Ed…His Hopes, His Dreams

Having just retired from the workplace, I’m about to realize a lifelong dream. I’m tellin’ ya’, good stuff is gonna’ happen
Yessir, I’m settin’ up shop and goin’ into business for myself. Well, maybe that’s not quite an accurate statement. Actually it’ll be one of them “joint ventures.” A partner is actively involved. You’ll be hearing much about him later, but for now he must remain incognito.
Details are somewhat fuzzy at this early phase of my planning. However, I feel absolutely certain this blueprint will enable me to join that elite group listed in “fortune 500.”
As per expected, the sailing hasn’t been smooth. Bumps have been encountered along the way, pitfalls were numerous, stonewalls everywhere, snags a daily ritual for 55 years. And yet a steady methodical progress, though slow in developing, is being made.
A big, big problem must be overcome. I’ve spent those years as a peon doing menial labor. Dirty hands, tattered clothing, hazardous working conditions, the very lowest wage bracket…these have been my sorry lot.
I’ve listened to the vulgar language of hardhats on construction sites, more of the same from sailors aboard ship, and heard the foulest mouths of all…the female teenagers of this modern generation ( Truly unreal. The boys wearin’ bell-bottom trousers are no longer champs of the filth department. Sweet little Mary and Peggy Sue have walked away with those dubious honors ).
I’ve mingled half-a-century with the crude, rude, uncouth and rough-hewn people who reside on this third planet from the sun. Such is not good training for entering the world of big business, Thus, habits of long standing must be broken, cast off like the dead skin of a molting reptile.
Tact, diplomacy, etiquette…MANNERS! All admirable traits which are an absolute necessity for the businessman dealing with the public. Unfortunately I’m sorely lacking in these departments, so I’ve enrolled in night classes at New River Community College to boost my standing in those categories. Hopefully these courses will improve my manners and “teach me how to act in front of people.”
But alas, my first two report cards were quite discouraging, did little to boost my hopes. I made E’s and F’s right down the line. The teacher offered this advice, which is probably a correct summation: “You’re gonna’ hafta’ bring them grades up.”
It’s not clear at this stage of the proceedings just what my “job title” might be. Don’t know if I’ll be a CEO, Chairman of the Board, Business Tycoon, or Mogul. However, seein’ as how I’ll be a partner and fifty-percent owner , my starting position will most certainly be one of high ranking.
It’s a proven fact that the quickest way to start at the top of the ladder is to own that climbing device…or your own private corporation. Then ya just walk over, get aboard yer pogo stick, do some calculating so ya’ don’t overshoot yer mark, and catapult right up to the top rung ( extreme caution is advised when using pogo sticks ). I miscalculated on my first attempt, and went zooming upward to the uppermost limbs of a huge maple tree. Took the combined efforts of 4 fire departments, three rescue squads, two hovering helicopters and Allen Neely’s cherry-picker to get me down from that lofty perch.
That pogo stick is goin’ to a flea-market come Saturday morning.
By the way, Ed is my partner’s name…Ed Walters. Most folks in these parts don’t know Ed, so let me tell you about the gent. After all, the idea for our joint business venture originated with him.
This, then, is not my story. This is Ed’s story…

Ed Walters is not a native Giles Countian, having arrived in our area just 3 short years ago. One day he wasn’t here, next day Ed dropped down from the blue, took a look around and liked what he saw. He decided to remain and has been here since.
Very little is known about Ed’s origin. His background, to say the very least, is sketchy and clouded. Actually, it’s downright mysterious, and all of my many attempts to unravel the enigma has ended in frustration.
This fact has led to widespread conjecture and speculation. Our local gossip-mongers, those “tongue waggers” you’re all familiar with, have had a field day: “ I hear this fella’ Walters is a CIA agent, sent here on a mysterious mission that no person, not even the local police, seem to know anything about.” Hmm, cloak and dagger stuff.
A few days ago a bloke had this to say: “ A major oil firm has discovered that Giles County is floating on a sea of oil. Billions of barrels of bubbly crude are neath our feet. Ed Walters is the petroleum expert sent here to tap this fantastic supply of energy.” I’ve always refrained from such wild ranting and reckless rumor-mongering, so I passed that along to only 722 friends and neighbors.
Listen here pilgrim, expect to see an overwhelming influx of oil executives in our neck-of-the-woods. OPEC will move it’s international headquarters to our County next week. Such a vast migration will surely burden the smooth functioning of our water and sewer facilities. Which can mean but one thing…utility rates will skyrocket in Narz and Parseburg. All because of this durn crude we’re sittin’ on.
The rumors being tossed around are unlimited in scope, know no boundaries.
Just yesterday a local busybody pulled me aside and whispered an interesting tidbit in my ear: “What I’m about to say is confidential, so keep yer big mouth shut. A high-ranking government official, speaking on terms he remain anonymous, has told me Ed Walters is an emissary from the stars, dispatched to Earth by a Galactic Federation to help us with our woes and ailments ( Holy cow! Shades of “ The Day The Earth Stood Still.” ).
Well Ed old boy, better roll up your sleeves to the shoulder. Many hard decades of work will be required to clean up the mess on this third planet from the sun.
Really though, this seems a logical explanation for Ed’s sudden appearance among us. It’ll take the intervention of a superior space-intelligence, advanced far beyond anything we know, to bring about some semblance of order here on the orb where we live ( wonder where Ed has his UFO hid? I’d like to get a close-up look at that danged thing, especially it’s propulsion system ).
Where do these cosmic “visitors” come from? Why are they here? Maybe better these mysteries remain unsolved, because the answers might scare us out of our wits. I believe their coming will mean congestive heart failure for billions of earthlings.
Two sources in the universe are mentioned frequently as a probable home base for alien vehicles arriving in our sector of the Milky Way. These enigmatic spacecraft, capable of interstellar voyages, are likely coming from the star Epsilon Eridani, or possibly Zeta II Reticuli. Both are way, way out yonder, and your Ford won’t make the trip.
Owners of Japanese cars shouldn’t begin that journey either. You’ll get stranded and marooned before getting halfway to Mars!
Ed is my friend, and I’ve learned much about him lately. Ed Walters is a man of keen observation, and equal “business savvy.” Ed is my partner, and I’m not lettin’ him outta’ my sight.
Cause Ed and me are about to strike that elusive mother-lode….

