Bowman

 

Charlie Eckles surveys his empire. The Good Morning breakfast diner. Sunday. A handful of customers but the church crowd would come rolling in shortly. This is mine, Eckles thinks. I built this. Six crummy booths. One long, crummy counter with eight crummy stools bolted to the floor. Two framed Gone with the Wind movie posters—he’s never seen the film. Eight loaves of Dempster’s Texas Toast. My legacy. Alexander the Great ruled over Macedonia, but Eckles the Underwhelming ruled the waffle iron.

“What am I looking at here?” Eckles steps back into the kitchen.

“Table four,” Patty says. Patty’s waited on Good Morning’s customers since the place opened, five years ago. She saw the whole thing come together. Eckles owned it with his wife, Maureen. Instead of a honeymoon, Eckles always said, we decided to start a business. The two newlyweds got the restaurant up and running and then, one year in, Maureen took off with the neighbour. Last Eckles heard she was working a perfume counter in Vancouver.

“Table four, sure.”

“You recognize that face?”

“Yeah, it’s the new pope.”

“It’s Todd Bowman. Don’t you read the paper?”

“You’re pulling my leg.” Eckles knows who Todd Bowman is. He read the paper. Todd Bowman, bank robber. Twenty-first-century outlaw. Wanted man. Hospitalized two security guards and a bank manager in Stratford just last week. Eckles saw the man’s photograph that morning, skimmed the story. Cops were still searching, it said.

“Look again,” Patty says.

Eckles pokes his head out into the front of the restaurant. Table four, there he is. Now that he knows what to look for, it’s obvious. The busted nose. The long, greedy mouth. All those muscles crammed into the plastic booth. A caricature of a crook. The papers loved running Bowman photos on the front page.

“Jesus.” Eckles ducks back into the kitchen, sits on a potato sack. “What do we do?”

“Can’t call the cops,” Brian the cook snorts.

“That’s exactly what we should do,” Patty says. “And let’s keep our voices down.”

“Just sayin’,” Brian says. “If it really is Bowman and you bring the authorities down here, there’ll be trouble. He’ll tear this place apart.”

Tear this place apart—the phrase begins to loop in Eckles’ mind. Why didn’t I think of that? he wonders. The restaurant had become a burden. A coffin. A symbol of his broken marriage. Of his defeat. While Maureen was off petting dolphins on the west coast, he was trapped in the diner sanitizing coffee mugs. Ordering napkins. Frying eggs. When he and Maureen decided to open the diner, they had a vision: a hub for the community, a spot where locals could meet up and chat with each other. The kind of place sitcom characters hung around—where narratives intersected and series regulars walked in the door to a studio applause. A place of comfort. That dream was long dead. Bowman ought to tear this dive apart, Eckles thinks. Perfect place for a shootout. And maybe I’ll catch a stray bullet. Put me out of my misery.

“We have to call,” Patty says. “It’s our duty.”

“Your duty,” Eckles says, “is walking plates out to the customers. Anyway, are we sure it’s him? Seems like a dumb move, coming in here.”

“Absolutely it’s him. The guy takes risks. That’s his whole thing. Besides, it’s just a phone call. The police can decide.”

“Let’s see what he tips first,” Eckles says.

“This is serious.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll slip out back and call.” Eckles peeks into the dining area—Bowman was still digging his way through the Farmboy Skillet—and pulls his phone from his apron. He steps out the back door into the parking lot and pauses. He calls back into the kitchen before closing the door behind him, “Is this a nine-one-one thing? I mean, would you call this an emergency?”

“Hmm.” Patty shrugs. “I think so. Yes. Of course it is.”

“Well, that’s the number I know. Be right back.”

The emergency dispatcher takes in Eckles’ story, types his information into a computer and tosses him on hold. Spanish guitar music plays. Eckles didn’t think they’d have hold music over at nine-one-one. Seems disrespectful. Disrespectful to whom, he isn’t sure. Just disrespectful in general. At least play something with a steady beat, not this meandering dog shit, he thinks.

What am I doing here? Eckles thinks. Ratting on a customer. Sure, the man’s dangerous. A scourge to society. But who am I to intervene? Guy comes in for a hot meal, I’m sending him up the river. I should be trying to hold on to the few customers I have, not getting them locked up. If I had any guts I’d be right there with Bowman. The man was free, truly free. No restrictions. Robbing banks. Driving around. Better than scraping grease spatter off the walls all day, that’s certain. A woman comes on the line and asks the same questions as the dispatcher. Keys clack.

