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Travels with Georgie, 2.5
Reflections in the mind of George Crocker…
December 27, 2033
George Crocker begged. He pleaded. He told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But in the sheriff’s office in Damascus, Virginia, they did not believe him. ‘Dirty cops – all of them. How could they think that I, George Crocker, could ever hurt someone.’ But was that true? Had he hurt ‘the Bastard’ Junior? He couldn’t remember. ‘He said I had to kill him, so… did I?’ He looked around the small interrogation room: walls with sound-proofing material, chipped paint and a mirror ‘a two-way mirror no doubt – at least that’s what you see in cop shows, right?’ The table had a styrofoam coffee cup, filled with tea ‘here ya go, the cop said’ – but George didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust anyone right now. Pictures littered the table - there was a picture of George, his broadcast partner ‘Money’ Mark Gunter, ‘His Hottness’ Steve Hott, ‘Mikey J’ Topham, Jr. There were photos of their campsite at Double Springs and the fire ring atop Rich Knob ‘they wasted no time, did they?’ the latter showing some of Junior’s belongings, the former more of his belongings, a baggie of the ‘drug’ ‘tea’ he had made George drink ‘did he really force you to drink it George’, and lastly, George’s cup with ‘traces of the drug and fingerprints, they said’ ‘damning evidence’.
“So, give it to us again – except try telling us the truth this time” one of the sheriffs said.
“I’ve told you the truth. I’ve been telling you the truth - I was in Boone, at the PEBA Hall of Fame induction – ‘Tugboat’ was the Bomb Diggity that day… I had been hiking The Trail, and ‘the Bastard’ Michael asked to join me. I found it an odd request – after all, we never hung out or anything like that, but I had come a long way solo, so... He seemed worried. We drove to the trail head at Watauga Dam and started ‘telling me that they wanted me to kill him’ hiking.”
“How did you get to the dam?” it was the other sheriff ‘looks a lot like Opie’ this time.
“In ‘Susannah? Yeah, I think so’ the Firebird – the one that Steve Hott gave me…”
“And where is it now?” back to Sheriff #1 ‘the ol’ tag-team routine’.
“It’s…” George paused ‘that’s the flaw in the story, because now it’s here, and they know that’ he thought to himself. He gazed up at the ceiling and he knew he was in trouble. ‘To tell them about Mordred and Dandelo, it’ll ultimately force me to tell them about Junior’s request.’
“Yes, Mr. Crocker…”
He tried to find a way, but the ’82 Firebird was more than a loose end – it was nearly an indictment. ‘You need to be careful, George Crocker’ he said to himself ‘no Mexican prison you can dig out of here’. “Hott set it up” he began ‘that’s the truth’ “he had two cops ‘but were they? Really?’ helping me out – Joe Collins and… ‘what was the other guy’s name’ and… Mordred – at least that’s what he called himself.”
The sheriff who looked like Opie handed George a pair of photos. “Are these the guys?”
George looked down and wasted no time in replying affirmatively.
“Tell me about them.”
“Well, I first met them at the beginning – they had all sorts of gear for me ‘and took drugs from the trunk of the car’, as Steve promised, at Amicalola, and then they met me in Hot Springs with the car for me to get to Asheville – and back.”
Opie asked “And then?”
‘and then…’
_____________________________________________
The sun was just thinking of rising on Christmas morning when George Crocker’s body begun thinking about a return to reality. A deep pink on the horizon, made deeper by blurred eyes, crystalized as the wafts of vomit registered in George’s nose and brain. He looked about him – the fire all but gone, tendrils of smoke still rising ‘maybe there’s some life here for a cup of coffee’ a thought that made his stomach turn. He was still covered with his sleeping bag ‘thank god for small favors’ though there were spots of vomit all over it ‘well, that’ll be a challenge’. Then he realized his mouth was tacky, sticky, gooey and dry. After digging around, he found his water bottle under his bag and gave it a shake ‘practically empty – but wetting one’s whistle was better than nothing’. A sip.
“Hey Mikey J – where’s your canteen?”
Silence. Pure. No bugs, no birds chirping, no wind… nada.
George looked around him. ‘Nada-squared’
He got to his knees and stood – stiffly, head pounding ‘I really need some water’ followed by a more urgent ‘I need to pee’. George wandered over to a tree and took a nature break that seemed to last ‘man, I had to pee like a race horse’ forever. He turned and wandered back to the fire ring. There, on the other side, he found Topham’s canteen – heavy ‘full of water’. George fumbled with the cap, got it off and guzzled the water – cold water, that hit his empty gut and came right back up in a watery spew. He wiped his mouth and tried again; slowly, and this time the water stayed put.
“Junior…” he called out weakly “Hey, Bastard…” but there was no reply.
“What the hell” George said aloud to no one but himself. He wandered about the clearing, looking for evidence that the owner of the Aurora Borealis was about. But… nothing. No pack, no sleeping bag, just the canteen full of water. He got back to the fire ring and sat back down – away from the vomit-spewed side he awoke at.
