cases piled on the sidewalk. Getting things unpacked and set up took the better part of an hour, and my table-mates grew tired of waiting. So they left. I’d come to hear jazz, and—although the hour was getting late—decided to see what was in store.

From the first few downbeats, it was obvious that the drummer who’d just arrived by cab was a master of the instrument. The big man treated the drums before him as if they were nothing more than a child’s toy, a thing that he could pull by a string or bounce up and down or just tap on to make some noise. The delicate touch he imparted and the crashing blows were at odds with his sheer size. Okay, the hard-hitting blows I can see, but the infinitely delicate rolls and fills seemed counter-intuitive. He overwhelmed the set of drums, both figuratively and literally. Sitting back there, with an expression giving off nothing more than maybe a morning ride on the commuter train while looking at the paper bleary-eyed and without a first cup of coffee, he could have been anyone. With the addition of the big man and his little drums, the group came alive. To my great enjoyment, they played one of my favorite selections: “Have You Met Miss Jones?” Of course, in their hands, it became not so much a song as a creation—a work of art—coming together before the small gathering there in the late-night pub. What they did won’t be duplicated again—not by them, not by anyone else.

I left them after a few selections, taking advantage of a pause between numbers to exit—never an easy leaving since you have to pass right in front of the ensemble. I’d planned to stay about as long as I did, however did not count on the first set being without percussion. I’ll return, probably become something of a regular. I’m not sure what exactly they offer to eat in that place—the emphasis seems mostly on drinking.

The following day I readied myself for my weekend work, took time to fire up the vintage Honda for its maiden voyage. As I expected, it broke down after a few miles. I didn’t have many reservations about the old motorcycle as far as its mechanical condition, because Oort and I had gone through it pretty thoroughly. I’d ridden it briefly a few times, and it had held up well. Now it was legal, I had my bright orange helmet, and I wanted to hit the road. The motorcycle itself was not really to blame: It was my wedging this somewhat frivolous activity in between the many things I had to do on an already filled-up Friday. I knew from experience that it was impossible to cheat time, that if I tried to jam one more thing into the day, something would give. I gambled this time, got on the bike and fired it up—already fairly certain of the eventual outcome.

About four miles from home the bike gurgled to a stop. It would start up again a little with the choke on full, but immediately die. Within about five minutes, an old-timer named Burke stopped his vintage BSA—a British motorcycle—and offered to help. With his full leathers and worn riding gear, he was a devoted biker. His machine dated from the same year as mine—1972. Although many years separated us, he and I both enjoyed riding old motorcycles. I took the tools from the bike, pulled the plugs, saw that everything was all right there, swapped them just to make sure, and tried to start it again. Nothing. I mentioned that my house was only a short distance away, and that I had a truck there to haul the bike back home. I was wondering to myself how I was going to pull this off, had by now written off the rest of the afternoon, saw a long trek back home, tired and worn out, somehow getting the old Honda into the truck, unloading it, and so on. To my surprise, Burke offered to ride me back to my house so that I could pick up the truck, and said he’d meet me back at the bike to help load it. I hopped onto the back of his British motorcycle, directed him the few miles to my place, and got the truck fired up for the drive back down the road.

Loading the motorcycle was easy, uneventful, and Burke mostly stood by for moral support. He did offer a useful tip on loading the bike, which made it much easier to accomplish. Within forty-five minutes of breaking down, I was back home and ready for the rest of my day. He told me that those of us who rode old bikes had to stick together, that we were always there to help in case of a roadside emergency or breakdown. He went on to add that this was not always the case with the new riders, and mentioned specifically those who chose Harley-Davidsons as their mounts. Although I can’t speak to the accuracy of his observations, I can say that I dislike Harley riders as a group, view them as a moneyed and frivolous band of not-so-clever showmen who thrive on chrome and shiny things. The fact that the baubles and plasticized accessories they buy in profusion are applied to motorcycles is secondary to the need for attention: The overgrown toys they posture on could be anything—a boat, an airplane—whatever.

Burke refused any offering from me for his time and efforts, said only that I should pass along the same gesture to another in need.