Ed Walters, the man. Time for introductions. Mr. Walters is that familiar thick-set figure often seen in the vicinity of Hardees, Big Teeburger and Dairy Queen in Pearisburg. Standing motionless on the sidewalks and paved lots there…standing and watching. And watching and looking.
Ed is not a sitter…he’s a “stander.” Hour after hour after hour he maintains that upright posture. Gazing down at the ground, reaching for bits of paper and other debris there.
Staring upward at the sky above, though in all his years unable to grasp any of the silver clouds floating across the firmament. For Ed, as for millions of us, the “silver lining” will eternally remain a figure of speech, forever beyond our grasp.
But Ed keeps looking. At the limestone cliffs across the road, peering intently at approaching vehicles, a quizzical smile for the occupants as they go speeding past. Ed is interested in the world around him and sees all.
Large of frame, he projects the image of a weightlifting champion who has tossed the barbells around for many seasons. Thick of shoulder and torso, hands the size of hams.
I believe this man could enter the phony world of wrestling and give a good account of himself. He’d rank right up there with those champion
“grunters,” maybe even wear that wide belt studded with fake jewels. In a word, Ed looks “stout.” While at the same time exuding the impishness of an elf.
Thinning gray hair is a stark contrast to his swarthy, weather-beaten face. Ed is decidedly dark of complexion, a walking advertisement for that highly desirable and much sought-after “California look.”
The eyes, deep-set and dark amid valleys of wrinkles. Ed’s eyes have seen many things. Often they are filled with a brooding sadness, while in the same instant glowing with a glint of mischief.
Ed hasn’t yet read the Surgeon General’s warning about the dangers of tobacco. He just keeps on puffin’ and puffin’…and then puffs some more!
Then again maybe he has read that label on cigarette packages. If so, he totally disregards it’s dire message. I believe ya’ might call Ed a “chain smoker.” He also has a weakness for fine cigars. Ed’s favorite cigars cost a buck each, an amount of cash seldom in his pocket.
Perhaps the above descriptions are vague and amateurish, and you still can’t readily identify the fella.’ Look for columns of smoke billowing up into the stratosphere when driving thru “Restaurant Row” in Pearisburg. A lone figure stands at the base of that column…you’ve met Ed.
He’s my partner. And me and him are gonna’ get rich. From rags to riches, from the have-nots to the haves. And Ed and I are gonna’ do it overnight…

Ed Walters has ardently sought employment since arriving in our area, but as yet has met with little success. As a matter of fact, none. Promises galore have been made to put him on the payroll…none have been honored.
“Wilkinson, I’ve tried everywhere to get a job, but can’t. Wonder why they won’t hire me?” His puzzlement is always genuine. Ed voices great concern because his efforts have failed so miserably.
A troubled look clouds his craggy features, a bewilderment wells in his dark eyes. His deeply tanned brow evidences even more wrinkles. Ed has questions that surely merit answers.
“Ed old boy, it may well be that your age is working against you. I’m not absolutely certain, but it is a point to ponder.”
“Hadn’t thought of that. You reckon my age is keepin’ me from getting a job?”
Consoling a man who is desperately seeking gainful employment is a very difficult task. Moral support in such instances is completely useless. Slaps on the back are no better.
“Ed, you and me are in the same boat. Let’s face it pal. We’re gittin’ ancient.”
“Guess you’re right,” Mr. Walters replied. He sounded not one bit consoled.
My curiosity was now aroused, thus the question one cannot ask a woman: “By the way, Ed. How old are you?”
Thinking for several seconds, he finally responded: “My mother says 71, but I’m older.”
Not quite understanding, I tried to sort things out: “You don’t have a birth certificate?”
“Reckon not, least I ain’t never seen one. Wonder where I could get one of ‘em?”
“Ed, why doubt your mother’s word? How old are you thinking you might be?”
Without any hesitation whatsoever he replied: “I’m 124.”
I believe a shrill whistling escaped my lips, after which I added : “Whoooee!” True enough Ed had been around fer a spell. But if he’s right about his longevity on this earth, then the gent is certainly spry for his age. I didn’t pursue any further interrogation about his mother, a lady Ed insists is alive and well. If true, the lady undoubtedly is in one of “them thar” homes specializing in “care for the elderly.” Assuming Ed is 124, then she must be…
I thought of offering assistance to my friend in getting a birth certificate, then decided such a notion was foolish. Suppose Ed is 124. Shucks man, they didn’t keep such records back in “them there” days. Egads man, six score and four years ago! Wuzn’t no Bureau of Vital Statistics!!
Mr. Walter’s search for work is narrowed to one specific field. You see, Ed has a fixation with restaurants, seems to fancy himself not merely a “cook,” but a world-class chef.
Our whole business venture, our partnership, is directed toward his achieving a lifelong dream. Of having his very own kitchen. Of having fastidious diners to drool over his recipes. Of barking orders to dozens of world-renowned chefs, all of ‘em imported from France and Germany. Each and every one under Ed’s tutelage and command.
Ed and I are goin’ bigtime where the lights are bright…