‘What the hell’ this time just to himself ‘where did he go’ and ‘why did he go’ and shortly thereafter he arrived to the ‘Big’ big question ‘did I do it?’ followed by ‘did I kill him?’
The reality of that last question hit George Crocker hard. George wasn’t a violent type ‘everyone knows that’ and he couldn’t reconcile an apparent truth – the certainty of the moment, with the truth of his persona. George tried to replay the evening in his head. ‘We came up here, built a fire, and it got dark’ he though to himself. ‘We had tea and talked’ but then it became a blur.
“He was talking all kinds of stuff.” He said out loud to no one. He tried to pull it all out of his head, but it was a quagmire of names ‘flashes from the past’ that meant something long ago “Some way back in 2011, when ‘Big’ John died.” which made him pause ‘That was an ugly time – a lot of controversy over ownership’ as he thought about those days – signing with the Borealis to broadcast games ‘that crazy opening day in 2012’…
George didn’t realize how long he sat there until the sun began to sweep downward towards the horizon and a chill hit his body – his fatigued body. His hungry body. He stood, with something niggling at the back of his mind that he couldn’t put a finger on, and gathered his stuff and headed back down the trail to the shelter at Double Springs.
December 26, 2033
When the sun rose above the horizon, shining directly on George Crocker’s huddled body lying inside the funky shelter he called home for a night, he awoke with the instant sensation of ‘famished’ hunger. He ate little the night before – despite being hungry, as anything he tried made his stomach turn ‘still getting over that tea’. But now, “I could eat a house” and with that, he bounced up ‘feeling much better today’, built a fire and had a hearty breakfast ‘as hearty as it comes on the trail’.
As he digested his breakfast, George started to repack his things. Although his mind wanted to return to the events of two nights ago, he forced himself to focus on the trail. Having now spent two zeros at Double Springs, he certainly needed to resupply at Damascus – if he was even going to continue ‘didn’t The Bastard say that Hott was hurt and really never started’. “Is it even worth continuing at this point? Shouldn’t I talk to someone about ‘The Bastard’s’ Junior’s disappearance?” but even as those words came out of his mouth his brain was saying ‘no… don’t go there…’
So, it was with that dilemma that George Crocker hit the trail and headed north towards Damascus, Virginia. He played the should he – shouldn’t he game as he hiked the 8-miles to the shelter at Abingdon Gap. He played the Devil’s Advocate over his action or inaction along the mostly downhill trek. He asked himself who would miss Michael Topham, Jr ‘certainly not The Boy Wonder’ and was hard-pressed to find a soul ‘except he signs your checks, George Crocker’ “or does he really even do that.”
Over the three-hour hike, George hemmed and hawed as the trail rose and fell around creeks and streams and rivers, contemplating his plans for the next day. He was just about set in his mind to continue hiking beyond the next stop when, as he approached the shelter at Abingdon Gap, he remembered ‘They’re meeting me in Damascus.’ “’We’ll see you in Damascus,’” Mordred said that - why’ “and he followed that with ‘you should be done by then’, didn’t he?”
George stopped dead in his tracks.
“Done with what?” he said to the universe. ‘Done killing The Bastard?’ “Done committing murder?” Suddenly George felt cold – very cold as a shiver worked it’s way up his spine.
‘Where did he go? Why did he disappear? Did I really kill him? Thoughts were racing through George Crocker’s mind as he slowly walked the last 100-yards to the shelter, dropped his pack, and sat on the crude bed with his hands in his head.
_________________________________________
“I couldn’t sleep that night, so as the sun started to rise, I packed up and hit the road. I kept telling myself that it was all a dream, but when I got into town, there was ‘Susannah’ the car and there were you two – talking to Joe ‘Dandelo’ Collins and his partner.”
George had been talking mostly to the table as he recalled the events of Christmas Eve, Michael Topham, Jr’s disappearance, and George’s arrival in Damascus. When he finished speaking he looked up at ‘Opie’ with a pleading look. “That’s the truth – The Truth! I swear!!”
The sheriffs didn’t respond. They sat in silence, waiting for George to ‘frame myself?’ continue.
“So… I guess the real question here is… Why? or where?” George asked in a pleading tone, searching for answers.
“Tell us, again – what do you know about those two?” ‘Opie’ pointing to the photos of Dandelo and Mordred.
“I’ve told you – they stopped me on the road, they seemed to know me – I mean, they knew me; they knew what I was doing. They followed me and provided me with gear – Geez, ask Steve Hott, he’s the one who hired them – I assumed…”
“We’ve tried to find Mr. Hott, to verify your story, but we have not been able to do so.”
“Do what? Find him or verify my story?” George asked.
‘Opie’s one-word answer was “Yes.”
‘Great…’ “So, what does that mean?” there was almost a whine to Crocker’s voice. A panicky whine.
It was the other sheriff’s turn to point at the photos of Mordred and Dandelo. “These two men? They came to us. They never claimed to be officers of the law. They admitted that they had been hired to assist you with your hike and car – but they insist you hired them, Mr. Crocker. They insist that they never had met you, until you arrived at the trailhead in Georgia.”
