Reflections in the mind of George Crocker
November 3, 2033: Aurora, Colorado – Previously, on “A Crock of Gunt”…
Crocker: I’m off for a little mental cleansing – a NOBO on the AT, solamente as they say en español! Little pit stop – yeah… there ya go George Crocker – dropping the little irony on the listening audience… a little Pit Stop at the winter meetings and the Hall of Fame inductions – gotta be there for ‘Tugboat’, right? And ‘Old’ McDonald? Cory Pierce… River Pope! I hear it’s an All-Aurora Hall of Fame Class – How Awesome Is That?!?!?
Gunter: Hmmmmmmm… I don’t know about that, but you do know, George, that it’s mid-October, and it’s going to get cold – I mean COLD, pretty soon – especially once you get past North Carolina…
Crocker: No problem Mark-O – The Sultan of Hottness has assured me I can do this! He’s got folks picking up the car for me in Georgia – they have gear for me… It is going to be Awesome Sauce! You know what they say, ‘Steve Hott is So Hot that winter storms turn right around and go the other way when he’s around’! So, it’ll be a balmy 80º on Mt. Washington!! That’s where His Hottness tells me where he’s starting – I figure by Groundhog day we should be catching up in Punxsutawney. Then it’s PART-AY!! George Crocker and Steve “Steve ‘Steve Hott’ Hott” Hott, together?? Oh… Yeah… Nothing like a guy whose nickname has a nickname!
Topham: George, you do know that Punxsutawney isn’t anywhere near the Appalachian Trail?
Crocker: Hey – gotta go guys! Got some smoky on my tail and I’m not even to the mountains yet! Keep in touch… (dead air)
(eerie time-space continuum music fading in and out with neither rhyme nor reason)
October 27, 2033
George Crocker was gathering his personal items from the broadcast booth at Northern Lights Park when his phone buzzed. ‘Who would want me, George Crocker’ he thought to himself as he rummaged through his pocket for his phone. ‘Chapstick, dog track ticket, lucky 50¢ piece…’ as he ticked off the items in his pocket “Here it is!” he exclaimed as he lifted the phone that still carried his Bogota Carib team portrait – overlaid with a text, which read:
“Hott. Call.”
A broad smile crossed the face of Aurora’s broadcaster… ‘Buffon, some would say, but they don’t understand me’ would be what George Crocker thought, “You’re a Good Man, Steve Hott– kindred spirits are we!”
George picked up the phone and dialed. “Hott Here!”, before the phone even dialed. ‘How hot is Steve Hott, when he can answer the phone before it rings?’ George thought “Hey there Your Hottness – George Crocker here!”
“I know.”
“I’m calling…”
“I know” ‘Arrogant as usual – gotta love this guy’ George thought to himself.
“So what’s crack-a-lackin’ my friend” George Crocker beaming in excitement. He knew that Steve Hott didn’t suffer fools – which verified George Crocker’s own self-worth.
“I hear you are looking for a new car.”
George was. His 2025 Prius had given up the ghost, and was definitely on it’s last legs. “I am – but how did you know?” he asked.
“DON’T ASK SUCH SILLY QUESTIONS – STEVE HOTT KNOWS THINGS BEFORE THE OTHER PERSON KNOWS HE HAS THE NEED!”
‘Well, now,’ thought George Crocker, ‘here’s a man who knows how to do business’. “Dude, you are so right…”
“Of course I am.”
“Yeah… well, do you have a car for me?” Crocker asked, with hope in his heart ‘I hope it’s not some clunker’.
“Then get up here quick – I think you’ll really like this one.” ‘Steve “Steve ‘Steve Hott’ Hott” Hott – a man of little words – except when he is a man of many words’ Crocker chuckled to himself over the thought.
“Well… I do have some plans…”
“I know you do…” ‘Of course you do, My Bad’ “We can discuss them when you get here – I think we are on the same page – call it kismet, or just the World following Steve Hott’s will.”
October 30, 2033
Duluth, Minnesota is a barren looking place once the leaves have died and the temps dip towards freezing. ‘Aurora ain’t much better this time of year’ George Crocker thought as he looked at the dead-looking trees that lined Steve Hott’s street – but he could find his house easily – his was the one in which the trees were all still green. George pulled into the drive with a stupid grin on his face and shook his head ‘Still green’.
