Read Online That Good Night by Richard Probert - Free Book Online Page A

Picking out the one positive thing, I said, “New tires.”
    â€œNo sense running down here on the bald ones,” Bob said proudly.
    Rent-A-Wreck paid, we hopped into the truck. Though worn, the cab was clean and orderly, the one exception being strands of dog hair clinging to the grey velveteen covered seat. He explained that the hair was to remind him of Faithful, his dead German Shepherd. Bob inserted a worn key into the ignition. Expecting a coughing rumbling roar, I was relieved to hear instead the quiet power of mechanical perfection. My recollection of Bob’s engineering prowess assured, I fastened the seat belt, set the underwear bag of money between us, and asked, “Can we take the path less traveled by?”
    â€œNo interstate! That’ll be a pleasure.” From under the seat, Bob retrieved his Garmin. Expertly fiddling with a few buttons he programmed our route to Binghamton—two-lane back roads except for a few miles of interstate as we neared the city. After clicking the GPS into a bracket that was suction cupped to the windshield, Bob slid the shifter into Drive.
Turn left in 300 feet
,” a monotone electronic female commanded as we pulled out of the parking lot.
    FROM RIBS TO WRANGLERS
, announced the roadside billboard,
JUST SOUTH OF DOG HOLLOW
. We were about midway between Syracuse and Binghamton. “Time to get you some underwear,” Bob suggested.
    â€œAnd a few other things,” I agreed.
    Fat Joe, the clerk’s preferred moniker, led me from shoes to pants to shirts to socks to underwear. Choice of Hanes and Carhart and of course, Wranglers. I traded geezer wardrobe for farmer/construction worker/truck driver. Bob picked up an army surplus duffle bag. “For the money,” he whispered. A rack of succulent ribs completed the deal. I handed Fat Joe two one-hundred dollar bills, my first contribution to small business, courtesy of the graft and corruption associated with our deep-pocketed defense industry.
    Let me tell you what the taste of freedom is really like: Chewing on a smoky rib after months of nursing home food, that’s what it is. With Bob driving, I tore into those ribs like a hungry hyena. My hands and face were covered with BBQ sauce. Bob said I looked like a high-chaired kid eating a bowl of spaghetti. And I suppose I did. I sure felt like one sitting there belted into that pick-up’s seat, a stack of napkins to my left, a tub of ribs on my lap and a smile a half-a-mile wide. Eyeing the accumulating mess, Bob suggested that we pull off the road to eat. I informed Bob that if we were to make the banks in Binghamton and Scranton, we had to hustle. He agreed, although to Bob that meant going the speed limit instead of five miles slower.
    Unlike my clear recollection of HSBC’s location in Syracuse, my geographical memory of the Key Bank of Binghamton’s location was nonexistent. Bob wasn’t one to ask for directions. The Garmin was no help. So we cruised downtown Binghamton. Granite blocked fortress-like bank buildings anchored corners like stentorian guardians of bygone prosperity. They weren’t banks anymore. They were restaurants, discos, clothing stores and in some cases, just empty shells. We found a Key Bank ina ranch-style building that looked more like a drive-in restaurant than a secure place to keep money. Jeremy Gettinger, the appropriately necktied and suited bank-manager spent a few minutes on the phone before directing us to a branch office just south of downtown. With the exception of the olive-drab duffle bag replacing the polka-dot boxer shorts, the procedure for getting my money mirrored Syracuse: this time two hundred fourteen thousand dollars, again in denominations of hundreds, fifties, and twenties.
    Retrieving the money from Scranton was easy once we found the bank. Thank God for extended banking hours. In my day they closed at three. The Scranton First National had morphed into The Bank of