George just stared “I…”
“And, more to the point, they told us that they had been approached by Mr. Topham, who confided in them that you had threatened him – threatened to kill him.”
‘THAT’S‘ George Crocker started in his head, yet finished “NOT TRUE!” aloud. “He came to me! I’m telling you – He came to me! He told me THEY wanted me to kill him – and I have no idea why…” ‘but is that true George? Do you really have no idea, or… did… he… tell… you…?’
The sheriff’s continued to question George as he put his head down on the table and just slowly shook it back and forth. He tried to replay the night over again. He tried to make meaning of the cornucopia of loose terms and names that he was able to grasp. They continued to badger him with questions and all he could do was say ‘no’. “None of this makes any sense…” he stopped mid-sentence, and raised his head, eyes wide open with realization; a vision of him puking – puking his guts out for the first time, to words – unpleasant words, ringing in his ears.
“I killed my father…” George said coldly – colder than he remembered the words sounding when they came out of Michael Topham, Jr’s mouth.
“What was that?” ‘Opie’ asked “You killed your father?”
“No! No… not me – Junior. I think I heard him say that. It made me sick and I puked all over myself… but I’m not sure… I was…”
“Not of a clear mind?” Sheriff #1.
“Uh…. Yeah…” George squeezed his eyes tightly as he tried to visualize something and channel the sound into his ears. “I was todash I think…”
“Todash?” both sheriff’s asked “What’s that?”
All George Crocker could do was shake his head. “I don’t know, I was just there – in space; a space; no space… and there were sounds and words and…” George took a deep breath and finished the sentence “and I just can’t remember.”
“Let me get this straight,” Opie said “Michael Topham, Jr, the owner of the Aurora Borealis…”
George interjected quickly “He’s not really the owner.”
“Whatever his title was… is… Topham, Jr killed his father, Michael Topham, Sr, who was the owner of the Aurora Borealis? Do I have that right?”
Once again, George closed his eyes and screwed up his face in concentration searching, listening, before he replied ‘yes’ “I think so.”
“And why would Topham, Jr want to kill his father. What motive would there be?”
Shaking his head, George replied “I don’t know…” ‘that’s not true George. He told you – it’s in there, He told you’
“Is there anyone else who might have had a motive to kill Topham, Sr – or junior, for that matter? What about the other son? William Topham?”
“Chillie Willie? Never – they were two peas in a pod. The Bastard – sorry, Junior was the outcast.”
“And, yet…” Sheriff #1 started, “It was Topham, Jr who ended up in-charge of the ball club upon their father’s death. Sounds like motive for two murders, don’t you think so, Op?”
Opie shook his head. “Sure does.” He turned back to George “Is there anyone else who might have wanted the senior Topham dead?”
‘Is that what this has become about? Big Mikey T’s death? 11-years later, no cause given?’ But George knew how to answer the question. It was a question he had pondered for years, and despite the confusion reigning in his head, there was an unmistakable name that came bubbling out of the todash space.
“Yeah… Chris…”
November 28, 2033
It was a six-hour drive from Damascus to Columbus, Ohio – by way of Charleston, West Virginia, where George Crocker turned onto I-70 - the direct route back to the Denver Metro Area and his home in Boulder, Colorado; feeling like he was almost home – despite it being another 1,200 miles and 18-hours of driving ’16… 16-hours to go in Susannah – she’s just cruzin’ down the highway’. He picked up his phone and made his first call. It went directly to voice mail.
“Hott. Message.”
‘Great’ He dialed the second number and this time his call was answered – as crazy as George Crocker was, Mark Gunter always answered George’s calls. They talked for quite a while.
“I spent the night in jail – Dude… they just gave me finger slop to eat. When I asked for a spoon they said, ‘We’ve heard about you George Crocker…’ I still got it! George Crocker!! Hey, That’s Me!”
“How did you get out,” Mark Gunter asked “if you didn’t have a spoon?”
“In the end, they had nothing on me. No blood, no body – just a missing person, so they let me go. But between you and me, Markie-Mark, the dude was scared. I looked at him and was like, ‘Bra…’.”
The two broadcasters chatted a while longer before Gunter said goodbye. George Crocker smiled ‘life heading back to normal GC’ He couldn’t recall referring to himself as GC ‘I kinda like that’. He put the phone down and as he lifted his hand back towards the steering wheel, he stopped and grabbed the phone and dialed.
“Hott. Message.”
‘Damn’
This time George put the phone down for good and drove. ‘West, young man!’ even if at 51 George Crocker no longer resembled a young man. ‘But you hiked the trail – ok, only 460-odd miles of it, but that was still impressive!’ The sun began setting as he approached Indianapolis, where he’d stop for the night. ‘It’s the pink moment’ he thought to himself and he started to sing. Never mind if George Crocker was a full half a day off in his choice of song – that was George Crocker. You never knew what you’d get.
“It's another tequila sunrise, Stirrin' slowly 'cross the sky, Said goodbye…”