Imagine, in Pearisburg, a building of red brick. Situated twixt In-Out Mart and a car-wash, a ravenous crowd gobbles down hamburgers and hotdogs inside. A restaurant, owned and operated by Mr. Odell Ratcliffe.
From the outset, from the moment he arrived in these parts, Ed has made this eating establishment his “base of operations.” The diner is Ed’s headquarters, a hub for “hammering out strategy,” a center for whiling away idle time. A center for planning…and dreaming. This building is Ed’s world, the people who gather there his “family.”
An excellent choice too. Odell’s is a good place where fine folks congregate. No high-brow formality, the pomp-and-circumstance has been dispensed with, toted out the back door and dumped in the garbage can.
No jet-setters in Odell’s hamburger palace, nary a stiff-collar. Just plain ordinary folks, early-rising, hard-working humans who earn a living by physical labor and sweat of the brow.
And that very simple reason explains why these who patronize Odell’s are sorely lacking in one commodity. You see, they don’t have an “attitude problem.” Maybe you’ve noticed. That ugly thing, in this cruel world where we live, is widespread, prevalent. “Attitude” is everywhere!
Listen here pilgrim, America is really making progress. We’ve progressed from “the land of opportunity” to what we’ve become…”the land of attitude.”We’re headed for a real big crash!
But Odell’s diner remains an oasis in a world of “attitudes,” a buffer-zone free of contempt and vileness. The people who enter therein have their heads set at the proper tilt…their heads “ ain’t screwed on wrong.” Sensible folks, they view this topsy-turvy world in the proper perspective. They’re a caring group, compassionate, God-fearing people willing to lend a helping hand to a worthy cause. The patrons at Odell’s will take up the gauntlet for the underdog!
Ed can be considered an underdog. Life has not been a bed of roses for this man. He has known harshness and tragedy on an extensive scale. Certainly he’s disadvantaged in this fast-paced world where ungratefulness is at a record high and still soaring upward. We look at our fellowman and say: “Hooray for me and you go to ----.” Meaning that place where an unimaginably evil creature, horned, hooved, and resplendent with forked tail, keeps busy stoking furnaces.
I believe those ovens will very soon be put to extensive use. Not even if our orbiting mudball stands 5 billion more years can the human race get any meaner. Dope, greed…hey pal, we’re evil. How long do you think THE BOSS will allow this earthly “experiment” to continue?
I think HE sits up there looking down with disappointment, disgusted, contemplating, wrath in his eyes. I believe HE’S ready to take that big eraser and cancel out this project “gone sour.”
Ed sensed no hardened hearts at Odells. After many long years of fruitless search Ed felt he “belonged.”
Finally he had found family…

Ed and me launched into serious talks very soon after becoming acquainted. Like two long-lost brothers reuniting after a 20 year separation, we told of our respective pasts. I made him aware of my many hundreds of dismal failures along the pathways of life, and in turn learned Ed has also journeyed a rocky road.
All this happened within 48 hours of our initial meeting. Such a rapid friendship requires mutual respect, the ability to give and take…and tons of trust.
In this particular instance everything has worked out well. Ed has “squared” with me…all has been aboveboard. Showing my appreciation for his honesty, I haven’t resorted to “hoodooism” in my dealings with him.
Our newly-formed alliance was only in it’s third day when Ed informed me of some heartening new he’d received. “Wilkie, I got myself a job.” The spirited tone of his voice was filled with elation, indicating a mood most jubilant.
Only one response seemed appropriate: “Great Ed, great ( I felt tempted to say “super” in keeping with the modern-day tendency to literally murder the English language ).
Enlisting the services of several linguistic experts, I’ve finally been able to decipher the jargon of today’s “groovies.” I’m “hip” to all that street jive, but really such babbling is far-removed from my generation. Excepting, of course, those few morons who think they can recapture their youth. Well, a tad of news fer ‘em. Kiss it goodbye, pal. It’s long gone, so they can
begin anew speaking the language of their generation!
I felt really good about the gentle giant Ed, and how it seemed his future, with gainful employment, looked a lot rosier ( Ed often refers to himself as a “street person” but it ain’t so ).
“Old buddy, where are you going to work, and when?” This matter was becoming suspense-filled.
“Odell wants to put me in charge of his kitchen. He’s turnin’ the whole thing over to me, even buyin’ me a new car to drive to work. Guess he wants to make sure I’m on time.”
Good news indeed. Recalling Ed’s infatuation with restaurants, I commented: “Geez man, having your very own kitchen. Just think Ed. At last your chef e4xpertise can come into play. Barkin’ orders to staff. Seeing happy faces on the face of the dining public. Watchin’ ‘em gobble down that continental cuisine. Old chap, I wish you well, and would like to be the first to offer congratulations. And Ed…put in a good word for me with Odell. Maybe he needs a dishwasher. That position oughta’ be worth a pretty decent used car.”
“Okay friend,” he said. I’ll tell him you’re good in sinks and suds.”
“Well Ed, I know the where of your employment. How about the when?”
He fidgeted, hesitated. Finally the man from the school of hard knocks answered: “Wilkie, theres a catch…

