Flying Clean

Flying Clean Chapter 1

1937 was an eventful year; one which left little to desire from the headlines of newspapers. The year started grandly with Howard Hughes flying from Los Angeles to New York City in under eight hours, the Ohio River flooded its banks memorably, and a score of communists went on trial in Moscow for plotting to overthrow Stalin's regime. The Golden Gate Bridge opened up for pedestrian traffic, the Spanish Civil War raged on, and the Bali tiger became extinct. The year ended on a high note for the nation, though it was a small comfort during the Depression, with Walt Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs; the first feature-length animated picture show. I can remember seeing that show to this day, the flickering light from the projector lighting up our faces, making us appear as ghosts, as Susan Desmond's wide eyes shone wet with happy tears beside me. 1937 was an eventful year for the world, but it was one of undying importance for me; it was the year which shaped me into the man I would one day become, though I was already on my way. I was seventeen that year, going on eighteen in the fall, when I went to work for the Desmond farm. It was a serendipitous occurrence which would bring great suffering to me- a mere boy who had lived little in the world, outside of farm work in northern Indiana- but it was one which I would never regret.

I first met Harry Desmond outside of Nan's Market on the northern side of Main Street- one of only two east-to-west streets in the small village of Hambria. Nan's Market was a necessary attraction on the main thoroughfare- selling all manner of goods, including hardware, butchered meat, small farming tools, and even tires- and was likely the only business in Hambria that would survive when the Depression ended three years later. I had come by Nan's just before noon that May morning, the sun already beating watery vapors in the air, the temperature soaring into the high nineties despite the early date, on foot, not strolling to enjoy the day, but walking quickly, dark sweat stains standing out on my back and beneath my arms. Gerald Beckman, the town's big farmer- and my employer- had died in the night. Doc James had said it was his heart, but I had known that already. Gerald Beckman was as fat as a spring pig two years late for the smokehouse and when he died, my services on his farm were likely to dry up. So, naturally, I gathered my few belongings and walked the three miles into Hambria to find more work. I first stopped at the Gordon farm, but they had three hired hands already- and that was two too many, in my opinion.

Hambria was the same as any town its size that I have seen in my years. There was never any unnecessary shops along its main street, as you see in cities; shops which sell ice cream or soda pop, shops which offer such things as insurance or home equity. These things weren't in Hambria in the 1930's- hell, they probably still aren't. The houses surrounding the businesses were in shambles, their splintery facades cracked and weary, sagging with the humidity and begging for fresh paint. The businesses weren't in much better shape. Nan's Market, along with the barber shop, post office, and the vacant building which used to belong to a tailor, had dusty boards where windows used to be; what windows were still intact were opaque with months of dust and dirt- except for one corner of the back window of the barber shop that the local boys regularly wiped clean. Mr. Farnsworth, the barber, kept a nude photograph pinned to the wall beside his desk, and all the passing young men stopped long enough to wipe away the accumulating dirt and steal a peek. I would have peeked too, that day, but I was on the other side of the street.

The front door to Nan's Market faced directly between the post office and the barber shop, and it was here that I first saw Harry Desmond- though a single glance at the man could never have told me what to expect from the man. I had just come out of Nan's, the sun blaring sadistic mirages in my eyes, as Harry Desmond's Ford coughed and sputtered to a stop, a thick and acrid plume of blue-black smoke emitting from beneath the hood amid a stream of expected curses from the driver. Harry Desmond's form lurched out of the Ford and he hitched up his pants, rubbing a huge palm over the top of his head. The soggy butt of a cigarette protruded from the corner of his mouth, held tightly between his teeth and he thumbed his suspenders in a way that chills me to this day. I had never before seen Harry Desmond- but I had heard the name once or twice- and had no reason to be unsettled by the innocent gesture. It was only later that his thumbs ducking under his suspenders, the tight snicking sound as they snapped against the hard farm muscle of his chest, would become a sort of ominous portent that made my lips tremble.