Grabber

“There is no more noble way to spend these years than to become an elder, to bear witness to the world as placeholders for peace, love, wisdom, and fearlessness.” —Kathleen Dowling Singh--


The Arkansas Park Service Ranger’s truck pulled up alongside the solitary, slightly bent figure walking along the trail. He was dressed in an old army issue fatigue shirt with the sleeves cut off, faded blue jeans and sneakers. A beige ball cap announcing “Old Guys Rule” rested atop his snow-white head. As usual, he was carrying a large plastic bag that fluttered slightly in the breeze, and a three-foot long reach-grabber that made it easy to grip and pick up items without bending down.

As the driver pulled alongside the man, he turned down the throbbing beat pulsating from the radio; the ranger on the passenger side yelled, “Hey old fella, what’s the haps?”

“Hey, there they are!” replied the old man, a bright, toothy smile lighting up his chiseled, still handsome face.

“Takin’ it a day at a time, fellas.” It’s a good day t ’day; so good, I be grinnin' like a possum eatin' a sweet tater."

Exiting their truck the rangers, in their pressed khaki uniforms and ‘smokey the bear’ hats laughed, one saying, “I guess things don’t get much better than that.”

“Well, ‘cept for the fact that I’m kinda, ‘pre-ancient.’ Ya’ know, I’m movin’ into that ‘older than Adam zone,’ but I can’t complain. Now, my wife’s gonna say she’s just of a ‘certain age.’ You know what I’m sayin?”

“I heard that,” said one of the park rangers smiling broadly, the other nodding his head in agreement.

The old fellow continued, “Here’s how I’m really feelin.’ Kinda-like back in a day when those two, funny-cigarette-smokin’ hippies, Cheech and Chong said something like:

“I’m happy happy, old but scrappy. Ain’t too proud to bitch. Only my old lady loves me, but she may be jivein’ too.” He chortled.

“What do you young folks say these days? You feelin’ me, man?”

“Yeah, pops, we got you. Sounds good. How’s your work going today? Ain’t over doing it are ya’?”

“My work? Youse the onliest ones I see out on this trail bein’ paid for what they doing.”

Then mounting his soapbox said, “Look here fellas. Y’all need to stop fillin’ your heads with that fool hip-hoppy, rap music, and get yourself listenin’ to some Jefferson Airplane. ‘Cause if you listened to some Jefferson Airplane you’d know I’s what you might call a ‘Volunteer of America.’ Yes sir…that be me.”

“Well, we're going to have to look into that…Jefferson Airplane, huh.”

“Rap?” The old guy grunted. “I mean, please. Here we are out on the Ozark Trail in beautiful Arkansas. Y’all gots your wildflowers, your wildlife, this here old creek. Mercy me, if you ain’t gonna listen to no classic Rock and Roll, at least you should play you some Country tunes. We be in God’s country out here brother…or what you guys say these days… ‘Bruh.’

“Got ya’ Pops,” said one of the rangers, pulling down his hat a bit to shield the sun.

Now on a roll the old guy continued to tease. “Hey, you guys know what ya’ get when ya’ play a country song backwards?”

“Ahh…no, what?”

“You get your truck back, your wife back and your dog back” chuckled the old man. “It’s all ‘bout the music guys.”

This time the rangers broke into a hearty laugh.

“But anyhow, I been walkin’ and pickin’ up trash for an hour or so. Getting’ my steps in, you know? Volunteerin’ for America.”

The rangers smiled, one saying, “Doing a good job of it I see. Not a bottle or can in sight.”

“Yeah, them dopey, litterin’ fools. I’ll tell you what, them clowns ain’t got the sense God gave a goose. Some folks jus’ have no respect for the ‘nvironment. Throwin’ stuff all over the place, junkin’ up the grounds, dirtyin’ up the creek. Talk about bein’ dumber than a box of rocks. It’s a disgrace. That’s what it is.”

“An’ what’s worse than them fools trashing up the place is now we gots throw-away people. You know the homeless, the unsheltered, living out here along the creek with nuthin’ but tents and sleeping bags. Wha’ kinda’ country allows that to happen?”

The rangers glanced at one another and looked down somewhat sheepishly.

“Anyways I make myself useful. Lord knows I gots the time…been retired for a coupla-three decades now, so let’s just say this is my mission…my job in these elder years. Grab up the junk, take it home and dump it in the recycle bin.”