Ed had made everything sound so very rosy. That is, until he’d uttered the awful word…”catch.” “But there’s a catch,” he’d said.
Our English language contains two words which, in most instances, have little or no relationship. One is the aforementioned “catch” ( as in “Hey, butterfingers, catch the ball.” )
The other is that ever-looming “if” ( as in “If’n a bullfrog had wings.”)
Catch…a very interesting word with many different meanings. Of course, one must hang on to the ball if he’s to be credited with a “catch.” A fella’ ambles down to the banks of New River to “catch” a string of catfish. One certainly doesn’t want to “catch” his death of cold. The track star, confident of his dazzling speed in the 100 yard dash, looks over at his opponent and growls in a cocky manner: “Hey slewfoot, I’m givin’ you a 10 yard headstart and I’ll catch you before the halfway mark.” Many, many uses for the word, catch.
No need gittin’ into long-winded definitions about “if.” That little devil keeps us all below the poverty level instead of living the grandiose lifestyles of a Donald Trump.
Catch…and if.Hear me, in the context put forth by Ed the two were real, real closely correlated. Somethin’ like two peas in a pod. In this context, Mr. Walters meant he’d run into a solid brickwall.
“Okay Ed. So there’s a catch. How do you mean?”
Ed sent a gravel on it’s merry way down the sidewalk with his big brogue while answering: “I ain’t got no drivers permit. Odell says I can’t start work till I get one.”
“And he won’t deliver that new car until you’re a member of the organization? Right?”
“Don’t think so.” Ed projected an image most gloomy.
“Old buddy, you oughta’ be able to get a driver’s license.” I tried to sound supportive. “By the way, how long have you been without a permit to operate a motorcar?”
Ed’s answer cast an entirely different light on the scene: “Ain’t had one since 1940”…

Ed and I have one thing very much in common…problems. Both of us are besieged by the burdensome critters, they have a stranglehold on us and won’t let go
Generally speaking, problems come in two sizes. The minor types are one, and major calamities the other. Firstly, let’s examine “them there” minor vexations, place ‘em under the all-seeing eye of a powerful microscope. Let’s really scrutinize the danged things. A fella’ can easily maneuver around these irritable little devils with only a minimal outpouring of energy. Just a mere smidgen of imagination will shoo them on their way.
Many options are available fer dealin’ with pesky problems that are teensy-weensy sized. Your choices are virtually unlimited. They can be side-tracked, swept under the nearest carpet, stored away in a closet, secreted from view behind a clump of broomsage ( if’n broomsage ain’t growin’ on your property, a dense growth of stickweeds are an able substitute. These can ensure your problems are safe from prying eyes. Thickets of wild rose-bushes can serve the same purpose.).
Problems can be flushed down the commode, sent into orbit via rocket, tossed down a laundry chute, set in concrete, or dropped into the briny deep ( where Jaws can dispose of ‘em permanently ).
Multitudes of folks find solace in a ho-hum attitude when confronting problems. A sneaky ploy which allows a complete ignoring of minor woes. This route, however, is not recommended. The buildup inside is rapid, drowning comes quickly.
Many people shift the weight of problems from their own shoulders to those of friends, neighbors, or even complete strangers. This is known as “taking the easy way out,” which in reality means shirking responsibility. Widespread is this strategic gem, America flounders in it.
Let’s suppose none of the above can resolve that irksome problem, small though it may be. There is one final method, albeit an extreme one, that can help you wipe the slate clean and get a fresh start. Do the right thing, gain new stature among your creditors. Trot on down to your local bank. Withdraw the proper amount of moldy old money…pay the man what you owe him!
Just recently Ed and I were hashing things over, and in that gabfest we made a momentous decision. Each and every inhabitant of Giles County are cordially invited to bring their problems to our respective front doors. But only those minor, non-financial ones ( y’all keep the big ‘uns ). Don’t knock, just barge thru the portals and dump yer dirty laundry in our parlors. You can then depart the premises with comfort in your souls, knowing Ed and I can ably handle the situation ( because of experience. Combined, the two of us have the problems of 37,431 people on our shoulders. A few more won’t matter.).
Ed has known more than his fair share of major problems too. I mean…124 years with no birth certificate to back that claim? Being without a driver’s permit 52 years? A most unusual story about his permit to operate a motor vehicle.
Unusual. And very, very frightening…

