THIRTEEN MILES

I blame Gail. We were traveling down old Route 66 on sort of a nostalgia trip to celebrate my retirement because Gail had suggested it. Her idea was that we take the ‘71 Buick for a cruise down The Mother Road to see a slice of old Americana. At one time, Route 66 was considered, The Main Street of America, a thriving thoroughfare delivering goods from the Midwest to the Pacific Ocean. It will be fun, she said. Something we’ve never done.” The next thing I knew, we had loaded up, and we were headed west toward the highway where we could “get our kicks, on Route 66.”

About the third day into the trip, Gail announced she was starving. I nodded, anxious to make up for the time we had wasted touring some factory that makes little figurines. As I gave the steering wheel a tug, I noticed that the last rays of the sun were slivering under the horizon. As we headed out of Joplin, Gail decided to give me a piece of useless trivia about the road we were on. She did that a lot.

“Did you realize that Route 66 actually goes through Kansas for only 13 miles?” She was reading an article from her smartphone. “Right in the southeast corner of Kansas.”

She continued, “There’s a little diner there; Jenny’s Place. It’s supposedly the Best on Route 66. That’s what it says.”

We crossed the state line into Kansas. Sure enough, I noticed an old billboard advertising the diner. There was the image of a smiling guy from the ’60s holding a bottle of Coke and a burger. The sign was partially faded. I laughed as I pointed across the dash. “Not much of a place,” I said. “From the looks of the sign.”

And that is when I saw the patrol cruiser hiding behind the bushes under the sign. It was in one of those little speed traps, where the limit goes from 55 to 35 in a heartbeat. After a few seconds, I noticed the flashing blue lights.

“Damn,” I whispered, staring into the rearview.

Gail glanced back, turning her head around. “Oh.”

The cruiser was on our tail, flashing its lights.

“How fast were you going?”

I shrugged. “Not that fast.” I found a place on the shoulder and pulled over to a stop. The officer pulled his car right behind us. The blue flashing lights gave an eerie glow to the landscape. I waited for the officer to emerge, but no one stepped out of the car. Thirty seconds go by. A minute. Two minutes. No one comes to the window.

“What is taking him so long?” I asked.

“Maybe he’s checking your license plate. Making sure you aren’t the next Ax murderer or something.”

I figured Gail was right. So, I waited some more. No sign of anybody. Just flashing lights illuminating the side of the road. After five minutes, I got angry. I decided to get out of the car and walk back to the cruiser. I got to the side and gently tapped on the side window. Nothing. No response. I leaned over, kind of cupped my hands to get a better look inside the dark car, and discovered there was no driver. Back seat? Nope. As I raised up, I looked around to see if he had gotten out the passenger side. Nope. I even walked around the car. Maybe he’d walked away to relieve himself. Nope.

Uneasily, I walked back to the Buick and got in.

“Well….” Gail asked. “Did you talk to the officer?”

“There is no officer.” I stammered. “Nobody’s in the car!”

Gail looked at me as if I had lost my marbles. She muttered under her breath and promptly got out of the car to see for herself. Less than a minute later, she was back in the passenger seat of the car, her face pale white.

“Drive!”

I shook my head. “No, that will only make it worse. Where’s the phone? I’ll call 911 and ask what to do.”

I dialed.

Immediately, the dispatcher came on the line and asked what my emergency was. I gave my name, told her we were on Route 66 and had been pulled over, but the officer seemed to have walked away or something. I didn’t know what to do.

“Yes, sir.” A calm voice said. “Just follow the patrol to the little diner on the corner of Military and Main. Chief Anderson will meet you there and discuss everything with you.”

“You want me to follow the patrol car?”

“Yes, exactly. Just follow it into town.”

The unmanned cruiser had pulled up alongside us, paused for a moment, and then pulled on down the road. I told Gail what the dispatcher had said. She was shaking now. In silence, I started the Buick, put it into gear, and gently started out onto the pavement, keeping my speed under the limit the whole way.

