Passing the Time of Day

‘I DUNNO what t’ make a me,’ stated Mr. Atkins contentedly and leaned against the counter of his soft-drink stand. ‘Jest said t’ m’self this minnit, bet someone’s goin’ t’ come in here afore ten cars gwup thet road. Ain’t thet a supprisin’ thing?’ he declared admiringly. ‘Happens t’ me all the time.’

‘Is that so?’ I said. ‘Well, I came in for a coca-cola. It’s a warm day today.’

‘Yup, time an’ again I perdict t’ m’self,’ continued Mr. Atkins blandly, ‘an half the time it’s so. It don’t even supprise me any more. Thet other day, fer instance, when I dropped up t’ Buckfield, Don’t know yet what possessed me t’ go there. No reason I kin think of — jest felt like it I guess.’

Mr. Atkins pulled an empty crate over to him and sat down on it. ‘Where wuz I?’ he inquired. ‘Oh yup. Well, right as I got inta Buckfield I see a crowd standin’ afore a piece a popertv a mine, an’ all of ‘em steppin’ on my grass. Turned out twuz a auction an’ it wuz my-un what they wuz auctionin’ off. So I sez: “Hold on a minnit!” t’ thet auctioneer. “What y’ sellin’ thet poperty for? I got a ten-year lease on it.”

“‘Y’ hev?” he sez.

‘“Yes,” I sez. “Hed it I dunno how long, an’ what’s more I got papers t’ prove it.’” Everbody turned an’ rubbered but I didn’t care ‘bout thet.

“‘Y’ hev?” he sez again, an’ I sez “Yes” again — an’ what’s more I hed.

“‘Well say,” sez thet auctioneer, backin’ water, “thet’s a real good thing t’ know!”’

‘But Mr. Atkins,’ I asked, ‘how did he come to be selling your land?’

‘Thet’s what I say!’ declared Mr. Atkins emphatically. ‘Why, you think same as me.’ He got up from the packing case and rambled out to the edge of the road. ‘Ever ben t’ Buckfield? There it lays up thetaways, nestled in them hills.’

I went over and stood beside him in the shade of his maple. ‘I like your part of the country,’ I said.

Mr. Atkins plucked a clover and ate it thoughtfully. ‘Yup,’ he agreed, ‘this time a year it’s appealin’, but winters you kin hev it!’ A heavy truck pounded past us and Mr. Atkins raised his voice to accommodate the noise. ‘Thet’s the first car gone by sence I ain’t give ya yer coca-cola,’ he shouted, and slapped the dust off his vest. ‘Yup, I ain’t a Eskimo, so winters I live t’ Portlan’. Why, one time I come up here when it wuz fortyseven below. I went in there t’ Fred Foster’s house facin’ us an’ I sat right up t’ his stove, but it didn’t even warm up the frizz on my overcoat, let alone thaw me out. An’ after I’d near perished arrivin’, it turned out I needn’t a come a talk’

‘Why, how was that?’ I asked.

‘Jest a jiffy,’ requested Mr. Atkins and took off his cap recommending Moxie and snapped an ant off of it. ‘Where wuz I? Oh yes, about Fred over there. Y’ see, Fred hed a stump in his yard troublin’ him, so I sez not t’ fret. “Leave it t’ me,” I sez. “I’ll git it out fer ya. I’ll come over an’ blay-ast it out!”

‘“How y’ goin’t’ do thet?” he sez.

“‘With my dynamite,” I sez. “It jest so happens I don’t want it no more,” an’ Fred wuz agreeble t’ thet. So I did blay-ast it out clean’s a whistle, some pieces sailin’ off as fer as the pasture, an’ he didn’t hev no more stump.” ‘

Mr. Atkins looked over to the spot where all had gone so well. ‘So then Fred wuz glad an’ thenked me fer it, but time come, after I hed closed up here an’ gone t’ Portlan’, when he sees me t’ Portlan’ and he sez: “ Y’ know,” he sez, “when you wuz over t’ my house blay-astin’ my stump — remember?”

‘“Yes,” I sez, thinkin’.

‘“Well,” he sez, “y’ know what y’ went an’ done, don’t ya?”

‘“Yes,” I sez, “I went an’ blay-asted yer stump.”