What, in your considered opinion, is the world’s most dangerous job? Note carefully the wording of that question. It doesn’t ask for generalities ( what are SOME, or AMONG the most dangerous occupations? ). This query earnestly seeks a specific…what is THE most dangerous?
Just recently I conducted a poll to help clear the air of this all-important matter, a truly pertinent theme for these perilous times in which we live. Dialing 1000 numbers over a 10 county area, my arduous task is now completed . None too surprising, the final results are not too surprising.
Posing this question to any group will invariably bring a wide range of answers. In this particular instance some were sensible and close to being right. Others were off the mark by several miles and, as one might have guessed, the rambling incoherent babblings of wise guys who are not even sure of their present home address, much less which occupation is most hazardous to human life.
( One nut said pickin’ grapes is the most dangerous. Somethin’ or other to do with a certain insect that dwells among the clusters of fruit. Our conversation ended in a rather abrupt fashion. I severed the phone connection by hanging up. I’ve no doubt whatsoever about the status of that dingbat…he’s fruitier than fruit. ).
What is the most perilous profession known to man?
Curious about this topic for a lifetime, a few short weeks ago that curiosity rose to a fever-pitch level, an intensity that demanded a probing, in-depth investigation. The dialing commenced.
Not unexpectedly, two of the most common responses…policemen and firemen. But did you know this? Farming is far more dangerous than law-enforcement or fighting fires. More farmers are killed when tractors overturn on them than either police or fire department lose in the line of duty.
Many of those contacted by phone seemed convinced that climbing mountains was the most perilous line a man can pursue. Plunging headlong from steep cliffs, lungs collapsing at high altitudes, meeting up with bears ( the correct pronunciation is BARZ ).
Hospital workers are a high risk bunch. Them folks gotta’ wear rubber gloves when on duty. Tell ya’ right now, the human race has reached lowly depths…become real, real nasty. We’re crawlin’ alive with bugs what ain’t good fer our health. Shucks, I’m fearful of shaking hands with my neighbor. If’n I wuz in the doctorin’ business I wouldn’t feel safe with only rubber gloves. I’d want the whole kit,,,I’d wear the complete scuba-diving gear!! Then consult with my patients only through glass partitions.
Some clarifications here and now concerning this chapter. Think not for one minute it has deviated from our on-going adventure with Ed Walters. This chapter dovetails right in.
Cause listen neighbor, Ed once worked at the world’s most dangerous line of work…

My telephone poll made one conclusive determination and cast a glaring light on a fact that cannot be denied…not one person in a thousand is knowledgeable about the world’s most hazardous job. Surely that point was proved beyond all reasonable doubt with a crystal clear clarity. The phone responses ran the gamut from A to Z. They included the really far-out and wildest bunch of idiotic rantings that made no sense whatever. “Anaconda hunting,” one smart-aleck blurted.
As you might recall, the anaconda is the largest snake around, truly a humdinger in girth and length. Reptiles just don’t come any bigger than this one. Called by natives “the green death,” the anaconda patrols the murky Amazon waters in search of…well, canoers who might have tipped their boat over. The writhing monster wraps a few gigantic coils aroung the hapless river mariners and it’s all over ‘cept the shoutin.’
However, huntin’ snakes is certainly not the most dangerous job. As a matter of fact it shouldn’t even be catergorized as work. More like a sport, a hobby for eccentrics with little or nothing to do ( about like walkin’ 2,000 miles of mountain ridge with stick in hand and a ponderous load on yer back. You know, Maine to Georgia.).
“Zoo keepers are involved in the most dangerous work,” said another contactee. This goonie musta’ been a Rhodes Scholar. I mean, where’s the danger in feedin’ sweet taters and celery to a troop of apes? Especially when the poor beasts are locked behind steel bars. Again I slammed the phone down, this time doing considerable damage.
Test pilots, astronauts, deep-sea divers, pedestrians walkin’ the streets,coal miners, bungie jumpers. All these occupations were mentioned, each participant sure his/hers was the right answer.
Let’s pause here for a moment, do some heavy concentrating, and focus our undivided attention on a new breed of idiots who recently emerged from the woodworks…bungie jumpers.
Ladies and gentlemen, I believe a national emergency oughta’ be declared.A sweeping manhunt should be organized pronto…the biggest in history. I’d like to see a responsible citizen step forward and saturate the airwaves with a steady stream of them there “be on the lookout” bulletins. Leave no stone unturned, search every crack and crevice. The target…bungie jumpers, a very dangerous influence runnin’ amok in the world!
These lunatics leap headfirst from dizzying heights, relying solely on stretchy rubber bands attached to ankles to save their scrawny necks. Such idiots are a menace not only to themselves, but to society as a whole. We need to form a posse, run ‘em down and git ‘em off the streets. This could best be done by commitin’ these fruitcakes to mental institutions for life. With no chance, or even slightest hope, for pardon.
Back to Ed. He was intentionally excluded from my poll, his phone I didn’t dial. You see, Ed knows which job presents the greatest danger to man’s health and well-being.
And very soon now, so will you. The answer will come as no surprise to a select handful.
But for teeming hordes, a startling revelation…

