The INNKEEPER  -  by E. H. Maze

Chapter 1

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Caught at the Inn

White and black smoke from the Greyhound bus puffed in a choking flow from the tailpipe and around the side of the bus as the brakes squelched in front of the Apple Valley Inn, California's oldest travel stop.  The three quarter of a mile steep upgrade from Rancherias Road to the top of Lone Hill was a trial even for the powerful Greyhound.

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    For Darrell Gray this particular trip had started at Four Corners at eight in the morning.   The desert route would blow him up and down two-lane roads between Four Corners and Barstow.  He carried several passengers to the Logistics base in Yermo.  From Yermo, two marines were going to Victorville.  Normally, he would take the back road, stop in Apple Valley then Victorville, but there was no itinerant for Apple Valley on this trip.  That was fine with Darrell.  He headed back to the southbound 15, passed within a mile of the Barstow station again and was in Victorville in short order for a late Friday morning.  After his stop at the D Street station, it would be a quick turn around back to the ramp that would put him on the southbound 15.    He was anxious to get home earlier than usual.

    Just as he was turning into the station, however, his headset informed him that a passenger had just purchased a ticket to Apple Valley.  The two Marines seated directly behind him heard him cuss out loud.  Darrell plucked the palm size transmitter from its snap near the tip bucket, pushed down on the switch and spoke into the microphone.  

    “Yeah, okay!”  Then, he thought to himself, but ended up saying out loud, “Good grief!  It’s a twenty minute walk, Janet.  Why couldn’t he get a taxi?”

    That’s not all, Darrell!” the raspy voice responded.

    “Don’t tell me.  Please, don’t tell me!”

    “Well, I won’t tell you, but you know….”

    By now, he had brought the bus to a stop and the two Marines jumped out with a “thank you, sir.”   Darrell placed his forehead on the steering wheel and listened to Janet’s inevitable bad news.

“….that we are required to transport all VIPs directly to the Inn.  No taxis.”

    Twenty minutes later, he found himself parked in the valet area of the Apple Valley Inn, the breathtaking view of the valley and surrounding mountains from this hilltop resort little consolation to his weary soul. 

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      Inside the bus, Ron Henderson was grabbing his small duffle bag and pull-along from under the seat next to him – subconsciously, he waited for others to begin crowding the aisle before remembering that, other than the driver, he was alone on the bus.  The bus driver flung open the doors and announced, “We’re here!”

      The lone passenger stepped down, bag in hand and a denim jacket over his shoulder.  Ron Henderson walked boldly and energetically toward the entrance.

      Momentarily, Darrell Gray stepped tiredly from the bus and, relieved to be standing erect, stretched and then hurried inside.  The trip was almost over and he began to feel better now that he could concentrate on making the quick bathroom stop, saying his hellos to the staff then getting back on the bus for the return to Rancho Cucamonga.  The narrow one-way path back down the hill on which the Inn rested would seem to slip and slide so that if another vehicle was on its way up, one of them would have to back up.  But, it wasn’t going to be Darrell.  Not today.  Not this late. 

    The late afternoon breeze continued to blow the muffler smoke and exhaust fumes up and into the desert’s blue sky.  Darrell had left the engine running; the sign above the windshield flashed in yellow letters "Ranch Cucamonga" as the next destination.  The red clearance lights on each side of the sign flashed off and on, along with the signals on the four corners of the bus.  It was a cool evening for October and the fading sunlight cast orange, amber and blue shadows over the small parking area just west of the 2-story building.  The smoke from the exhaust dissipated violently as it found its way across the parking lot and was carried off by the updraft from the winds that blew across the valley below.  Dusk was approaching quickly as the autumn sun had already disappeared behind Mount Baldy, casting gray shadows over the sandy-colored earth.

      Darrell disappeared behind the closing front doors of the Inn (glad to have finished this wing of his trip).  The bus, with an ever so slight whimper of its engine and sounding off a sudden rev of rpm's, coughed once and sputtered, as if choking on its own smoke.  The lights flashed bright for a second like a power surge throwing extra wattage through a light bulb just before it burns out . . . and, finally, the engine died.  The last of the smoke from the exhaust rolled past the front of the bus.  So full of life seconds earlier, the Greyhound now sat lifeless in front of the Inn.  The black soot from the tailpipes covered the whole back part and lower sides of the bus.  It was dingy and dirty from travel.  It sat there as if it were at a bus graveyard; as if it might never start again.

      In fact, neither the bus from Four Corners to Rancho Cucamonga, nor its driver would make their final destination.  The silver-gray painted metal body would soon begin rusting in the very spot where it had moments before come to rest.