“Stay where you are, sir. Do not approach this man. A team is on its way now.”

Eckles hangs up and moves back inside. A team, he thinks.

In the kitchen, Eckles sees Patty walking towards him from the dining room with a panicked expression on her face.

“He’s gone,” she says.

“Gone where?”

“Out the front door.”

Eckles walks into the dining area. Table four, unoccupied. Deserted.

“Did he pay his bill?” Eckles asks.

“We can’t let him get away,” Patty says. “He could shoot someone. Kill them. And that’ll be on us.”

“The woman on the phone told me to stay where I was,” Eckles protests. “She said not to approach Bowman. She said those words specifically.”

“He’s getting away. We need to see where he goes so we can tell the cops where to find him. You don’t need to approach him. Just give me your keys if you’re gonna be a baby about this.”

There was no way he was letting Patty drive his car. The woman dropped dishes left and right, spilled coffee on laps. It was her nerves. One time Eckles watched Patty walk right into a wall. She was talking to a customer, head turned around. Thought she was headed for the kitchen and splat. If Eckles lent Patty his car, a crane would be pulling it from the lake within the hour. Besides, she had a point. Bowman might kill someone. They were already involved. He didn’t want to look like a coward so he went.

Moments later, Eckles is behind the wheel of his Toyota Yaris cursing his staff. Cursing Patty specifically. Patty saw Bowman leave, saw him climb into a white Sierra pickup, saw him drive west on Main Street.

Eckles drives west on Main. He assumes Bowman is long gone. He hopes so too. The plan is to drive around the neighbourhood for twenty minutes, smoke a cigarette, listen to the radio and gas up the car. Then he’ll head back and tend to the brunch crowd. A few hours of that headache, then home. Have a soak. Watch a documentary on the computer with a glass of wine. Something historical. Try and relax.

At the next stoplight, however, Eckles sees the white Sierra turning out of the Sunoco across the intersection. The timing’s perfect. The light turns green and Eckles pulls up behind Bowman’s truck as he leaves the station. Great, thinks Eckles. He holds back on the gas to put some distance between the two vehicles. Can’t let this guy know he’s being followed, which means, Eckles realizes, that he’s now following Bowman. He’s doing it. Actively pursuing a dangerous criminal. Tailing a perp. They’re still driving west on Main. Eckles figures Bowman’s headed for the 401. He could be going south to Windsor and then he’ll attempt to cross the border. Or north, up to Toronto, to get lost in the big city. He likely has some hideout, some place inconspicuous out in the country. Could have a band of like-minded goons waiting for him at the hideout. Eckles pictures this—the dusty floors, the card tables, the cellar door leading to an elaborate torture chamber—and knows he’s in over his head. I should have stayed at the diner, like the emergency dispatcher said. Should have stayed in bed. Should have stayed in the womb.

Eckles reaches for his phone. If he calls the diner he can tell Patty where he is. Get the police on the line. They can use their roof lights, speed through traffic, catch up to him and take over the pursuit. Eckles can go back to work. The Good Morning hasn’t seemed so inviting in years. Except he doesn’t have his phone, Eckles realizes with disgust. It’s in his apron. He hung the apron on the back of the door before leaving. Moron. He has no way of contacting anyone. A complete moron. He’s alone in this.

Before they make it to the highway, Bowman turns right on Ajax, a country road surrounded by fields and forests. The two cars that had been driving between Bowman and Eckles continue straight—the buffer is gone. Eckles makes the right onto Ajax and now it’s just the two of them. He slows down.

He’ll continue the pursuit. Follow Bowman until he reaches his hideout or motel or wherever the hell he’s headed for. Then drive to a gas station, coffee shop—anywhere with a phone. Then he’ll call the police, relay the information and drive back to the diner. Receive his shiny medal. Easy.

Except, he realizes, Bowman just filled his tank. He could be going anywhere. Eckles is running low on fuel—real low. The needle’s past E. If he turns around now he still might not make it back to the diner. And who knows what a lunatic like Bowman has in mind. In fact, maybe he’s spotted Eckles already. Maybe Bowman was headed for the highway, but turned down Ajax to see if Eckles’ Yaris was following him. Which it is. And, by making that turn he’s just confirmed it. Bowman knows. And now they’re alone.

