Maurice, A True Ozark Howler

 

            It was after dark and he was already feeling the call  of the road in his bones and fur. As a last bit of business in Branson, he had reminded Joseph, the cat of many colors, to watch out for Sleeky Sue, (Sneaky), and to do all she asked of him. Joseph promised.
            “I’ll probably come back,” said Maurice, hardly able to hear anything but the wild world calling outside.
            “If you can. Come back. You will always have a home with Joseph and I,” said Sleeky Sue. She was feeling change, and was a bit misty about it. Somebody had to stay with the ice cream shop, and those somebodies were herself and son, but she missed the carefree, hungry days on the road with Folkie Joe, and Maurice.
            “Thank you, Sneaky Lou. I will come back if I can,” promised Maurice.
            Then he stepped out into the night, closing and locking the door carefully behind himself. The night wind ruffled his rough grey fur. A moon overhead winked down on him through scudding clouds. The urge to howl was heavily upon him, but he decided to hold it in until he got away from Sneaky’s house.
            Perhaps his days as a House Howler were over. It was YTBD! Meanwhile the night was there, drawing  him.
            He brought almost nothing with him. Just his clothing, his harmonica, and his Allegory book and a ballpoint pen. He did have a couple hundred dollars in cash taped to the inside pocket of his old black raincoat, but he was going to act like it wasn’t there, for old time’s sake.
            Maurice planned to walk or hitch north on Highway 66 to Springfield and hop a freight train there, and get out in Milltown when the BNSF got to Smith Island outside of town. Then he would make his way to the Great Forest by hook or by crook, or walk.
            It was 10PM when he hit the highway. The night enchanted him. He wondered why he hadn’t taken night walks all the time he had lived in Branson. He had lived so tamely there. It was a busy road. Many cars drove past him as he paced northward.

            Maurice howled once, just for the joy of it.
            Finally, after a good five mile hike, Maurice decided to try hitching. It would save some time, and his feet, which had gotten soft from his time in the city. Therefore he started walking backwards, thumb stuck out in the regular way. A dozen cars drove past him, maybe his old coat and raffish appearance put them off. He didn’t feel scary, but maybe he looked scary, he thought.
            As he was about to give up and turn around, an ancient black Buick slowed down and paced him for a few feet as he continued walking backward. At last it stopped. Someone inside leaned over and cranked the window  one the passenger side down. An old face framed in white hair, looked out at him, checking him out. Then a frail voice called out, “Where to, Pilgrim?”
            “Springfield, Ma’am,” Maurice said, hope brightening his face.
            “Are you dangerous?” the wispy voice asked.
            “Not any more, Ma’am, and certainly not to you!” Maurice sang out.
            She unlocked the door, the old way, pulling that little knob up, and said, “Hop in, Pilgrim.”
            “My feet thank you, Madam!” said Maurice, settling into the Buick’s wide cushy seat.
            “I’m Mable Green. You got a name, Pilgrim?” said Mable.
            “Mama called me Maurice, and it stuck somehow,” said Maurice. It was one of his classic, standard lines, and Mable laughed.
            “What’s a nice girl like you doing driving around in the dark, Mable,” said Maurice, to further break the ice.
            “Well, now, funny you should ask. I guess I just get tired of sitting around in my old house. I like to look around and see what I can see. Night time is interesting. You see different stuff at night. I’ve seen some of those funny lights in the sky, you know which ones I mean?” said Mable.
            “Indeed, I do,” said Maurice.
            Mable kept driving north. The moon kept winking in and out of the clouds, and Maurice was feeling the wildness of the night in his soul.
            “Say, Sonny, you aren’t a werewolf are you? I keep notice the moonlight hit you,” she said.
            “No, Ma’am. I am not a werewolf of any kind! I assure you!” said Maurice.
            “You could be one of them dogmen,” said Mable. “You are pretty hairy.”
            “Mable Green, Ma’am, captain of this old chariot, I swear by all that good and proper that I am not, nor have I ever been a dogman!” insisted Maurice.
            “Then what are you?” she said.
            “Armenian, Mable,” said Maurice.
            “Come on…..!” She was laughing at him, Maurice felt a bit ruffled. But he laughed too.
            They continued this open-ended banter until Springfield signs began appearing along the highway.
            “Where would you like me to drop you,” said Mable.
            “Train station would be good, thank you,” said Maurice.
            “Freight yard, Pilgrim?” said Mable, with satisfaction.
            “Yes, Ma’am, that would suit just fine,” said Maurice.
            Mable stopped the old black Buick in some shadow in the vicinity of the freight yard, put it in park and turned toward him. “I have a package of Oreos in the glovebox if you want them,” she said.
            “Thank you, yes,” said Maurice, waiting for Mable to fetch them out, but she said “go ahead,” so he got the package of cookies out of the glovebox and put them in his other pocket.
            “Take care, Maurice. Mama gave you a nice name,” said Mable as Maurice got out of the Buick.
            “Now, tell Mable the truth, what are you?” she said, leaning down so she could see him standing in the fitful moonlight.
            “A True Ozark Howler, Ma’am, at your service,” and he bowed, grinning.
            She nodded, waved, and Maurice walked off thinking about catching a ride out west.
            In a moment it occurred to Maurice that he should wave at the nice old lady who had helped him get to Springfield, but when he looked back there was no old black Buick sitting in the shadow.

🤎🐺🤎