‘Pull into the drive and text me when you get here’ were the instructions that Steve Hott gave – but as George pulled his phone out to text, the garage door began to lift – exposing the most beautiful car he had ever seen, with Hott walking out to George’s rent-a-car.
“Don’t even think about it,” Hott began while George Crocker got out of his car, whistling at the beaut in the garage – a Dodge Charger. “That’s my new set of wheels – that’s why I’m finally willing to give up on that.” And he pointed out towards the curb.
Parked across the street was another beautiful car. “That’s an ’82 Pontiac Firebird. Runs like a champ!”
“’82?” started Crocker, “Why that’s…”
“I know, your birth year. Funny how life is, right?”
“Dude – tell me about it. If it weren’t for those good people in Bogota…”
“You wouldn’t have been arrested in Mexico – that’s what it weren’t for.” Steve Hott waved his hand in the air in a superiorly dismissive manner “But enough of that. The car’s yours.”
George Crocker stood speechless – maybe for the first time since he crashed into that wall in 2009, ending what had been a promising career – and perhaps knocking a few screws loose. “Dude… really? I can’t afford that – I mean, you know that Mikey Topham – that cheap ol’ bastard – he doesn’t pay me enough for a car like that!”
“That’s why you only need to give me $1.”
Crocker could only stare. “Enough about the car – let’s talk about our trip to the Appalachian Trail.”
“Wait – what? How did… No, never mind.” George knew better “What were you thinking?”
“Well, I am going to head to New Hampshire in a few weeks – Steve Hott is always busy, and I’m then going to begin at Mt. Washington and go SOBO SOLO. But you are planning to start in Georgia.” That was a statement, not a question.
“Yeah – NOBO, solo, too. But I can change my plans.” George added quickly “I’m not wedded to anything.”
“No, that’s fine. Spend the night, then leave for Georgia in the morning. Take the Firebird and drive there – I have friends who will meet you there – they’ll take care of the car, and outfit you with all the gear you will need.” Crocker was about to ask how he could possibly know what he would need, then just shook his head “You simply need to walk and meet me on the trail.”
“Where?”
“Don’t ask where – stick to the trail and we will run into each other. Just like The Zax.”
“I was kinda planning on a stopping in North Carolina – I had plans to parlay the winter meetings and the Hall of Fame ceremony into a couple of zeros for me.” He looked at Hott and was shaking his head, yes, hoping for understanding ‘Why do I feel so unsure of myself around this guy?’
“Zeros are important.”
“Yeah, they are – I was going to hike out at Hot Springs – that’s like mile 270 or something, and hitch a ride to Asheville.”
“No need. I’ll have your car waiting for you.”
George knew it was best to stop asking questions.
November 3, 2033
‘Dang it! Coppers – why do they always go after me?’
George had just looked up and saw the lights flashing in his rearview mirror – Tennessee State troopers. George Crocker had a moment of self-doubt – and an urge to run. ‘They tried to lock me up in Mexico, didn’t they?’ he thought ‘They ain’t going to get me this time!’.
The ’82 Firebird Pontiac pulled over to the side of the road.
“May I see your license and registration.” The trooper asked.
George looked up and saw the trooper’s name tag, ‘Joe Collins’ and his badge number, ‘19’. “Here’s my license, officer, but I’m afraid I don’t have proper registration. I just bought this car from a friend – I’m sorry, we were both in a hurry.” ‘Look sheepish’ George thought to himself, ‘they’ll be nicer’ He forced a smile, “Sorry.”
The trooper didn’t look at George’s license as he replied, “That’s ok Mr. Crocker, we’ve been expecting you.”
‘Waiting… This isn’t good’ “What did I do wrong, officer?”
“Nothing at all, Mr. Crocker. We just wanted to be sure you didn’t get lost.” The officer handed Crocker back his license – still unlooked at, and walked back to his vehicle, turning off the lights.
George Crocker sat there, staring in the rear-view mirror. The trooper’s vehicle didn’t move.
George sat. The troopers sat.
‘I’m George Crocker. I’m George Crocker. I’m George Crocker.’ He repeated to himself, trying to reassure himself that he was ok. “I’m George Crocker!” he finally said aloud to himself – firmly and with conviction. He looked in the mirror. The trooper was still there. George pinched himself. Hard. “OW!” ‘Yup, still alive and not dreaming…’
For ten minutes George sat there, in his ‘Hott’ ’82 Firebird, waiting for the troopers to move on, but they waited. Finally, George reached for the key and turned, the engine roaring to life.