The two vehicles continue down Ajax. They pass silos, thickets and a small lake. The sky is overcast, depressing. Leaves rot on the ground. There’s no one else on the road. Eckles considers turning around. He can tell the police where Bowman’s headed and say he lost him. Besides, why waste any more time on this? Eckles isn’t going to stop a goddamn bank robber. If anyone’s coming out of this situation on top, it’s Bowman. The man who successfully robbed banks. The man who shot security guards and got away with it. Eckles has never got away with anything. No one put Eckles on the front page of the newspaper—he is a nothing. Maureen knew that. His own wife saw where he was headed in life, realized his limited potential and cut him loose. Smartest decision she ever made. Eckles knows his place.

Before he can make up his mind, Eckles sees the Sierra slow down. Good God, Eckles thinks. What’s this maniac doing? The white truck pulls over to the side of the road. Eckles checks his rear-view—there’s no one behind him. It’s just Eckles and Bowman. There’s nothing to do but drive on. He speeds up.

Eckles looks out the passenger window as he drives past Bowman. They meet eyes. Bowman’s face is blank, serious, his hands resting on the steering wheel. “Oh shit,” Eckles says. Once he’s ahead of Bowman, Eckles checks the rear-view. The Sierra is moving again; it’s following him.

Eckles squeezes the wheel as sweat drips through his knuckles. He belches—his breath smells like ketchup. He stares down the long, empty road. He’s never driven out this way before and he’s not sure where he’s headed exactly. Toward Rodney? Bowman’s Sierra is still behind him, otherwise there’s no traffic. Eckles belches again. His guts feel like a closed fist. The engine sputters. The Yaris is handling all wrong, thirsty for fuel and slowly dying. Soon, the car will roll to a stop. And then he’ll have to deal with Bowman.

The Sierra keeps its distance. Eckles thought Bowman would run him off the road, but he’s holding back. A few minutes earlier, Eckles made a left turn on Telegraph Road and so did Bowman. There’s nothing on Telegraph Road. Corn fields on one side, pine trees on the other and in Eckles’ rear-view, the white Sierra—so far behind it’s just a dot in the mirror. In a way, it’s worse that Bowman’s hanging back. Like he’s playing a game. Moving all slow and confident. Like a villain. Like a goddamn cartoon.

The road stretches on as far as Eckles can see. No turns to make, just corn and pine trees. The engine’s coughing and the car’s lurching. He’s not going to make it, Eckles realizes. This is it. He checks the rear-view one last time. White dot in the distance. He presses the gas to the floor, figuring one last burst of speed before the engine quits on him but nothing happens. It’s dead. He’s coasting. Might as well be fleeing the maniacal killer on a skateboard.

Eckles thinks suddenly of the corn. He can hide in the corn. No time to assess the idea or weigh its merits so Eckles simply acts. He cranks the steering wheel and veers off the road. The car crashes through the chicken wire fence. Eckles hits his head on the driver’s window. There’s a terrible scraping sound from underneath like the car’s being ripped in half. Then the cracking of corn stalks, flattening before him in the windshield. He drifts into the cornfield, speed decreasing with each broken stalk, until the vehicle comes to a complete stop.

Eckles opens the door, shoving it hard against the corn so he can climb out and immediately starts running. Down the row, husks and leaves smack into his face. Broken stalks scrape his shins. He isn’t sure if Bowman’s in there with him but he dodges to the right, makes his way to another row and keeps running. He’s out of breath. His briefs ride up into his butt crack. Chest pains. He keeps running.

Eventually, Eckles can’t take anymore. He’s been hoofing it through walls of heavy corn for ten, twenty minutes—he can’t be sure. He stops. He’s done. His heart pounds in his throat. He puts his hands on his knees, panting, and listens. A bird chirps somewhere. The corn stalks rustle in the wind, otherwise all is quiet. Eckles sits down in the mud and brings his hand to his head where it hurts. Where he hit it against the window coming in to the field. There’s blood on his fingers. Is Bowman in here with me? he wonders. Waiting up ahead. I’ll start walking and he’ll jump out, slit my throat. But then again, why would he bother? Check the imbecile in the Yaris off your list, Bowman! He’s probably miles from here by now. Laughing it up. Organizing his money piles. Another anecdote for his memoirs when he’s finally locked up. Standing around in the yard with the other inmates. Tell that one about the idiot who drove into the cornfield again, Bowman.