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    The bus had died, but Darrell Gray was very much alive inside the inn.

    Darrell had only two goals in life.  One was to get where he was going.  The second was to get back.  How long it would take didn't matter.  The route didn't matter, either.  He didn't look for shortcuts or take the long routes. The schedule given him by the company suited him just fine.  He only wanted to get to the next place on his schedule.  If the trip took him through the mountain ranges between the Inland Empire and the Nevada state line he never admired the majesty of the mountains or became awestruck by their size.  When he lived in the mid-west he had never seen the beauty of the golden grains of the Midwest harvest time, although he had driven across that part of the country many times.  He never bothered with complaining about the fog of the big city or its traffic congestion.  The only thing that stirred Darrell Gray's heart was the leap from the driver's seat, the spring down the steps and the declaration, "We're here!"  And he didn't care where he was - as long as he arrived.

      The only reason getting back from a trip was a worthy goal was not to return to family and friends, for he had neither, but simply because it was a place that made the circle of his life fulfilling.  Round and round, filling the void - filling a void with endless circles. He would only go inside to use the men's room and then get back on the road. 

    Once inside the Inn, Darrell hurried up close by the guest counter, said hello to Mr. Butterfield, then headed for the men's room.

     "Just one passenger, Darrell?"  said the Innkeeper.  "My schedule says that there was supposed to be three.  What's up?"

     "Got me.  What you see is what you get." Darrell said hurrying along.  He noticed that the passenger he had dropped of was standing at the end of the check-in counter talking to someone in the office behind the counter.  Probably Mrs. Butterfield.  He was glad that the guy was talking to someone else, because he hadn't shut up from the moment he boarded in Victorville.  It was only a twenty minutes trip, but this passenger made it seem like two days.  Darrell had to go the bathroom in the worst way, so he dismissed himself to the serenity of the, hopefully, vacant men's room.

    Ron Henderson, was leaning against the counter filling out the registration card.  His worn suitcase sat on the floor next to his size 12 cowboy boots.  A blue-jean jacket with a Peterbilt emblem on the back was draped over the pull up handle of the black suitcase.  Cowboy boots, scruffed and faded from what was originally brown suede, matched the faded jeans, plaid shirt with pearl-colored snaps up the front instead of buttons, and the turquoise cross hanging from his neck.  Ron was a handsome man, if you liked the rugged, firm-chinned Tom Seleck type.  He was often mistaken as a Seleck look alike.  His wavy nearly all black hair was in deep contrast to his blue eyes.  In his late thirties, he could still pass as a young man and his stamina, especially when it came to his sexual prowess, hadn't waned.  His career as a truck driver, sitting too long in the driver's seat, had caused him to attain a small beer belly, but he was able to suck it up most of the time.  He had started wearing his shirts untucked - that seemed to help him from having to take deep breaths to suck in his belly when a lady of interest was nearby.

    Mr. Butterfield walked back over to Henderson.  “Can I see your Driver’s license or a credit card with a picture, sir?” asked the Innkeeper.

     Paul Butterfield, the Innkeeper, was a short man in his early fifties.  He was balding slightly on the top and never tried concealing the rescinding nature of his black, but graying hairline.  A white shirt and a black tie hung from his slender, below average height.  He sniffed when he talked as if trying to catch short breaths, wrinkling his nose at the same time.  Although he spoke with a slow, southern draw there was a hint of a middle-eastern accent that matched a moist, dark complexion.  His profile would convince anyone who wanted to guess whether he was from the south or from the middle-east.  The middle-east guess would be the best guess.

    The two continued to accommodate each other with check-in while the bus driver looked himself over in the men's room.

    As he was washing up and straightening his hair Darrell noticed someone in the mirror.  He thought he saw someone behind him, but then realized his own reflection was coming from a full-length mirror on one of the stalls behind him.  He smiled at himself in the mirror, letting himself be amused by the little rush of fear that had quickly passed.

      This phantom encounter did give him the first chance in a long time to really look at himself.  Why did his own reflection startle him?  He began to think about how much he had changed.  His long black hair was tied in a ponytail.  It was dirty with oil.  It used to look so good, he thought.  Now I look like a tired old Indian.

      His eyes were red from travel, but he saw more tiredness in his eyes caused by age rather than from bus fumes and cigarette smoke. His blue uniform shirt with the button down collar was washer-worn, faded and rolled, and had lost the crease it had as a new shirt.  Darrell placed his finger and thumb up to the collar and felt it.  Faded and wrinkled! That's you, Darrell Gray, he thought to himself, although he realized that he actually spoken the words.  He was embarrassed knowing he had not checked the stalls to see if anyone else was in the bathroom.

