Jim glanced down at the gas gauge and shook his head, his knuckles white on the wheel. He glanced at the faded photo in the cupholder. The woman’s face smiling up at him, her arms around two young boys, the corners of the photo curling from days of the unrelenting Texas heat.
“My boys,” he muttered, his fingers tightening around the ragged steering wheel. How had he gotten here, in an old brown truck limping across Texas?
A quick succession of memories. Her face turned up to him. “Do you have to go?”
His own voice confident, strong. “I hate the separation as much as you do, dear, but just think. They’re making big money out there. Big money, without even a high school diploma. Think of what we can do for the boys. Opportunities, honey, opportunities I never had. Private schools, nicer clothes, toys like other children play with . . .”
“But they love your homemade toys, and don’t you think they need you?”
“I’ll be back. I’ll be back to you all before you know I’m gone. Six months on the oilfields and I can take you all on a vacation. We’ve never been on a vacation. Just think . . . a real vacation!”
He’d paused there, her face partially turned away, shadowed.
“Just think,” he’d forged on, “just think of the opportunities.”
Opportunities, he thought now, bitterly staring at the gas gauge needle vibrating over the letter E.
E for empty, E for economic loser, E for entirely wrong.
If I could just get home, he thought now. Just get home to them all. We’ll figure something out. If I can just get home . . .
*****
Stewardsville, 5 miles. The sun-bleached sign stood leaning, its letters peeling, its surface cobwebbed with cracks and paint blisters, tumbleweeds piled around its weathered posts.
If I can just make it, he thought, but then, he glanced at his old wallet laying thin on the dash, and bit his lip hard. On the other hand, he thought, what difference does it really make? His wallet, like his gas tank, was empty.
Minutes later the truck hiccupped, coughed, then fell silent. The only sounds were the tires slowing on the road and the decreasing wind noise outside.
He drifted past the Stewardsville city limit sign and twisted the steering wheel, heavy now with no power steering, toward the curb. The sidewalls scraped against the curb and all was silent.
He sat staring straight ahead, hands on the wheel, not looking down at the photo in the cupholder.
A tap at the window. “Hey stranger, ya having trouble?”
He blinked and turned. A man stood there in a jogging suit, his dog still jerking on the leash.
Jim slowly reached to crank down the window.
“You having trouble?”
“I guess you could say that,” Jim said, his voice dull and flat.
“What’s the matter?”
“Got to get back to my wife and boys on the east coast.”
“You out of gas?”
Jim sighed. “Out of gas, out of money, out of food, out of luck, out of everything.”
“Hmm.” The jogger’s brow furrowed. “Tough spot alright . . . I wonder . . .” He looked away, thinking, then his face
brightened. “I’ve got it. You ever hear of the Boss?”
“The what?”
“The Boss.” The jogger chuckled. “That’s what we all call him because pretty much everybody round here either works for him or has worked for him. I bet he’d help you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. That is just the way he is. He’s just . . .” he paused and made a futile gesture as if trying to explain the unexplainable. “He’s just the Boss, that’s all.”
He turned and pointed one sweat soaked arm. “You see that big high rise?”
Jim nodded. It was the only high-rise in town. Probably the only high rise in this part of the state, he thought.
“Just you hike on over there and ask to see the Boss. I bet he’d help you. In fact, I’m sure he would. Don’t be afraid. He’ll see you.” Then, with a friendly smile, he actually patted Jim’s arm as if he’d just solved all his problems and, with a friendly nod, let his dog drag him on down the street.
Jim sat staring after him, then turned dull eyes toward the high-rise.
The thought of “the Boss” whoever he was, taking an interest in a failed oilfield roughneck’s plight, seemed ridiculous to the extreme.
He shook his head, staring after the retreating figure. Why didn’t he just tell me a UFO was going to land and fuel me up with stardust? Be just as likely.
Two hours later and cramping with thirst and hunger, he forced open the heavy truck door and started walking toward the high rise. After all, what did he have to lose?
*****
He stood gaping up at the waterfall. A waterfall, he thought, a real indoor waterfall. It thundered down from four stories above into the marble pool in the lobby, lightly tinting the dry air with a pleasant, life-giving moisture. Floors and hallways of polished European marble ran out of sight and priceless paintings in gold frames hung from gilded columns.
With hesitant feet, he shuffled toward the black marble counters.
“Yes?” An officious-looking lady in a custom suit peered down at him. I feel like a schoolboy in front of the head teacher, he thought.
“Yes . . . I’d like . . . to . . . I mean . . . could I . . . would it be possible to see . . . the Boss?”
Her eyes narrowed, and he was almost sure her lip curled just a touch, but she turned and lifted a phone.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “There is a . . . a gentleman here to see you, sir. Shall I send him up?”
“Oh . . . ok, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll send him right up, sir.”
A moment later, he found himself in a huge elevator zipping upward even as he stared at his dirty duct taped shoes. What sort of man, he thought, can afford to carpet his elevators with handwoven Middle Eastern rugs?
With a sinking feeling, he realized he was about to find out.
