Every small town should have a special directory to augment the phone book. It would be a directory of where people can be found at certain times of day.

Say that your great aunt Abigail has passed away.  You only met her once, back when your mother dragged you to that family reunion when you were twelve.  The one where everyone got food poisoning because the mayonnaise on your bachelor uncle Herbert’s potato salad went bad--- so you either need to drive to Barkada, Arkansas to the funeral or send flowers to the funeral home so that your distant cousins, whom you’ve never met, will know that you are doing the right thing.

It’s an easy decision, given that your car hasn’t been running right—and, hey! That reminds you—you need to do something about that car, too. And, while you’re at it, you should really get that leaky toilet fixed, too.

You stop by the flower shop but the florist isn’t in.  There’s a sign on the door.  “Making Deliveries.”

So, you drive down to the garage to see about getting your car worked on.  The door is locked and there’s a cardboard box by the door with a sign finger-painted in black grease:  “Gone for 20 minutes.”

You, having lived in this town for quite some time, know that there is no point in even calling the plumber, because this is the time that he always stops by the gas station to buy a pack of cigarettes, a lottery ticket and a quart of oil for his truck which burns more oil than gasoline.

You whip into the gas station and talk to the plumber about your toilet.  You go to the coffee shop on the next corner, knowing very well that the florist is not really making deliveries but is having coffee with the mechanic, just like they do every day at this particular time. 

You sit down at the big table with them and order a cup of black coffee and tear off a corner of the paper placemat and write the name of the funeral home in Barkada, Arkansas on one side of it, and your great aunt Abigail’s name on the other and give it to the florist, who is happy for the business. 

You make an appointment to take your car to the mechanic the next day, and, while you are at it, you ask the butcher, who is also sitting at the table, if he can order you a ham for the big party you are throwing next weekend.

By now, an hour has gone by, so you know that your dentist has arrived at the tavern where she always eats an early lunch with the librarian and the guy who was supposed to replace your downspouts last month but who never showed up, so you walk down the street and go into the bar where the three of them are sitting at a booth eating Coney dogs and drinking Dr Peppers, just like always.

You give the dentist a check for the money you owe her. The librarian tells you that the book you ordered from the state library just came in, and you chew out the gutter guy for not showing up, but when he tells you that he had to go take care of his great aunt Abigail in Barkada, Arkansas---poor thing didn’t pull through---you forgive him and invite him to your party now that you realize he is one of your cousins.

Come to think of it, if you live in a small town, you don’t need a directory to tell you all of that information.  You already know it.

I have to stop writing now.  I need to go to the coffee shop to schedule my annual physical and to find out if I have to report for jury duty in the morning.

                                          © by Jim Whitehouse

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