Bob Read
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 If You’ve Never Been Lost

A black Buick, forty-six, swung into Pete Ebrey’s Standard Station. August night, sultry. Pete, few knew that his name was really Allen, was ready to close the station for the night. Just a short block down Main Street his wife, Dort, would have supper waiting. He was turning off the lights as the Buick arrived. Two couples inside, windows down out of respect for the heat. Nice looking folks. Men in white shirts and ties, women fanning themselves. Pete noticed the car was not pulled up to the gas pump and reckoned the driver wasn’t buying. Wiping grease from his hands and followed by Wimpy, his resident dog, Pete sauntered to meet the perspiring driver.

"Could you help me, mister? I can’t find my way through Franklin. We want to get to Waverly and we’re running a little late. We wanted to pass through Franklin to see the town, but I can’t find the route through to Waverly."

Pete ended his hand wiping, removed a stub of cigar from his mouth. "Mister, do you know how you got into Franklin?"

"Sure I do. We were just driving from Jacksonville to Waverly. I understood that Waverly was just six miles past Franklin."

"Well, I suppose you could say that’s right, but do you remember how you came into Franklin?"

"We just took that road that turned off of Route 104 and came into Franklin. Folks said Waverly was just the other side of Franklin about six miles."

The driver was frustrated. He pulled a handkerchief and wiped at the perspiration on his cheeks. Pete was tired. The cigar butt went back into the corner of his mouth.

Pete leaned toward the driver, his right hand, not quite free of grease resting on the shiny Buick’s window. The driver glanced at this invasion, but said nothing. Pete’s dog elected to resume his nap. "You came into town on Chicken Row, and it’s the best way out. Just go around the park, " Pete pointed to the village park on his right, " And take that street back to 104, the turn left and you’ll get to Waverly."

The driver mopped at his face. The light was fading, but Pete could see on the driver’s face the crimson of embarrassment combined with the heat " I sure hate to backtrack. Isn’t there a way I could just drive through Franklin toward Waverly?"

"There is, but you’ll get there quicker if you’ll go back the way you came in."

The driver appeared to be challenged in the presence of his friends. He hitched himself in front of his steering wheel. "Thanks anyway, Mister, we’ll try going through town."

As the Buick pulled away from the station, Pete noticed the right taillight was out. He called to the driver, but he was engaged in what appeared to be a heated discussion with the lady next to him in the front seat and he didn’t hear. Pete figured she was giving him the dickens for his stubborn streak.

Pete locked the station, leaving his dog in charge, and walked the short distance home. He had been on his feet too much that day, and his bad leg, broken years ago, had never healed well enough to tolerate long days on his feet.

After supper, Pete sat by an open window catching a slight breeze, his feet up on a stool as he read the Jacksonville Journal. Franklin was dead quiet except for crickets. Nothing moved outside; well, almost nothing moved. Pete did notice a lone car cruising Main Street, and finally realized it was the same car passing by repeatedly. He was almost dozing off when he was startled to recognize that the cruiser was the Buick with the missing taillight. He watched, half amused half disgusted, and ten minutes later the Buick slowly cruised past in the other direction.

Pete pulled on his shoes, went out to his car, drove out to the street, and sat there with the motor running and the lights on. Soon, sure enough, here came the Buick. As it approached, Pete climbed out and hailed the driver.

"Are you lost?"

The driver’s hat was off and his face glistened in the glow of Pete’s headlights. "I’m trying to get through this one-horse town to get to Waverly. But the streets all angle off in a funny way and seem to come back on themselves. I don’t think I can get out of this town to go anywhere!" His voice was pitched much higher than before. He seemed close to tears. Others in the Buick were thin-lipped and silent.

"Tell you what, Mister, you follow me and I’ll get you on the road to Waverly."

Pete executed a "U" turn. Main Street was neither wide nor well paved, but it was wide enough for a comfortable "U". The Buick followed. Past the Brewer sisters telephone office, the switchboard closed at eight, angle a little past Goulds and Luttrells, around a corner past Will Hart’s Blacksmith Shop, jog to the left over the CB&Q tracks, past the cemetery, and right up to Route 104.

The Buick driver waved half-hearted thanks and burned a little rubber as he accelerated in the direction indicated by a road sign. Pete wheeled around to return home. "There you stubborn fool," he said to himself. "You got out of Franklin without back- tracking down Chicken Row. But don’t ever try it alone."

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