The Vagabond

Episode I – Part I – “Max’s Last Day”

Early Morning Weekday Traffic

Centennial, Colorado

“Okay, let me in, buddy. I’m not asking for much. Just a little gap. Pretty please. I need to make that right turn to paradise.”

Pause.

“You can do that for me, can’t you? I’m using my turn signal. And here comes my gradual lane change. Okay. There you go. I knew you could make it happen.”

Danny Cronkite, aged forty-seven, was going through what she liked to say was the hardest part of her job: her morning commute.

Once she got to work, it was easy misery. Just a matter of going to court and talking with the people. Her clients, most of whom wore jail jumpsuits. Judges. Court clerks. And, of course, deputy District Attorneys. Then it was just checking all the boxes and letting the clock tick.

“Thank you, sir. You’re a sweetheart.”

She gave the guy a wave and a smile and then, with some careful working of the standard clutch and a little verbal coaxing, propelled her 1970 VW Microbus in the direction of the courthouse at just north of ten miles per hour.

Keeping her eyes on the car in front of her, she took her right hand off the clutch, a four on the floor, reached over to the passenger seat, and snatched her breakfast from the white bag that sat atop her leather carrying case.

Without looking, she got the sausage biscuit with egg out of its wrapper and took a larger bite than she meant to. After she got most of it down, she set it in her center console, grabbed her coffee mug, and took in a healthy swallow.

The traffic kept moving, slowly. She set her coffee down in the little holder and tapped her cell phone, putting it on speaker. She tapped it again.

“You have three new messages,” came the familiar female voice. Why did it always have to be a female? Would it kill the phone company to find a few guys with pleasant-sounding voices to do recorded voice prompts?

She tapped again.

“First message. Left this morning, at 6:43 a.m.”

It was Nikki, her long-suffering office manager.

“Hey, girlfriend. It’s your last week. I’m going to try and go easy on you. Don’t get mad at me if I start getting choked up.”

Danny smiled and spoke.

“I’m going to miss you, too, hon. Now just get on with it.”

Nikki’s voice returned.

“Just a heads-up. A few additions to this morning’s docket. Three to be exact. They were all arrested and booked late last night. So tack these on to the ones I emailed you.”

Danny took another gulp. It was still hot.

“Delightful.”

She set the coffee down so she could shift into third. The flow was picking up a bit. It was her final week. Why start being late now?

Nikki continued:

“Two of them are repeat customers. Oliverez and Melton. The other one, Bradshaw, I think he’s from out of state. I know Oliverez loves you. Melton, not so much. But you already know all that.”

Danny smiled and bobbed her head a little.

“Melton does too love me. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t keep coming back to see me.”

Nikkie’s voice continued with the message.

“Oliverez and Melton both have new charges and revocations. Bradshaw is a new charge only.”

Danny rolled down the window. Nikki’s morning messages were one of the few things she would miss about the job. Her voice was always calm. And nothing dramatic in her tone either. Drama wasn’t Danny’s thing – especially first thing in the morning.

Nikki’s voice returned.

“People have been asking me if I think you’re going to miss all of this crap.”

Ah, there it was. A bit of drama coming out. Please, Nikki. No. Don’t do that.

Danny grabbed her coffee again and spoke.

“Nikki. I’m going to miss it more than they think I will.”

She took a drink, savored it. Then she said,

“But not as much as they think I should.”

Using her right thumb, she tapped the red button and ended the call. She then slowed as the final light before the courthouse turned red.

Ordinarily, she hated this particular light.

Today, though, it felt different. The clients were in jail. The morning docket would survive if she were a minute or two late. The judge wouldn’t take the bench until eight-thirty anyway.

She took a slow visual survey of the cars around her. All headed the same direction. All of them going to their various places, offering varying degrees of quiet, controlled misery.

The people’s faces were what struck her. And their habits. A guy using his electric shaver. A woman was doing her makeup in her sun visor mirror. Another checking her texts. A guy taking swig after swig from his own coffee mug. Another rubbing his eyes.

She looked at herself in her own rearview. All things considered, not bad. Just enough makeup on her face. And her eyes looked alive and alert. She had slept well the night before.

Then something off to her left caught her eye.

***

It was a billboard. One she had seen many times before.

“WHAT’S THE NEWS IN DENVER? Max Temple knows. Tune in Weekdays at 5.”

And then, right below that, it read, “KDCO – Channel Seven.”

The news wasn’t her thing. She got enough of the “real world” doing her job, talking to people who had allegedly violated the laws of the state of Colorado.

How many times had she seen his face up there, in color, smiling? The way the image was pasted up created the effect not of him looking generically into the camera, but like he was looking at her and her alone.

Then she saw something else.

A group of men. Wearing hard hats.

Two of them had tall ladders. Another carrying some tools. The two with the ladders climbed up on either side of the billboard and, in no more than thirty seconds, caused the image of Max Temple to slide down the posts and land hard on the ground, breaking off a jagged piece.

Be—eeeeep!

“Wake up, lady!”

She glanced in her rearview. An irritated commuter, anxious to get to a job he loved.

“Get a move on.”