No doubting the obvious, driving a taxi is the most dangerous profession on planet Earth. No other trade offers high-risk of such magnitude to life, limb and the pursuit of happiness. In large cities, and small hamlets, a constant peril looms for drivers engaged in this public service.
Imagine yerself behind the wheel of a taxicab. This job brings the “cabbie” in contact with all segments of society. He meets the good, the bad, and the ugly. And everything in between.
Aged widows call him seeking transport to the local supermarket…cab drivers load and unload lotsa’ groceries ( and, I might add, enough illegal liquor to sail a navy on.).
Young hoodlums commandeer his car at gunpoint to use as a “getaway car” from the scene of their latest bank-heist ( even so, slick-talkin’ cab drivers will usually collect their fees from these goons. Guess a holdup man, with a sackful of loot still in his hand, can afford to pay.).
Nurses need a taxi to get to their workplaces. Cab drivers, ever the punctual ones, make certain those ladies-in-white arrive at the hospital on time ( where they immediately demand a coffee-break before jabbin’ the first patient with a needle. ).
Doctors don’t need the services of stalwart cabbies. Doc earns a salary that enables him to have reliable transportation. Or even, if he desires diversification, to operate his own fleet of cabs ( hmm, a novel idea. Doc wheelin’ a cab around town to supplement his meager income.).
Cab drivers know more about the city than anyone, and are just as knowledgeable about rural farming areas. Which girls are working the “redlight districts” in the concrete canyons. Which buxomy gal is cavorting in haylofts way out yonder in the boondocks, offering her favors to every hayseed farmhand that comes ambling down the dusty lane. Taxi drivers can supply this provocative information.
If police departments knew half what cabbies know every crook in the continental United States could be rounded up and arrested within 12 hours. The man at the wheel of a “yellow” has forgotten more about what’s happenin’ in Gotham City than Dick Tracy and Batman will ever know. Superman is just as ignorant about events over there in Metropolis when compared with street-wise dudes who drive cabs.
A valuable lesson here…on arrival in the city and itchin’ to know what’s goin’ on, don’t seek out a cop or someone wearin’ a cape. Seek out a cab driver!!
Don’t take my word , albeit pure honesty is in every sentence. Ask Ed Walters. He can tell you about the precarious “living on the edge” predicaments that a taxi driver faces every minute he’s seated behind the steering wheel…

Good decent folks, and really bad hombres who are the scum of the earth. Gentle school marms who speak in low squeaky voices…gruff talkin’ bartenders who roar like lions. Blue collar laborers; white collar executives. Loyal housewives; philandering husbands. The saintly; dudes evil as homemade sin.
All of ‘em, at one time or another, hail taxis to the curbside. The faithful driver is a dedicated public servant, dutifully sworn to provide his fellowman with quick, efficient and courteous service, and to smother each fare with politeness.
He obliges the latest beckoning by sliding in sideways and put-nigh wipin’ out his would-be passenger and 16 other pedestrians. When a swell of protest rises among the innocent bystanders who have just escaped a serious mangling by the narrowest of margins, our cabbie responds vigorously with 15 obscene hand gestures and cussin’ ‘em all out. Just another ho-hum day in the life of your friendly cab driver. Typical…normal.
In summary, cabs haul every kind of humanliving under the sun. Meek folks who wouldn’t harm a flea…vicious vermin who live for and thrive on violence.
Ed Walters earned a living while driving cabs in Salem, Virginia during the 1930’s. Among his fares were the bleating human lambs, and the snarling human tigers.
The year was 1940. And well, maybe Ed hadn’t really hauled every type passenger. The full circle of humanity hadn’t yet rode with him. But one rainy Sunday night the call came, and Ed was dispatched to pick up a fare like none before. The circle was joined.
He sped to the address as directed. A man stood waiting, drenched by the downpour from the dark skies, an unfamiliar face Ed didn’t recognize. He greeted the fella’ as the fare entered the car: “Howdy.” No reply came from the stranger.
“Where to?” Ed asked. Only silence from the darkened rear seat.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, a
Chilling voice sounded: “Just drive.
Walters didn’t know it, but a schizophrenic psychopath had entered his cab. Just two feet away from Ed’s exposed back sat a madman…

A pistol, that infamous “Saturday night special” must be kept loaded at all times, else it’s a completely useless tool…might as well have a toy water pistol to protect yer castle. Surely a squirt of water to the eyes of a would-be assailant would render him just as ineffective as would a real handgun with empty chamber.
I believe a reputable firm should conduct a series of laboratory tests to determine the validity of my claim. I mean, we keep loaded firearms in our homes to protect our households. And then, lo and behold, we’re told never to have loaded handguns in the house. Pardon my ignorance, but this is more than a little confusing.
Does anyone really believe that a nervous burglar, knowing a homeowner is holding an unloaded weapon, will display chivalry by saying: “Go ahead. Load up. Make my day.” I’ll wager that a cowardly crook, once he has the upperhand, will steal you blind!”
Therefore it behooves all responsible homeowners to ponder this matter in a serious vein. Think long and hard, mull it over real good. Should we, to pacify the bleeding-heart crowd, defend our homes with loaded guns against intruders who violate the sanctums of our property…or douse ‘em with water pistols??!!
Ladies and gentlemen, I suggest that the absurdities of modern-day America knows no end. To say the situation borders on the ridiculous is a gross understatement. We’re living in an era straight out of Mack Sennett’s “Keystone Kops.” Doubtful old Mack could’ve come up with a script anywhere near as silly. Whiz-kids everywhere, computer specialists galore, do-gooders stampedin’ all over…all orchestrated by the liberal, intellectual elite. Raise the thin veil covering these people. Take a close peek…and get the scare of your life.
Don’t expect things to get any better in the forseeable future with people like Bill and Hillary arriving on the political scene. A chilling thought indeed, and already the nightmares come nightly. Think of that pair of Harvard lawyers sittin’ in the Oval Office. Your right to have a gun on your premises will be seriously jeopardized. Chances that the G-men will bust thru your door and confisticate ‘em will increase sharply when that crowd from Arkansas move in at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. You can go to the bank with that.
Bill is a proponent for waterpistols. His dutiful spouse, Hillary, is on record favoring pea-shooters in American homes.
Al Gore thinks rubberbands propelling spitballs toward criminals is not too inhumane. And Tippy, his wife? Well, the jury is still out on her. I, for one, do not feel comfortable about our future.
Ed’s mad-dog passenger had a pistol. Chamber and all cylinders fully loaded.

