The Founder of this Town
Matt Bell
I sat eating my lunch on a bench beneath a statue of the town founder, an old dead guy who no one I knew knew the name of. My lunch was delicious—tuna fish sandwich and salt and vinegar potato chips—and even though it was the same thing I ate every day, it was still just as good as it had been the first time. Also, the sun was out and shining and bright without being too hot, which was good because the side of the statue I was sitting on didn’t really offer any shade. What I’m saying—what I’m trying to say—is that I was quite happy, even though I only had a thirty-minute lunch break and then I had to go back to my job, which I hated, and even though I had seen on the television that there had been a new flood in Texas, or maybe an earthquake in Belize. I couldn’t remember which it was, but either of which would have been enough to depress me most days, especially since on top of all that my favorite contestant had been kicked off American Idol, which was a show I pretended not to be obsessed with. I was obsessed with lots of things I was embarrassed by because they were never the right things to care so much about. If you got one look at my TiVo history then you would never want to vote for me as president. I am one person you could cross off your list right then.
Still, I was feeling happy enough, enjoying the second half of my tuna sandwich, the sun, the break from work, any number of things. Then this guy came up to me looking like a real character, wearing cargo pants and one of those vests with all the pockets. He had a camera in his hands, a real pro job, and he says to me, “Are you from this town?” And I said, “Yes.” And he said, “Have you always lived here?” And I said, “Yes.” And he said, “Do you know the name of this person?” and then he took a picture of the statue, to which I said, “No, I don’t know his name, but he’s the founder of this town,” which was something I had always wanted to tell someone. Then he took a picture of me, which made me mad because he didn’t warn me first and because I had tuna fish in my moustache. I could feel it there, cold and sticky, but when I raised my napkin to wipe my face, he took another picture of me, which made me feel stupid. I didn’t know whether to wipe my face or just leave it. I wondered about magnification, about lighting.
He asked, “If this is the town founder, why don’t you know his name?” to which I said, “No one knows his name.” The photographer thought about this for a moment, and while he thought, he took more pictures of me, of the statue, of the town square. He said, “I think you know and just don’t want to tell me.” This from a guy who wouldn’t let me wipe tuna fish and mayonnaise off of my face! I said, “I don’t know his name but, if it makes you feel better, I could tell you how he came to found this town.” The photographer said, “I think you better tell me something before I get any angrier,” but I don’t think he was really mad. He was just trying to make my expression change so he could get a different kind of picture. He must have been pretty bored by now with the ones he had. I didn’t want him to be bored with me, so I said, “The town founder—whose name I do not know—came here in 1888 to open a battleship factory, because of the close proximity to necessary materials, like wood and iron and cheap labor. Lots of Amish in these parts, you know. Very crafty folks. Crafty as in good at building things.” I didn’t want him to think I was suggesting the Amish couldn’t be trusted. “But this town is land-locked,” said the photographer, and I could see that he was crafty too, only the smart kind instead of the handy kind. “Yes, it is, but there is an excellent set of railroad tracks that go right through the middle of town to get the ships to the ocean.” “So when was this again?” “The Spanish-American War. Teddy Roosevelt went to war on one of our battleships. Everyone in town was very proud of that.” “Didn’t Teddy Roosevelt ride a horse in the war?” “Sure, but first he rode one of our ships to the war, a ship designed by this proud fella right here.” I turned around and slapped the base of the statue for emphasis, to show my local pride. The photographer tried to take my picture while I did it, but I was too quick for him. “So where is this factory now?” he asked. I said, “Oh, it’s long gone. No one really builds battleships anymore, you know. So now we’re mostly just farmers and insurance salesmen and bartenders. We also have an excellent population of dental hygienists.” He said, “Is that so?” “Yes, it is,” I replied, smiling wide to show off my perfect white teeth, hoping he’d take another picture. Only he didn’t. He wasn’t even holding his camera anymore. It was hanging from its strap. He said, “Then what does the railroad haul now?”
I thought about it for a long time. What does the railroad haul? “I don’t know,” I said. I’d seen trains coming through this town my whole life, and I didn’t have a clue what they were hauling. “I don’t know,” I said again, and the photographer turned and walked away, obviously disgusted with me. What does the railroad haul? He had unsettled me to my core. The sun went cold on my skin. What does the railroad haul? What does the railroad haul? What does the railroad haul? I couldn’t stop. I’d watched those trains my whole life, and I didn’t even know what they were carrying. Eventually, I got up from the bench and went back to my job, which, as I’ve said, I really hated. I sat down at my desk and tried to work, but all I could think about were steam engines, cabooses, cargo cars.
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Matt Bell lives in Ann Arbor, MI, with his wife Jessica. His fiction has appeared or is upcoming in Meridian, Barrelhouse, Monkeybicycle, Keyhole, and Best American Fantasy 2008, and his chapbook How the Broken Lead the Blind will be released from Willows Wept Press in January 2009. He is a web editor for Hobart, and can be found online at www.mdbell.com.