The doors opened, and he shuffled forward under the gold chandeliers, his feet dragging in the ankle-deep oriental carpets till he was standing before The Door.
On it in heavy gold letters were simply the words, THE BOSS.
At his slight rap, a rich warm voice said, “Come in.”
How had he gotten here, in an old brown truck limping across Texas?
He entered.
A minute later, he found himself perched on a richly ornamented chair, leaning forward.
“So, what can I do for you?” The man’s voice was warm, sympathetic. And before he knew it, it all came pouring out. The hopes. The dreams for his sons and wife. Failure. His overwhelming desire to simply return. The many miles that stood wall-like in between. His utter lack . . . lack of anything to get him there.
The Boss listened, nodding, intent. Finally, Jim finished and sat, spent.
The Boss nodded, looking at the ceiling, then leaned forward.
“Jim,” he said, “I’ve been there. Just where you are. Broke, hungry, and far from home. Lost among uncaring strangers. Jim, I’ll help you. It would be a joy to help you. Go down to my stewards. Tell them I sent you. They will help you. They will feed you. They will give you money for your trip. They will put gas in your truck. They will give you the most generous help. Just tell them I sent you.”
*****
Jim standing once again in the elevator, felt his spirit soaring even as the elevator dropped.
“Most generous help,” he whispered to himself. “Just tell them I sent you.”
He stopped first at the financial steward’s office. Stepping forward he stood taller in his duct taped shoes.
“What can I do for you?” the steward asked, barely concealing a sneer.
Jim winced, but cleared his throat. “Uh . . . the Boss sent me. He said to tell you to help me. That you would give me money for my trip home to my family.”
The steward sighed heavily but reached behind the counter and produced a checkbook. Flipping open its silver case, he began to write a check for 500 dollars. Then he paused and looked at Jim, his eyes narrowed and calculating. Then, voiding the check, he began another for 50 dollars.
Then, pausing, he suddenly voided it and with harsh angular strokes wrote out a check for 15 dollars and pushed it across the counter with one soft finger, murmuring, “May you find this to be a blessing,” before turning away.
Jim stood, looking down at the check, blinking at it, and then at the back of the man’s Italian suit. He had been dismissed.
Shaken, he slowly pocketed the check and turned toward the cafeteria. Well, if I can get some gas and something to eat. At least I can get back on the road. The smells were overpowering. Jim stood on hunger-weakened legs and stared about. Artistic piles of exotic fruits were scattered throughout the dining area. Long glass cases displayed the world’s best artisan cheeses and meats. Ornate display stacks of artisan bread graced tables, and everywhere, the air hung with the tantalizing odors of the world’s best imported foods.
“Uh, the Boss sent me . . .” He stood unsteady at the counter. “He said,” he swallowed hard, “he said you would feed me.”
The attendant gave him a quick look-over, then stepped over to whisper a few words with the fat chef. The chef shook his head and jerked a thumb toward the corner. The attendant nodded and turned.
“Follow me,” he said.
At the end of the glass case he stopped, and leaning down, he produced a discarded end trim from a day-old crusty loaf. He flipped it onto the counter alongside an over-aged hunk of cheese. He pushed it over to Jim, hesitated, then added a half empty bowl of soup with someone’s spoon still resting in it.
“There is a nice picnic area outside,” he said with a meaningful look, unconsciously wiping his spotless hand on the front of his linen apron.
Jim took the point and shuffled out.
Fifteen minutes later, legs still weak with hunger, he shifted his truck into neutral and pushed it down the street toward the filling station. If I can at least get some gas . . . if I can just get some gas, he thought, his burning eyes resting a moment on the curled photo in the cupholder.
Stopping at the pump, he stood uncertain.
“Yes?” the attendant said, not looking up from his issue of Stewardship Weekly.
“The Boss . . . the Boss said you would help me with some gas?”
The attendant sighed and reluctantly put down his magazine.
Somehow, Jim wasn’t even surprised when the attendant stopped pumping at a quarter tank.
A minute later, puttering out of town, he tried to ignore his rumbling stomach, his weary eyes straying from the parched road unrolling endlessly in front of him, to the squatting gas gauge needle, to the old photo. I wonder if Ican even make it to the next town.
He thought of the Boss smiling gently from behind his enormous desk. “I’ll help you, Jim,” he’d said. “Go to my stewards. They will give you most generous help. Just tell them I sent you.”
He winced, his tearless eyes burning at a tumbleweed rolling across in front of him.
I wonder, he thought. I wonder if he’s really as generous as everybody says if he keeps this type of people for stewards.
*****
Those stewards may have thought they were frugal and wise with their Boss’s resources, but that was not their first role. A steward’s first role is to use the master’s resources as the master wants them used.
And so, with us.
And the Lord said, Who then is that faithful and wise steward, whom his lord shall make ruler over his household, to give them their portion of meat in due season? —Luke 12:42
Darryl Derstine is a CAM Foundation staff member. He can be reached at darryl.derstine@camoh.org or by phone at 330-893-4915.