Maybe the medical bunch will say differently, but I believe paranoid schizophrenia and rabies are ailments very closely related. Ed’s deranged passenger had the same mad-dog look as does a canine smitten with rabies. Wild, threatening, and very, very dangerous.
No sane person wants to find himself “treed” by an ill mutt frothing at the mouth. Ya’ could find yerself undergoing a series of very big needles being jabbed unmercifully into yer delicate little tummy.
I have no desire to find myself bitten by a rabid dog…or schizo. This is especially true in our day and age. You know, body fluids and that that little disease makin’ the rounds. Rabiesor AIDS…a truly delightful choice! Hey chum, listen to some timely advice. You don’t want to meet up with a schizophrenic. Such an encounter will surely leave you a shaken person. Left with terrible memories that won’t ever go away.
A high percentage of these meetings end with “resulting fatalities.” The moral here…never run with the mad crowd. Only bad stuff will happen; you will rue the day.
So then, never be caught alone with a psycho. It’s most undesireable to have one seated at your unprotected back. Such a situation is vulnerability at it’s zenith, peril in it’s purest and most dire form. To be quite frank, an “untenable position.” Allow it to happen and say adios to family, friends and neighbors.
In these past few chapters we’ve gotten a mite sidetracked in our story about Ed Walters. As though he’d been shunted off onto a side-railing.
Never fear, Ed is back on the mainline tracks now. That demented man seated in Ed’s taxi. He’d shifted his position to the center of the rear seat, a fully loaded pistol in his hand. And his sick mind said now was the time to act…

With a lightning-like movement the triangular head of a venomous reptile darts from beneath a rock. It’s aim is unerring, and deadly fangs bury deep into the soft flesh of a scrawny arm. The snake smiles in his moment of triumph and exclaims: “Ha-ha. Gotcha!”
With likewise rapidity the gun came from the waistband of Ed’s passenger. The fella’s crazed mind wasn’t hitting on all cylinders, but he was quick. Holding the pistol just 3 inches from Ed’s head, the “cowardly excuse for a man” pulled the trigger twice. Quite naturally two deafening roars ensued.
Occurring within the cramped confines of the taxicab, those twin blasts sounded as if powerful charges of dynamite had been detonated. Ed’s cab “shaked” and it “rattled,” but didn’t roll.
Two large calibre slugs ripped thru the back of Ed’s skull, shattering bone in the process. The bullets sped thru the entirety of his brain to exit smack-dab in the middle of Ed’s forehead, just above his orbs of vision.
The trigger-man then opened the door, fled from the scene and was never apprehended or seen again! Curious onlookers quickly gathered at the tragic scene, and someone rushed Ed to a nearby hospital.
Now then, more’n likely the very first thought of the reader is that grievous wounds resulted. A reasonable assumption; I too thought along those exact same lines. But neighbor…you and me wuz wrong!
Miraculously those two heavy slugs had caused very little damage. A slight trickle of blood was quickly brought under control and a doctor checked Ed’s pulse and blood-pressure. Both “vital signs” were determined fine and dandy. Three band-aids were applied…Ed was handed a box of aspirin.
Those pain-killing tablets worked extremely well. Ed experienced a slight headache for a couple hours, then doctors released him and okayed his return to work.
Ed is an humble man, a grateful man…he credits Jesus for his speedy recovery. I would strongly advise against arguing with that. Huge, huge troubles might await anyone so stupid.
( A sidenote here. This entire story is a narration as told me by Ed. All quotes credited to him are almost word-for-word as he spoke them. I’ve merely jotted down on paper the events depicted herein. As for their authenticity…well, I’ve no solid proof to validate them. I haven’t launched a “followup investigation” to verify any material, or incident, appearing in this story. Nor or any such probes planned for now, or later. You see, I accept Ed’s word. His relatives have told me how Ed has “created his own world.” And Ed tells the truth as he sees it in that world. )
I believe there’s a plausible explanation for his “truths” as he knows them. Ever hear of “screen memories?”…

