On the far side of town, a long walk and even longer day away, Rufus found The Lucky Dawn campground. Beyond streetlights, beyond houses and factories, yet still a way before the forest and farmland that encircled the town. A beaten up, weathered down campground; parked up RVs, but mostly just empty lots.
At the entrance to the campground was a small gas station, which doubled for the office.
Rufus knocked at the door but received no response. Knocked again.
Now, some noise, bumping and banging from deep in a back-room.
“Hello?” Rufus called.
“Have some patience!” a male voice called from inside, “I’m… OWWW!”
The door swung open, revealing an old dude bending to rub at his shin.
“Coffee table,” he grumbled to himself.
Rufus just watched, smirking.
The old dude swivelled his head to look at Rufus.
“What’re you smiling at?” he seethed.
Rufus forced the smirk off his face. But it was no good; it fought back.
He brayed laughter into the late afternoon sunshine.
The old dude straightened up, stared at Rufus, and gradually, his deep-seamed face moved, his whiskers lifting as the smile came; a husky laugh beginning like a cough and growing with each exhalation.
“Who invented furniture? That’s what I want to know!” the old dude asked the sky, eyes twinkling with mirth.
“More like who invented sharp edges,” Rufus smiled.
“Yeah, sure enough.”
Rufus held out his hand.
“Rufus,” he said.
“Mac,” the old dude said as they shook hands, “welcome to The Lucky Dawn.”
He gestured to the campground.
“You looking for a place? We’re busy, but I guess we’ll be able to fit you in somehow.”
Rufus looked at the largely empty plots.
“Sure,” he said, feigning seriousness, “I’ll have to cut back a bit, but if I try hard, I might just make it.”
Mac nodded at the Red Flyer cart.
“Is that your world?”
“Sure enough. And this, of course,” Rufus ticked his head back towards his guitar.
“Muso, huh?”
“Right,” Rufus started his spiel, “singer-songwriter, you know?”
“Whatever,” Mac said, smiling, “you’re no Woody Guthrie, I’ll bet.”
“Of course not,” Rufus agreed, “nobody comes close to Woody.”
“Dylan maybe,” Mac thought aloud, “maybe. But Woody… Woody was something else…”
He paused, staring off into space. Rufus looked at the wrinkles in the man’s face, the unkempt stubble surrounding his walrus moustache, the shaggy, grey hair greased back from his face. The old dude smelled of leather and sandalwood; Old Spice and plain soap.
Rufus liked him already.
Mac shook his head, coming back to the moment.
“I guess you’re short on money,” he said, nodding at Rufus.
“A… A little,” Rufus blushed, surprised by the insight, “I’m playing tomorrow night, at the bookstore, The…”
“Folded Corner,” Mac finished.
“You know it?”
“Ain’t such a big town,” Mac laughed, “I pretty much know everyone, those you can see and those you can’t.”
“I guess,” Rufus nodded, “so anyway, I hope I’ll get some tips there and then…”
“Jesse’s good,” Mac continued as if Rufus hadn’t even spoken, “you can trust her; she gets a crowd in, pays well.”
“That’s good to know,” Rufus said, “earlier on, it was… Well, a little weird. She was really into what I was doing and then someone came in.”
“And she disappeared?”
Rufus looked at Mac for a moment.
“That’s not how I would have described it,” he said, “but it’s actually really close. She did disappear!”
“Yup,” Mac smiled, “she does that. But don’t read more into it than that; she’s so lost in books most of the time, she doesn’t always know where the story ends and real life begins.”
“Talking of real life,” Rufus said, “how much is it for a night?”
Mac stared in his eyes for a long moment.
“For the tourists, it’s fifty a night just to pitch,” he said.
Rufus felt disappointment cloud his face; there was no way he could afford such rates.
“But seeing as how we share a respect for Woody,” Mac continued, “and you’re travelling as light as you are, you can give me five a night.”
“I couldn’t!” Rufus protested automatically.
“First night free,” Mac smiled, “argue any more, the deal’s off the table.”
Rufus was stunned.
“Thanks,” he whispered out on a breath.
“Well,” Mac nodded, “way I figure it is, you do a man a favor, he’ll do one back when the time’s right.”
“Karma,” Rufus said.
“Tit-for-tat,” Mac nodded, “come on, let’s get you settled in.”
He stepped past Rufus, grabbed the handle of the cart and walked past the gas pumps, deeper into The Lucky Dawn.
* * *
Later that night, Rufus sat on the ground in front of his small tent, strumming absent-mindedly on his guitar. New songs were close, though dancing just out of sight for now, and he moved through well-known chord progressions, just waiting for the moment when the muse would play through his fingers.
As he played, his thoughts wandered over the day, and his impressions of the town in the mist. He thought of Danni, her unexpected British accent, her subversive energy; of Jesse, the connection of his audition, and her unexpected disappearance. He fought hard to avoid the memory of the police officer’s distorted face, the sudden, visceral anger of the guy in the pick-up early that morning.
He began to pick at the strings of his guitar, a rolling pattern that soothed like water running over pebbles. He closed his eyes as his fingers fell to a minor chord, and he was jolted by the memory of Michael Ridenour’s eyes staring out at him from a milk carton.
His eyes snapped open.
He was back in the police station; in the interview room. The distorted deputy sitting across the table from him, illuminated by overhead lights, his face all shadows and death-mask wax.
“What would you like me to ask?” the officer said.
Rufus heard the music; fingers on strings, moving on auto-pilot.
“What would you like me to ask?”
He shook his head and the image evaporated.
He was sat on the ground in front of his small tent, strumming absent-mindedly on his guitar. The sky was dark above, stars twinkling across the expanse of the heavens; his music danced out into the broad silence.
This town in the mist, he thought, it holds its mysteries.
Alone in The Lucky Dawn camp-ground, Rufus played on into the night.
RUFUS – A NOVEL is a novel-in-progress by Vincent Tuckwood, a Brit author living and working in Waterford, Connecticut, USA. Read more by Vincent Tuckwood.