“Use ta’ be easier. But now wit bendin’ down and all. These days, I use my handy-dandy, grabber tool…best invention since them ‘I-talians’ come up with pizza. Yeah, man, this here grabber is a God-sent. Thank you, Jesus.”

The rangers looked at each other, grinned and stifled a laugh. One said, “That’s fire man.” Then added, “you know what Pops? We oughta’ nickname you ‘Grabber.’ We sure do appreciate your help keeping the trail lookin’ good.”

“Grabber, huh? Hmm…not nothin’ to sneeze at.” He chuckled saying, “Sure been called worse now and again in my days.”

“Listen Grabber about those homeless folks. Nobody’s been messing with you, right? Cause, some of ‘em have some serious mental health problems.”

“Me? Hell no! Shoot, sometimes me and my old lady fix up bags with can goods, a drink and a snack and hand ‘em out to ‘em. Nah, folks appreciate that. I makes a lot of friends out here. Poor souls.”

Then getting serious he added, “cept when the po-lice come around and roust everybody up, tearin’ up they encampments, and kickin’ ‘em out. Is that any way to solve a problem? Those folks need help, a place to live, food, an’ medical care, not some fools coming around using a sledgehammer to crack a nut.”

“Yeah, Pops. The whole thing is sick. There’s gotta’ be a better way. Sadly, it’s above our pay grade.”

“Listen,” the ranger continued. “We’re out here today warning folks there’s been a mountain lion sighting along the Trail. We don’t see ‘em much in the Ozarks, and they don’t normally confront humans. But y’all need to be alert and careful, ‘specially when carrying food for the poor folks livin’ out here.”

Continuing he said, “Those cats can see you, but you won’t see them watchin’ you. And they sure can smell any food you’re carrying. So, watch your six. If you do encounter a mountain lion, just stop, don’t run. Stand your ground. He’ll probably run away.”

“Copy that, I’ll finish up and head home. I ain’t feelin like bein’ some cats lunch today” said the old guy as the Park Rangers returned to their truck and drove away.

A few days later, making his rounds the old man hears what he thought was a low growl coming out of the tree line above the trail. He stopped and scoped the area…there, there it was!

The silver-grey head slowly appeared edging out of the forest, its ears erect. Its body slender and muscular. He hunched there for a few moments as if to leap into action and just stared at the old man.

Then, baring its teeth and emitting a slight snarl it began to slowly, cautiously inch toward its prey.

The old man stood as tall as he could while keeping his eyes fixed on the beast. He could hear his heart beating, feel his body sweating, reminding him of a time long ago, lost and terrified in the elephant grass of Vietnam; the first time he feared death. The first time he recognized the absolute poverty of the flesh, the fragility of existence, of terror on every side.

“Well now,” he roared at the lion, “If you’re here, who’s runnin’ hell?”

The cat, now about twenty-five feet away, stopped as if considering its options. It preferred to ambush its prey, attacking from behind with one powerful leap and going for the jugular. But they were face to face and this prey was not running away. It just kept staring. The lion preferred easier fare--deer, goats, and bighorn sheep. Humans? Not so much…except for children and the weak. Yes…this one smelt weak.

Indeed, the old-timer smelled his own fear—smelled the cat too—a combination of dirt and blood and scat. He thought ‘be not afraid’ and yelled, “If you don't watch out, me and this here grabber are gonna cream yo' corn. Y’all needs to move on. There’s fresh meat out a’ways for you and your family. So, git on.”

The lion, leaned back on its haunches, ready to strike, saliva now dripping from its eager jaws.

Suddenly, the old man breaks the grabber, shaped it into a crucifix, and held it out away from his body. He screamed, “You done scared the pee outta’ me, hell cat. But you ain’t gonna git past this” as he waved the cross up over his head.

Just then, from somewhere down the trail, the pulsating beat of a rap song filled the air. The lion jerked its head, frightened—too much noise, too many humans around-- backs up, gives one last snarl, and runs off.

The old man lowers the cross and shutters in disbelief. Looking down the trail he spies the park ranger truck slowly drawing near, the now very sweet sound of rap music bringing a smile to his face.

THE END

Copyright: 2024

Gerald R. Gioglio is the author of Marching to a Silent Tune: A Journey from We Shall to Hell No. Available from Amazon.com.