Eckles stands. Wipes the dirt off his jeans. No sign of the bank robber, he walks through the corn. No sense in going back to the car—Bowman could be there waiting, sharpening his dagger on a rock—so he continues down the row, away from the road. Eckles thinks of Maureen. All that corn. She grew up on a farm, he thinks. Not too far from here. There was probably corn throughout her childhood.

Eckles misses her. Actually misses her—not the usual self-pity. Misses seeing her and talking to her. If he makes it out of the field in one piece, he decides, he’ll track down her number and call her. See how she’s doing. It wasn’t her fault, what happened. Sure, she left. But he practically shoved her out the door. Tried to control everything. The diner was all his idea. The wedding too. They had problems before she took off. Before they got hitched even. Communication problems. Heated arguments. Mutual bitterness. Eckles tried to ignore their issues by throwing nuptials at them, covering everything up with work on the new restaurant. He had a thousand opportunities to mend things with Maureen but he chose to look the other way. He’d always felt that things fixed themselves, given enough time, but they don’t.

A half hour passed by. Eckles’ feet are sore and his breathing is laboured. He’s thirsty and hungry. And then he steps out of the cornfield, onto the greenest grass he’s ever seen.

Someone’s yard. A small house a kilometre away. There’s a truck in the driveway; it’s blue. Eckles kicks clumps of mud from his sneakers and makes for the house. A small, old man in bifocals answers the door. He’s wearing a baby blue cardigan and is smiling with his magnified eyes. Eckles smells something sweet and familiar coming from down the hall—waffles?

“Hello there,” the old man says. “What are we selling today?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” Eckles says. He looks down at his shoes. He feels like he’s in trouble, like he’s about to be disciplined. “I need to use your phone. I crashed my car into your corn.”

“Oh Lord,” the old man says, reaching for Eckles’ arm. “Are you alright? Come in, come in. You can use the phone. Eileen! Eileen, there’s a man here’s had an accident. Eileen, get in here!”

Eckles calls nine-one-one again. He’s transferred around from person to person and so ends up telling his story to three different people. When he hangs up, the old man wants to hear what happened too even though he’d sat there staring at him the whole time. So Eckles tells it again. Then Eileen comes into the living room with a basket of homemade apple fritters. The old man tells her the story now. Gets about half of it right. Calls Bowman “Darwin.”

Eckles wonders what will happen to Bowman. Prison, most likely. Unless he’s gunned down. It was inevitable. A lifestyle like that, your options begin to narrow. An hour ago, Eckles was thinking Bowman was truly free, unencumbered by laws, but the opposite was true. Eckles was free. If anything, there was too many directions he could take. All that freedom was overwhelming.

“Have another fritter,” Eileen says. “Is someone coming to get you? Would you like some tea? I can put coffee on if you’d rather.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Eckles says. “A detective is on his way here now. He’ll take me back to town.”

“I’ll put on some coffee anyway. Maybe the detective wants coffee. I should make more fritters.”

They’re sitting on wicker chairs. A radio is playing in the kitchen, schmaltzy wartime music. The house smells like fried sugar and fresh laundry. Eckles can’t stop eating the apple fritters. He’s never been so hungry. He licks his fingers. The fritters are the most enjoyable meal he’s had in his life. Eckles doesn’t notice any pain, his headache’s gone. The fear of Bowman is gone. All that is out the window. He’s comfortable. The two old-timers have a calming presence. There’s a painting of a German shepherd on the wall; that’s calming too. The music. The fritters.

“Can I use your phone again?” Eckles asks.

“Eileen,” the old man calls to the kitchen, “bring the phone in here.”

Eckles calls the Good Morning and Patty answers on the first ring. He tells her he’s okay and gives her the basic story as quickly as he can because that’s not the reason he’s calling. Eckles wants to tell her the ideas he has for the diner. A new theme. New menu. He tells Patty to take notes. They’ll rip out the booths and put in wicker tables and chairs. There will be new aprons for the staff. He’ll paint the exterior blue. Eckles stares at the beautiful German shepherd on the wall and wonders what it’ll take for the old man and Eileen to sell it to him.