‘“Thet ain’t all yer went an’ done,” he sez firin’ up. “You jest went an’ cracked my house’s whole see-ment foumdation,”

‘“I did?” I sez.

‘“You took yer dynamite,” he sez, “an’ you went an’ busted my celler.” ‘

Mr. Atkins stopped and shook his head in wonderment that such things could happen. ‘I dunno why I didn’t git mad,’ he confessed, ‘but I didn’t. I jest stayed pleasant. I sez t’ him, “Lemme ask y’ somethin’, Fred. Why is it y’ come t’ me now with this when y’ never thought t’ mention it then?”

“T never knew y’ done it,” he sez, “til! the leaves went an’ dropped off my woodbine.” He meant his woodbine he’d trained round his celler.

‘“Well,” I sez t’ him, still not cross, “it jest so happens I didn’t neither bust yer celler, but all the same, sence you think I did, I’ll go an’ take a look at it.” So thet’s how I come t’ make thet trip when I couldn’t git warm at his stove. A course the minnit I see the crack I knew right off what twuz. “Fred,” I sez, “y’ know what done thet, don’t ya?”

‘“No,” he sez, “not if tweren’t you, I don’t.”

‘“Fred, thet ain’t no one’s handiwork,” I sez t’ him; “not yours, nor mine, nor no one’s.”

“‘I know it ain’t mine nor no one’s,” he sez t’ me, “but why ain’t it yours?”

‘“Becuz,” I sez, “fer the very simple reason it wuz thet earthquake cracked thet.”’

A look of disappointment crossed Mr. Atkins’s face. ‘An’ y’ know what thet Fred said t’ me? He said t’ me: “What earthquake ? ”

‘Well, I jest looked at him. “What earthquake would it be, Fred? ” I ask him. “ Why, the earthquake we hed lay-ast spring!”’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘you had an earthquake here?

I hadn’t heard about that.’

‘Yes, y’ hev too,’ Mr. Atkins insisted. ‘Baltimore wuz the location the papers give, but a course jest Baltimore wuzn’t all it shook up.’

‘Oh yes,’ I agreed, ‘I did hear about the one in Baltimore.’

‘Everbody heard about it,’ declared Mr. Atkins expansively. ‘Everbody but thet Fred! An’ even after I went an’ took the trouble t’ tell him about it, even then he didn’t remember it good.’

‘How did it all end?" I asked.

Mr. Atkins put his arm around his maple and thought: ‘Oh, I dunno,’he said after a moment. ‘Aekually it ain’t very interestin’.’

‘Mr. Atkins,’ I said, ‘I think, if you don’t mind, I d like to have that coca-cola now.’

‘Hev it.’ he said. ‘It’s what y’ come fer, ain’t it? I dunno what they’ll think up next summer, but see if it ain’t a corker!’ He left the roadside and went behind his counter.

‘What’s the matter with sittin’ down?’ he inquired.

‘I will. I’m just getting out a nickel to drop in the juke box. Have you got any special favorite?’

‘Yup. The New York World’s Fair Number Six is my-un. There’s nothin’ to it a course but jest music, an’ still it’s real good.’

‘All right, I’ll play it,’ I said.

‘Well, don’t start till I git yer drink,’ he requested, ‘an’ then I kin sit down an’ lissen.’

He raised the lid of the icebox and fumbled around for the coca-cola. ‘Let’s see what this sez,’ and he brought out a bottle and studied the label. ‘MOXIE — well thet ain’t it. Kin y’ tell one from the other when yer drinkin’ it?’ he inquired. ‘One makes me jest as limp ‘s another. Whyn’t y’ try this? If I reach fer the coca-cola it’s goin’ t’ raise hell with them other bottles.’

‘Yes, that’ll do,’ I said.

Mr. Atkins opened it and set it before me. ‘Once it’s down past yer gullet it ain’t got no more trademark, it’s all jest nobody’s business.’

‘Is it all right to drop my nickel in now?’ I asked.

‘Drop her in,’ he directed, making himself comfortable on the crate once more. ‘I’m supprised you sayin’ it wuz warm today. I didn’t hev no feelin’ twuz goin’t’ be.’

RUTH GORDON