      He looked into the mirror and around the corner of the wall behind him and couldn't see shoes so he knew he was alone.  Darrell pushed his hands up his face and across his forehead, his fingers running over hair that was pulled tight from the ponytail.  He rested his hands on top of his head, locking his fingers.  A deep breathe in, then out, released any residue of anxiety he had been feeling in the last thirty minutes.  He looked into the mirror, hoping to see in his face, or in his eyes, or in his expression something that would clue him as to how he was doing.  

      Then he thought what he had not given himself freedom to think for twenty years:  Maybe I ought to give it a rest?  Maybe I should quit this bus driving business and settle down to another job!

      He dropped his hands from his head and placed his palms flat on the sink.  He leaned toward the mirror to get a closer look.  Then, it came to him.  No sooner had he thought about quitting (really, for the very first time) that he realized he wouldn't know what to do if he did quit.  He had never done anything else.  Ever since after high school he had been on the run in this bus.  Not the same bus, but one just like it.  Not the same company, but one just as uncaring.  Round and round the country - His life lost on roads he knew better than anyone else.

      Well, he concluded out loud, if I don't drive a bus you might as well wrap me up and put me in a grave.

      And that was his decision:  On with the trip.

      He tucked his shirt in and adjusted his belt, pulling it up to his bulging belly and turned to leave.  Just then Ron Henderson came into the bathroom.  Darrell nodded recognition, said "see ya" to Ron and left the room.  Ron Henderson had talked Darrell's ears off on the bus and he had no intention of listening any longer to him go on and on about stuff that didn't matter.

      Down the hallway, turning toward the front doors and waving with a "thanks" to the Innkeeper, Darrell Gray was on his way.

      He knew by the silence as he approached the bus that it had quit running.  And he had left the lights on, too!  Knowing how the battery was with the lights on and the engine not running he began to run to the bus steps.  As he jumped to his seat, he noticed the lights weren't on anymore.  He wondered if he had forgotten and had actually turned the engine off.  But, he never did that.  He always left the engine running.  For one reason it stayed warm or cool inside the bus if he left the motor running and the fans on.  But the other reason was that his battery was acting strange and it was better to leave the bus running than to risk using power to restart the engine.

      Anticipating a big problem, Darrell instinctively pushed all the light switches and fan buttons off.  He turned the key and put his foot on the gas . . . Nothing.  No sound at all.  He knew the obvious.

      But, when he turned the key the battery was still charged. That was a good sign, when the engine cranked.  But, that was all it would do - crank.  And crank.  No sputtering, no hint of starting, just cranking.

      Great! How long is this going to take, he thought?  He folded his arms across the steering wheel and looked through the windshield.

      The bus was facing the eastern face of Lone Hill, the lane up the hill dropping quickly below and the Mariana mountain range 15 miles east the only visible earth.  Between him and those mountains there were thousands of homes and tens of thousands of Joshua trees, but they were twelve hundred feet below.  With the evening fading into darkness, the view was both beautiful and threatening since it declared the departure of the glory of the sunset on the High Desert landscape.   But, to Darrel it meant only that the parts stores below would be closing soon - if not already closed - and, he wondered if any store that might be open would deliver any part to him at the Inn.  That was, if he could figure what was wrong with the bus at all.

      Of course, even if the parts store was open.  And, even if they had what Darrell needed, he would still go back inside the Inn.  And that would be the last time he ever drove a bus.  The momentary look into that mirror, a single seemingly trifle event, one of those times when possibility interrupts tedium, prepared Darrell Gray for a change. 

       There was certainly nothing magical in that mirror.  The magic was in his heart - and, in the Inn.

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end of Chapter (click here to go to Chapter 2)- if link is not active, the chapter is not yet ready.  Check back later, please.

Please let me know if you have read (and enjoyed) this chapter by sending me a quick email to:  ehylandmaze@aol.com

bless you.....................................Eugene H. Maze

This chapter and all chapters related to this website book entitled "The INNKEEPER" (copyright 1995, 2005) was written and published by Eugene H. Maze.  No portion of this book may be copied, sold or distributed either by electronic or other means in any fashion whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the author.  Permission for distribution may be obtained by contacting the author at ehylandmaze@aol.com.  Links to this and all previous and subsequent pages of this book entitled "The INNKEEPER" may be distributed freely without permission.

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