The Night Owl

Some things are hard to wrap the head around. The world we live in always tries to make sense of it all. But, I’ve been around long enough to know, that some things are just not meant for the human mind to know.

I’m a newspaper photographer. Not one of those big shot, publicity machines. I shoot for the Pickens County Progress. A humble paper that tries to make the lives of our little town meaningful. It’s a public service that most take for granted. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s the closest thing to saving the world that I’ve found in my 52 years on Earth. That’s enough for me.

I walk in to the local hoagie shop, Coach’s Cuts, to grab a quick bite before heading out to my assignment at the new vineyard.

“There’s the night owl! I was wondering when you’d come back to see me.”

Says the Coach himself from the grill.

“Hey Todd, how’s business?”

I say as I brush the rain off my old letterman jacket.

Good old Coach. He’s a retired Fire Lieutenant who felt led by God to open up the shop. He was hot on his heels as a first responder, when he had a dream of a horrible demise in a house fire gone wrong.

You could call it a wake up call. I call it divine intervention.

“These spring showers, are not bringing any mayflowers to my shop.”

He always had a certain way of bringing life to conversations.

The rain started the first of February. Here it is Valentine’s Day and the sky is still crying of a broken heart.

“Maybe you should offer free umbrellas with your food.” I say with a tired grin.

“You might be on to something there. You really are an old wise night owl aren’t ya?”

Night owl. A nickname Coach has been trying to make stick for months. He thought he was clever coming up with it, after I worked a week straight on graveyard shift.

I was following a lead on a big facility under construction on the outskirts of town. No one seemed to know who owned the project. No one really cared enough to find out.

But something was off. There’s tension in the air. I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I’ve been to many a construction site. Hard working men moving like clockwork. Somewhere between a machine and an ant hill.

But these men are not construction workers. No. These guys are in button-up shirts and slacks. There’s no mud on their shoes, no sweat stains.

But there’s backhoes and bulldozers. Forklifts and scissor lifts galore. They’re driving them around, but they aren’t doing any work. Why aren’t they doing any work?

“I wish I could get paid to play Tonka all night, lucky sons of guns.” I said to myself as I leaned over the steering wheel, stretching my aching back. I’d been sitting in this old leather car seat for what seems like a century.

I took a sip of my Racetrac Coffee, it was just barely warm. Good enough for me.

People feel entitled to the best of the best. The latest and greatest. Not me. I’m as happy as a lark, with my 79’ chevelle. My minimum wage ‘ministry’, my camper, my faithful Collie, Rivet, and my lukewarm coffee water.

Look at me, rambling on like an old fool. I am old. But I take care of my self. My body is a temple, or something like that, and I don’t know where to get a newer model. So I figure I best take care of this jalopy.

“Now why are you staring at me like you’re about to go on a long trip? You haven’t left Jasper, since you stumbled in here on three and a half tires.”

That was 27 years ago. I’m not from around here. I was born and reared in a small city called Decorah, Iowa. As soon as I finished school, for photography, I was out of there. I stopped at the state line to kick the dust off my loafers.

To be continued...