A few minutes later, we were into the town of Baxter. The cruiser pulled into a parking slot, and I pulled the Buick next to it. Gail and I waited. Not sure what to do. Within a couple of minutes, an elderly lady wearing an old-timey sweater and a country dress came out of the restaurant and headed toward the car. I rolled down the window a crack just enough to talk with her but locked the door.

“Hi folks, I’m Jenny McPhail. I see you’ve met one of Baxter Springs finest.”

“Could you tell me….” I started to ask.

She held up her hand. “The police chief will be by any moment and explain it better than I can. I imagine you all are hungry. Why don’t you come in and grab a bite or have a piece of cake while you wait? I make the best chocolate cake on Route 66.”

We got out reluctantly. As we walked into the little diner, it was as if we had entered a portal to the past. The first thing I noticed was the display case with a brass register parked on top. The display case was filled with all kinds of Route 66 memorabilia. A jukebox in the corner was playing Buddy Holly, and every table was lined with red-checkered tablecloths. The walls were covered with old license plates, Kansas 1952. Missouri 1946. Oklahoma 1961. I saw ad signs from Nestle. Burma Shave. Oldsmobile. Remington. Whirlpool. A couple of antique chandeliers hanging above illuminated the whole place. Gail pointed at the ornate copper ceiling, intricately designed. It was beautiful. Not anything like what we expected.

Jenny pointed to a booth on the side and went off to fetch a couple of menus for us.

“This used to be an old bank.” She said, putting the waters down onto the table. “We still have the vault in the back. In the ’20s, when the lead mines were producing, Baxter has a population of almost 25,000. Now, it’s less than 1500. Ever since the Interstate came in, we’ve struggled to keep things going here.” After a moment, she took our order.

About five minutes later, an elderly officer walked into the door, saw Gail and me sitting there, and walked right over. I assumed he was Chief Anderson. I stood up. He smiled, shook my hand, and introduced himself. “I’m Chief Anderson. Baxter Police Department. I imagine you all are wondering what is going on?”

We nodded.

"Well, you’ve been pulled over tonight by Officer Scott Blakeney. He’s been on the force with us for over 12 years, or at least he was.” The Chief paused for effect. “About five years ago, he was ambushed and killed while trying to write a citation. Never found out who did it. Just somebody traveling down Route 66, we imagine. Drug dealer, maybe.”

I was at a loss.

“You mean, we got pulled over by a ghost?” Gail exclaimed.

“Yes, ma’am. Office Blakeney was born and raised here in Baxter. Went to school here. He loved this town. Would have done anything to support it. Most nights, he’d cruise through town and stop here at Jenny’s for a bite. In fact, I don’t know if you can see him, but he always sat at the far end of the counter, right over there.”

I looked over. Sure enough, an officer I hadn’t seen come in was busy eating a burger and fries, oblivious to everything. I started to rise out of my seat, but Anderson caught me. “That’s not necessary. You wouldn’t be able to talk to him anyway. A couple of people have tried. Hell, even I have.”

We watched together for a couple more minutes in silence. Chief Anderson got up. “Listen, folks, I’m not going to give you a ticket. Couldn’t make it stick in a court of law, anyway. We just want to thank you for coming in and supporting one of the local businesses here in Baxter. I’d invite you to eat a bite. Enjoy your meal. Have a piece of cake on me. Sound alright?”

Gail and I nodded, our eyes wide. “You know, we’re fortunate. Officer Blakeney keeps sending folks to us. A couple of times a week, I get a call like the one I got tonight. I like to think he’s doing his part to keep the spirit of Route 66 alive.”

Chief Anderson extended his hand. “I hope we didn’t scare you too bad. Wish you well on the rest of your journey. Good night.”

About the time our meal arrived, the ghost polished off his meal, wiped his mouth, and walked out the door. Actually, sort of glided out. I could have sworn he tipped his hat toward us as he passed by.

So, here’s what I know. If you ever travel down Route 66 and you find yourself on a stretch of 13 miles right near Baxter Springs, be sure to stop in at Jenny’s Place. You might want to pick a souvenir or even have a slice of chocolate cake. We did, and it was something we will never forget.