She shifted into first and got the Microbus moving again.

Placing her thumb and forefinger on the radio power knob, she spoke to herself.

“Get a move on. Now, there’s an idea.”

As she rolled by, she stole a final look at the face of the anchorman. She imagined his eyes following her.

One of her favorite tunes was playing. She turned up the volume and began tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.

Staggering through the daytime Your image on my mind Passing so close beside you, babe Sometimes the feelings are so hard to hide, but

In my midnight confessions When I’m telling the world that I love you In my midnight confessions When I say all the things that I want to I love you …

***

Max Temple needed a couple more hours of sleep. But nature had called, and he willed his fifty-seven year-old body out of bed and into the bathroom that was connected to the guest room, where he had been sleeping.

He did what he needed to do and was about to flush when he heard a familiar voice. Out front.

The voice belonged to Dierdra. She was on her cell again.

Of course, she was.

“No, look. We’ve discussed it. I don’t want mediation.”

Pause.

“I’ve just had enough. He’s got his career. He’s got his ego. And he’s got me. But that’s not what I signed up for.”

Pause.

“I don’t care if I have to pay him alimony.”

Pause.

“Okay, maintenance. Whatever it’s called nowadays.”

Pause.

“Listen, I’ve just pulled up to the house. I’m on a deadline here. I need to get in, get out, and get over to the property for the open house this afternoon.”

Pause.

“I don’t know if he’s home now or not. He doesn’t go on the air until five. If he’s here, he’s asleep.”

Another pause, and then she said, “Viv. I need to take this.”

Max knew the name. Viv.

Viveca Vorhies. Esquire. Dierdra’s long-time friend, who just happened to be a divorce attorney.

Max listened as Dierdra stepped inside the house. She continued to speak, but this time there was an echo effect to her voice, like she was giving him a little extra torture at no extra charge, letting him hear her words twice.

He moved away from the bathroom window over to the door, which led out to the hallway that led to the stairs and the house’s large entryway.

He put his ear to the door.

Dierdra was speaking again.

“I’m having an open house this afternoon. Four o’clock.”

Pause.

“I’ll be early. Why don’t you come by around 1? You can put me in a good mood – so I can smile and be nice to people.”

She paused again, then said, “The owners are closing on their new place in Florida tomorrow morning. So, the property is all mine – until the lookyloos start arriving.”

She paused again. She was in the entryway. He could feel her looking up at his bedroom door.

“Will you please stop worrying about Max? He’ll be leaving for the station here in a while. He’s on at five, isn’t he?”

Pause.

“I heard him talking to himself the other day. It sounded like he was rehearsing for some therapy session.”

Pause.

“I shouldn’t complain. Better he dump on someone else than do it to me. Speaking of doing it to me. Can I put us down for one o’clock?”

Pause.

“And don’t let anything keep you. Not even a weather emergency.”

Max sat down in his armchair and reminded himself to breathe.

And don’t let anything keep you. Not even a weather emergency.

It was Kyle she had been talking to. Kyle Stapleton. Meteorologist. Channel Seven Accu-Weather.

He went into the restroom and stood by the sink. He listened as she made her way back outside. In seconds, her Range Rover started up and drove away.

And just like that, he was alone again.

***

4:03 p.m. - Channel Seven Building

Max had been the biggest name in the country’s twenty-second-largest media market. He had been the reigning king of the five o’clock time slot for more than two decades.

Today would be his final day on the job.

Sitting inside the BMW, the station had leased for him, he angled the rear-view mirror toward himself. He yanked his tie, still knotted from when he had used it earlier in the week, and wrapped it around his shirt collar. For the briefest moment, a thought ran through his head about the pros and cons of trying to strangle someone with it.

He pushed the idea out of his head. Ridiculous.

He spoke.

“I’m sorry, Charlie. I’ve had enough.”

***

Max entered the KDCO building the way he always did. Through the front, public entrance.

The regular security people, Claire and Marty, were waiting for him by the scanning machine. He placed his wallet, sunglasses, and key fob in the little dish that sat on the conveyor. Then he stepped through and into the building’s large, open atrium.

He was due at the anchor desk in just over half an hour. But after overhearing his wife’s conversation earlier, he didn’t care about that.

He approached the reception desk.

Abigail never seemed to age. It wasn’t that she looked so terribly young. Rather, she looked older than she probably was and always looked exactly the same.

The little nameplate that rested on the counter in front of her read, “Abigail Schumacher – Director of First Impressions.”

As usual, she was talking into her headset. She was turned slightly away from him and hadn’t noticed him.

“Good afternoon, KDCO, Channel Seven. Can I direct your call?”

Brief pause.

“No, Mr. Sendak. I haven’t seen him yet today.”

Another brief pause.

“Yes, when he arrives, I’ll send him right in.”

Pause.

“Good afternoon. KDCO, Channel Seven...”

Then she spotted Max. After transferring the call, she looked up at him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Temple. Mr. Sendak has asked that you stop by his office before tonight’s broadcast.”

Max reached his left hand and jerked his tie.

“Yeah. Sure.”

The phone on the switchboard lit up again.

