Good Men Are Hard to Come by

Good Men Are Hard to Come by

The ancient station wagon creaked along the lonely highway in the sweltering summer heat, kicking up dust devils in its wake. Inside the vehicle, the Pittman family engaged in a tumultuous exchange akin to a storm in a teacup. Bailey, the weary patriarch, clutched the steering wheel with whitened knuckles. Beside him, his wife Betty fussed over their cherished feline companion, Buttercup, nestled within a wicker basket. Meanwhile, in the back seat, ten-year-old John Wesley and his six-year-old sister June Star squabbled over the coveted spot by the window.

The root of their discord? Their formidable grandmother. A woman who regarded etiquette as an endangered species and gallantry as a distant memory. Sandwiched between the arguing siblings, she fanned herself with a crumpled newspaper, her voice dripping with disapproval.

"Florida," she muttered, her gaze skimming over the weathered headline detailing a notorious bank robber on the loose. "Nothing but riffraff down there, mark my words. You ought to have heeded my advice, Bailey, and whisked us off to visit cousin Idalee up in Tennessee as I suggested."

Bailey sighed, recognizing this annual debate as a ritual of stubbornness and nostalgia. Each journey, his mother yearned for a time of refined manners, a time she believed existed only in the dusty annals of their family history.

Abruptly, June Star's shrill cry pierced the air. "Look, Mama! A sign!"

The weathered billboard advertised a roadside attraction – "The Eerie Eye, Home of the Freakiest Folks This Side of the Mississippi!" The grandmother scoffed.

"More likely a haven for miscreants," she grumbled.

John Wesley, ever the rebel, interjected, "Sounds intriguing! Can we make a stop, Dad?"

Betty, the peacekeeper, nudged Bailey. "Perhaps a brief respite wouldn't hurt."

Worn down by the ceaseless bickering, Bailey relented. As they pulled into the dusty parking lot, the grandmother lamented the squandered gas money.

The Eerie Eye proved to be an eclectic assortment of curiosities – a two-headed goat (albeit stuffed), a bearded lady (whose beard appeared questionably affixed), and a fortune teller with vacant eyes. Despite the grandmother's lack of amusement, the children were captivated. John Wesley marveled at the "authentic shrunken head," while June Star chased a scrawny clown around the souvenir shop, her laughter echoing through the air.

However, the grandmother found no solace in the spectacle. She remained vigilant, muttering about the moral decay of contemporary society. As they prepared to depart, a commotion erupted near the entrance. A gang of youths, clad in leather jackets and unkempt hair, harassed a young man with fiery red locks. The redhead was pushed to the ground by the leader, a big guy with a smug sneer.Driven by a misguided feeling of moral superiority, the grandma bounded toward them, her pocketbook clenched like a homemade weapon. "You ruffians, stop harassing me right now!" she yelled.

The youths turned, their expressions devoid of surprise. The leader chuckled, a sound devoid of mirth. "Well, well, well. What do we have here, boys? Looks like someone needs a lesson in respect."

Before any action could be taken, the youths descended upon the grandmother. The ensuing struggle was brief yet fierce. Fueled by adrenaline, Bailey rushed to his mother's aid. Betty screamed, holding Buttercup close. John Wesley and June Star stood frozen, their eyes wide with terror.

A strong voice suddenly broke through the confusion. "Leave them be!"

A tall, well-worn man stepped out of the throng. His face showed the scars of a hard life spent in the sun, even though he was wearing mechanic's overalls. He held a tire iron in his hand that gleamed dangerously in the sun.

The youths halted, startled by the involvement. But the leader didn't back down. He snarled, "Who do you think you are, old man?"

Without a word, the man approached the injured grandmother, his expression filled with concern. Gently, he helped her to her feet. Though shaken, the grandmother managed a feeble expression of gratitude.

Sensing their impending defeat, the youths retreated. The man turned to Bailey, his gaze understanding. "Are you folks alright? Seems like you could use a hand."

Bailey, shaken yet grateful, nodded. "We're alright, thank you. Your intervention was much appreciated."

The man offered a somber smile. "A true gentleman is a rare find these days," he remarked, his voice hoarse. "Seems like trouble has a way of finding you instead."

With a nod, the man retreated into the dusty depths of The Eerie Eye.