The River Boat Pilot and the Shopping Mall Queen

¿m fr The River Boat Pilot and the Shopping Mall Queen by Richard Lawson When he was sober, Dexter Hopkins was quiet and sullen, a man who thought he had been born and quickly forgotten. He saw himself as a lone figure standing in an open field, and from his distant vantage point, he saw hardly more than a shadow on the landscape. He heard his voice, even in anger, coming out like the sound of melting snow dripping from an eave. His life, he felt, was a dull and harmless aspect of reality. That's why he always forgave himself. But his drunken behavior had to be blamed on someone or something, and Dexter blamed the beer itself, especially the seventh one. It was after the seventh beer that he heard himself telling about his adventures as river boat pilot. The experience was almost pleasant if he found he was telling the story to a stranger. If there weren't any strangers, Dexter heard himself telling the story anyway, usually to someone who knew he was a liar. On these occasions, he drank even more in an effort to dampen his humiliation. In the absence of strangers, Dexter did, at least, maintain enough self respect to choose someone who looked as drunk as himself or someone who hadn't heard his 29 tale in several months. And from Dexter's beer-fuzzy point of view, there was some truth in what he said. The river did provide him employment. Every half-hour, six days a week, Dexter leisurely crossed a narrow stretch of the Tennessee River. His job was directing cars on and off a small ferry boat. Justin Ferry Landing bore the name of a nearby town—a village, really—on State Route 57. Farmers hauling their produce out of the river valley to Chattanooga filled their trucks at one of the town's two gas stations, and they cashed their checks and opened Christmas Club accounts at the branch bank. Justin also claimed two churches (a Baptist and a Methodist), a combination grocery storepost office, and Shirley's Cafe and Recreation Center. In the dim light of Shirley's, on Friday and Saturday nights, Dexter drank until he could almost feel the glory. Then, he plummeted back to his toneless life in a fall that was quick and painful and made him even more sullen. The whole thing had started innocently enough—a drunken remark to a vacationer strayed from the Interstate Highway seven miles north of Justin. Like the scheduled and unchanging motions of the river crossings, the lie became a habit, and Dexter became good at telling it. He became so good, in fact, the regulars would believe, just for an instant, that Dexter really was the pilot of a river boat. But the spell was short lived, Dexter knew, and he would watch for the moment they became aware of their own rapt attention. He would see the embarrassed smile and shake of the head, and then Dexter would feel a kind of shameful nobility, as if he were a circus clown playing to a tired and sparse audience . Dexter was late, and being late made him angry. On this Saturday, the ferry's last crossing had been delayed. Dexter hadn't noticed the white Pontiac overheating . Its powerful but quiet engine had been left running, and the hot August sun had rendered the automobile a spewing and immobile hulk. Dexter had to wait with the woman motorist for a tow truck. He normally arrived at Shirley's about nine o'clock during the summer and about eight o'clock during the winter. He never got there before dusk because he liked seeing the neon beer sign sizzling in the window. On this night, Shirley's was already crowded when he walked in, and the sign had done little to unknot his rage. But as he slowly surveyed the room, he saw an unfamiliar figure sitting next to an empty stool at the bar, and a wave of excitement rose from Dexter's stomach. He took a quick breath and headed for the vacant seat. He was much more relaxed, now, but he didn...