Our sub-conscious minds are good to us. They are protective devices, “insulators,” which quite often, especially in times of crises, offer a safe haven from the harsh realities of a cruel world.
Yessir, I propose a toast to the sub-conscious. To the alternatives it provides each and every person living today on this vast globe. Home might be an igloo on Baffin Island. Or a thatched hut in Timbuktu. A moot point, irrelevant, makes absolutely no difference. Eskimos have a sub-conscious state-of-mind just like native Africans, Laplanders, Greeks, Arabs and Texans living west of the Pecos.
A shadowy and mysterious world is your sub-conscious mind. Really dark in there, fuzzy and indistinct. Nonetheless a safety-valve that is vital to mental well-being. A critical conduit that allows every man and woman to retain their sanity. Without it we’d all go stark-raving mad. An eerie place, located somewhere far beyond the tangible world.
A vague, totally unknown dimension which the best of human minds can’t comprehend. It’s not on any maps, one cannot physically go there. Journeying to that strange abyss is limited to mind-travel.
The sub-conscious is a “hiding place,” a secret vault where the most hazardous and gosh-awful ordeals of our lives are stored. These might be abduction by ufonauts, or onslaughts by demonic forces too powerful to resist.
Terror and trauma, trials and tribulation, troubles and temptation, tears and tension. It’s unhealthy to carry the weight of these burdens on your shoulders. Pack ‘em all in the old kitbag, trot on down to sub-consciousville and leave the durn things there. Then enjoy a carefree existence for the remainder of your tenure in the conscious world of reality.
A word of caution. Only the worst stuff is stashed away in sub-consciousland . Never allow gypsies or hypnotists to open the floodgates to this dangerous sector of your mind. Nightmares reside therein. So too do dragons, gnomes and spirits. A “Pandora’s Box” if ever theres been one. Let sleeping dods lie, don’t make waves on this choppy, uncharted sea.
Neither should one fraternize with kooks who mess around with tarot cards and ouija boards. Bad, bad stuff. Keep a safe distance from that foolish crowd who play with fire.
Mostly the sub-conscious is a one-way street, the flow of traffic nearly always going toward it. But every now and then an exception happens along. Something actually comes from there.
The most noted example…”screen memories.” Substitutes these are, make-believe covers to soften the effects of horrible real life experiences which are too devastating for humans to cope with.
I don’t think that 1940 “cab incident” in Salem really happened to Ed. He believes it did, but almost assuredly it was a screen-memory conjured up by Ed’s sub-conscious mind.
To blot out an even more disturbing event in his life…

Sub-consciousville, the inner-most labyrinths of the human mind. An elaborate, twisting maze where one must feel his way with great caution. A locale which, considering how little is known about it, is maybe in a “parallel universe.” A place co-existing and intermingling with our own three-dimensional world, but might as well be among a cluster of stars millions of light-years from Earth. Lotsa’ stuff happens in this strange setting, yet no person can speak with authority on the subject. Very little information is available to make us more aware of what’s goin’ on inside the mind. The human-being relies heavily on two senses ( sight and sound ) for clues of guidance in all his undertakings. Well, forget ‘em in this instance. The sub-conscious is an invisible wasteland, and the only sound emanating from it’s eerie corridors are desperate cries for help and screams of unmitigated terror.
That oozy gray matter up there in your head, bearing much resemblance to a quart of slimy oysters, has the best of experts stumped. A medical whiz-kid struts pompously to the dais and tells us about loads of THIS, burdens us with tons concerning THAT, then tops it all off with several trainloads of technical jargon.
Lend him no ear, limit your responses to one word: “Bosh!” ( some might wish to tack on : “Hogwash!” Perfectly okay, a most apt and timely addition ). Listen here pilgrim, that quack ain’t knowin’ any more about the subconscious than you do. The dude is “sermonizing” from a platform for one reason, and one only…to collect a fat five-thousand dollar fee for a speaking engagement. After finishing his tirade he’ll more’n likely need help finding the exit door.
Just one statement can be made with certainty about Sub-consciousville…we know it’s there. A refuge where mind-weary souls can find solace…a welcome respite from the ills and ailments of a troubled world. When the burden becomes too heavy we head for the train depot and say: “One ticket please.”
“Where to?,” asks the trainmaster, who seems a very busy man.
“The subconscious,” comes the reply in a straight-faced manner.
“Hmm, a popular destination in these Utopian times.” His remarks reveal one striking fact…lotta’ troubled folks in this modern-age of technology.
Now podnuh, that is a strange fact fer sure. Two decades ago the computer crowd , along with their political cohorts, indeed promised Utopia, a fabled land of milk and honey.
But ya’ know, these blokes themselves are little more than machines. Dull, blank, emotionless robots. Automatons who walk with jerky, grasshopper-like movements. These man machines haven’t delivered the milk and honey. Nor will they ever.
Almost without exception the “computerists” are high IQ eccentrics who walk a fine line between genius and complete idiocy. Many moons ago I placed a wide buffer zone twixt myself and that bunch of nuts. Einstein himself couldn’t tie his shoelaces, walked barefoot around the Princeton University campus wearing only pajamas. Poor old Albert never realized the function for which combs were designed; the chap couldn’t comb his hair! Remember the keyword when dealing with this crowd…leeriness! Tons of it.
Ed Walters, because of circumstances beyond his control, journeyed to that shadowy, baffling place called Sub-consciousville more than 40 years ago.
And a part of him never returned…

The End

M.L. Wilkinson

November, 1992

Postscript:
         The story you’ve just finished reading took some odd twists and turns in it’s final few chapters. Allow me to explain. The story appeared in our local paper in serialized form over a period of several weeks. I’d add next weeks episode based on my everyday chats with Ed ( last time I attempted to learn his age, Ed gave me this: “I’m 177” ).
Then his relatives in Roanoke County learned of the foregoing newspaper articles and cleared up the many things I didn’t know about my new friend.
Ed had been in the army in 1950 when a war broke out on an Asian peninsula called Korea. He witnessed trauma and horror on a scale that his mind couldn’t cope with (Ed spent several years in VA hospitals ).
And so Ed’s mind blotted out the reality of what his eyes had gazed upon. His battlefield experience ceased to exist and was substituted with a story about getting shot in 1940 while driving a taxi. And that’s what he believes today. Ed still resides in Subconsciousville.
On learning the facts that I was totally unaware of, I thought the story should end. And now you know the cause of the rather bizarre ending…

                                                                                  Thank you…