The trooper started his vehicle’s less impressive engine.
Crocker signaled ‘Don’t give him a reason to give you a ticket – don’t push your luck’ and slowly pulled out onto the highway.
The trooper followed suit.
For two and a half hours, George Crocker followed the speed limit ‘What’s with this crazy Copper following me’, “Look for Forestry Road 42, that’s what Steve said,” talking aloud to himself as he entered Amicalola Falls State Park. Finding the unpaved road – marked by a small Forest Service sign, he turned off and drove to the trailhead. He looked behind him – the trooper continued to follow.
The trailhead was modest – parking for perhaps 20 vehicles, and on this day, there was just an old pick-up with a camper shell on the back. George pulled in and parked as far away as he could.
The trooper pulled in next to George.
George Crocker was furious ‘Why has he followed me – I am just trying to have a peaceful, personal journey’. He got out of the car and turned towards the troopers, who also got out of their car. “Do you know who I am? Do you?? I am George Crocker. I’m a star. I’m famous around the globe! I was a hit in Kalamazoo and I was a hit in Bogota! I…”
“… am a fugitive of the Mexican authorities – to this day.” said the trooper who had rode shot-gun the whole way.
It then occurred to George Crocker that perhaps he was being set up. That he was really in trouble – and here, deep in the woods, no one would hear you scream. “Listen guys, I really don’t want any trouble – I just came to have a hike – a simple hike. I’m supposed to meet people here – to give me gear and send me on my way; to take care of my car and meet me later.”
The shot-gun riding trooper strode to the back of the trooper’s vehicle and opened the trunk. George’s eyes bugged out when it saw it was full of gear. Hiking gear – boots, a backpack. Food – enough to get started before needing a re-stock on the trail. A bivouac to sleep in. “I… I don’t get it…”
“You said you were meeting folks here. We are they.” Said the first officer as he strode closer with his hand held out. “Joe Collins,” he introduced himself, “my trail name is ‘Dandelo’. My buddy over here goes by the name ‘Mordred’.” George looked over at the trunk of the car, where ‘Mordred’ nodded a hello. George instinctively nodded back. His badge number was ‘19’. ‘Odd’ thought George Crocker.
“Here’s your gear and you can spend the night in the camper.” The trooper gestured towards the camper that George made such an effort to park away from. “The trail is over there. When you leave, leave the car keys in the camper and we’ll take care of it.”
George stood still. He glanced at the gear. His eyes shifted to the camper and then the trailhead – finally settling back on the troopers. “So… you are the folks I was to meet here. With the gear?”
“Yes” the troopers said in unison.
“And you’ll take the car and…”
“Meet you at Highway 70 in Hot Springs, yup - and take you to Asheville; the Asheville Hotel – your room has already been taken care of”
“And…” George wasn’t sure what to think “… all that stuff about Mexico?”
“Just our way of letting you know we know all about you, Mr. Crocker.”
‘Great. Just great’
The troopers did not appear to be finished. “Mr. Crocker, can you pop the trunk open?”
George froze. ‘Why…’ formulated in his brain before it left his mouth. “Why?’
“Just checking the cargo” ‘Dandelo’ replied. “The trunk? Please”
With his head now spinning ‘This is all just too much to handle’, George walked to the back, reached in his pocket and grabbed the keys. His chapstick fell out onto the ground. He opened the trunk and bent to pick up his precious chapstick ‘I better buy more during that first re-stock’ he thought to himself as he stood.
The cops had been fast, pulling aside the trunk liner and exposing the spare-tire wheel well. There was no tire.
It was not empty.
Instead, there was a lot – a lot, of ‘organic matter’ that George did not recognize. He looked wide-eyed at the troopers. “What the hell is that?” as ‘Mordred’ dropped George Crocker’s small athletic bag (an old, tattered Kalamazoo Badgers bag) to the ground.
“You weren’t supposed to see that.”
‘What have you got me into, Steve Hott?’ Crocker was fuming.
“You needn’t worry yourself about it.” said ‘Dandelo’ coolly. “Go about your business. Have a wonderful hike. We will see you in Hot Springs with your car. This stuff will be gone. Promise”
George Crocker stood there for more than a few minutes, looking at the ground, the trees, the sky, the drugs ‘Those are drugs, aren’t they? But what is that? It looks more like kindling than drugs’, and back to the ground. Finally, he grabbed his bag and looked up.
“I guess I’ll have to.”