Abigail looked up. He was still standing there.

“Did you forget something, Mr. Temple?”

He took a long, slow look around the whole place, then returned his attention to the woman.

“No. I don’t think I’ve forgotten a thing.”

***

“Anybody seen Max? He’s due on the set in thirty-two minutes.”

The speaker was Channel Seven station manager, Corey Sendak.

A voice coming from somewhere nearby in the newsroom answered him.

“I saw him coming through security a minute ago.”

“And?”

“But I haven’t seen him since.”

“Very helpful. Just find him.”

There were three knocks on his office door. Two seconds later, Max Temple stepped inside.

***

Max had been expecting to hear what he was now hearing. That made it even worse.

The man – fifteen years Max’s junior – had begun with a smile and friendly tone. That was when Max knew what was coming.

“Max, I wanted to bring you up to speed on what you and I discussed last week.”

“Actually, it was two weeks ago. You were on vacation last week.”

Corey Sendak looked up, then down, before rubbing his chin. “Ah, yes. So, I was.”

Max had never liked Corey Sendak.

It was just – what? – his artificially friendly, overly polished, corporate personality? Sure. That was probably it.

But now, Max was about to get a reason.

“Everything is set. You’ll be getting started first thing next week.”

“It’s all been decided?”

“It’s done, Max. And it’s going to be a great transition for you. It’s one of our most lucrative accounts.”

Max didn’t respond right away. Then he did.

“Splendid Rest? The ultimate funeral plan for you and your family? You’re taking me off the evening slot and having me do commercials for a funeral home?”

Corey Sendak spoke again.

“Look, I know this feels like a bit of cold water. But it’s not going to have any impact on any of your benefits. That was a condition I absolutely insisted on when I met with the board. And I made sure the board members understood that as well.”

Max pinched the bridge of his nose and began pacing.

Corey Sendak spoke again before Max could.

“And, of course, you’ll still be getting some slots on the news desk. Whenever somebody is sick or on vacation, you’re our guy.”

Max shot a glare at the man who was fifteen years younger than he was.

“You want me to get in front of a camera and tell people, with a straight face, just how great things are going to be for their family after one of them dies?”

Max closed his eyes. He was wasting time. He put his head down, brushed past his boss, and left the office.

The sound of his own heavy footsteps echoed down the long hallway that led to the staging area.

This weather report was set to begin in mere minutes.

Max was going to make it one for the ages.

***

Three months and four days later

3:38 p.m.

The light up ahead was yellow. He tapped on the brake. In the short time he had been driving it, he had learned that sudden stops in the old van were not a good idea.

Out of his peripheral, he could see a car running even with him on his right. The car then did a hard, slow-down, and seconds later it was behind him. Another couple of seconds, and it was on his left.

He reached the light, which was now a solid, bright shade of red, and glanced to his left.

He was looking down on it. It was a convertible. Four occupants. A guy was behind the wheel, a girl next to him. Same setup in the back.

Strangely, for that time of day, for that moment, there were no other cars at the light. No one behind either of them.

Max swiveled his head to the left and allowed himself a casual glance at the car and its occupants. It was a classic car. From the early sixties. Maybe 1960. He read the side of the vehicle.

Fairlane.

Max nodded in approval and then realized they were all looking at him.

They all looked to be late teens. The driver looked the oldest, seventeen, probably.

“Excuse me, sir.”

This comment came from the girl in the front seat. She was pretty. Of course, she was. There was a note of exuberance in her voice that can only come from an entitled person of her age.

Max did a quick visual of the traffic light. Still red. He then looked down at her.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a really bad scrape there on your van.”

Max had seen the scrape. And it was bad. He nodded.

“Yeah. I’ve seen it.”

The other girl, the one in the back seat, spoke next.

“And your vehicle is sagging. In the back. I mean, like, really bad.”

“Uh huh. I know that, too. But thanks.”

She was now giving him an annoying, lecturing sort of look, like she was the wise adult and he was the teenager.

She continued.

“I think it might be a good to have it checked out.”

Max wanted to say, “You think so? It never would’ve occurred to me.”

Instead, he said, “Like I said. Thanks. I’ll get right on that.”

“Somethin’s really weighin’ down your suspension. Whatcha transportin’ there, guy? Some dead bodies?”

This comment came from the driver. The kid had an expensive haircut. Too expensive for someone his age. But it went with the car, which was also too expensive. Max was sure the kid’s dad had shelled out some serious money for it and was possibly regretting it.

The kid’s comment brought forth the kind of sarcastic, consequence-free laughter entitled teenagers are known for.

Max allowed himself a quick mental trip back into his own past. He easily could have been with this group. Although, he would have been the kid in the back seat, not the rich one behind the wheel.

Max smiled. It was as much a defensive tactic as a natural reaction. But, with Max, it was hard to tell the difference. The key was not to let anyone know they were getting to you.

And then with the smile off his face, he said, “I never thought of that. I sure hope it’s not dead bodies.”

He looked in front of him again. The light was still red.

***END OF Part I of EPISODE I***

The Author, Chris Rhodes, thanks you for reading!

(Part II of Episode I will appear March 20th)