Since I’d now freed up some time in the afternoon, I had in mind a drive up to the next county to visit the Friday sale. I’d not been in a few months, and decided it was time to see what was there. With the top down, it was a perfect day for driving and letting in the warm afternoon sunshine. I didn’t hurry, since Burke had saved me from a few hours of wasted time and efforts. I rolled into the gravel parking lot as the remnants of the old shed’s contents were being auctioned off. There wasn’t much there to begin with, so I can’t say that I missed so much. A man with a red pickup asked me about the car, said he’d always wanted one like it, and of course I was happy to tell him all about it and how marvelous it was to drive and what exceptionally good mileage it got. In place of the license plate on the front of his truck was a plaque that read “BSA.” I asked him about the old motorcycles and he said, yes, he had a collection of them, was always riding one or the other. He showed me an old bicycle he’d bought for two bucks, was proud that it sported a VA-ROOM!—a kind of toy that made a motorcycle-like noise back in the day. I vaguely remembered them, said that it was neat in a perfunctory kind of way, because I didn’t really care about the VA-ROOM, but he was so excited about his find that I felt I had to add something. He cranked it up so that it made the noise he remembered, and it seemed to actually work as it should. VA-ROOM.

Inside the main building I watched the dismal collection of machines and tools cross the auction block. Nothing had changed in this place, and many of the items were no doubt things that had sold before, and now were returning for another go-round. Then a worn old guitar came up for sale. As the snaggle-toothed group looked on, feeding comfortably on hot-dogs and chili, sitting under worn hats and ample dresses with faded flowers, a man approached the auctioneer. He took the guitar in his hands and began to play, while the auction man held his microphone close to the instrument for better hearing. What we heard in that place of tired and used merchandise, cast-offs, and people who were not much better, were some of the purest and most perfectly played notes of ragtime you would hope to hear anywhere. The musician, wearing a hat that advertised the brand name of a power tool, told me later that he’d been playing music since 1947. He appeared to be a friend of the man with the BSA license plate, and who was so enamored of the little convertible.

Some time ago I looked at a farmhouse up in the same county. I drove the back roads, switched back and forth, and finally got to the place—which had been advertised for sale. The owner and her dog Maggie met me, and we walked around the immense house. Up and up it went, and it had all been restored, renovated with many upgrades and nice accents. There were many bedrooms and bathrooms, but I was mainly interested in the land. Sixteen acres came with the little farm, but the layout was sadly not to my liking. The house waited at the end of a long and private driveway that descended to a hollow that was mostly private, except for some newer homes that sat on a ridge overlooking the place. Alongside the house rose the acreage, somewhat hilly but flattening out near the far end, where it met some woods. A local farmer rented the fields to grow corn, and the property owners there had the benefit of receiving an agricultural tax credit for using the land as a farm. With the owner and Maggie, I walked the land, then made my way out back, where a springhouse and an old log outbuilding still stood. The barn, which had been huge, had burned down and there was nothing but ruins and large, rough-hewn beams that needed to be moved around or made into firewood.

I entered the springhouse, a cool place year ‘round, and saw the clear stream of water enter a concrete trough that ran through it. Up in the wooden beams of the small building were the nests of barn-swallows, and one was there now, tending to her little home not more than a few feet in front of me. She looked at the trespasser that blocked the sunlight from the door, but made no move to leave. She knew that this was her house, and that I was only a visitor that had best be on his way. I walked away from the springhouse, already disappointed that this would not be my home.

I tried to envision it—erecting the huge barn where the old one once stood, using the stone foundation and making the building tight and firm against the weather. It would be more than a barn—it would be a place with a huge loft for gatherings, for space for all the things I wanted to do. And the barn was hidden behind the house; no one could see it back there—even though it would be enormous. Back there behind the barn were more ruins, and then wetlands. The owner told me that no more houses would be built in that area, that it was not allowed. I wished that the houses on the ridge hadn’t been built, although they were pretty far away. Still, the fact that I could see them bothered me. And this big house, the one that her husband the contractor had renovated—using only the very best materials and workmanship, was ill-placed. There was nothing to be done about it, the house would be there at the bottom of the hilly acres, the land around it overwhelming the place. Instead of sitting mightily in a position of importance smack dab in the middle of the sixteen acres, with a view of the surrounding countryside, the house was hidden away back there at the bottom of the long drive. The asking price was one that I could easily afford, which only added to my chagrin. I came away sad—sad about the eager dog Maggie, who was promised with the place, sad about the barn-swallows who would not befriend me, sad that I would not erect the huge barn lit with Christmas gatherings and space for my hobbies, regretting that I would not cool my summer drinks in the springhouse under the watchful eyes of the nesting birds. I said good-bye to Maggie, turned around as I made my way back up the long drive to my waiting car. There in the middle of the driveway was the long-haired herding dog, stopped, with a questioning look on her face.