Introduction to Springdale 
                        Copyright 1993 by Dave Laird

[This was to be the introduction to the series called Tales of Springdale,
but along the way, other stories vied for and won the honors, while this
true assessment languished on the vine for lack of attention. Finally, in
1995, it became the true introduction, as the series of Springdale Tales
grew in size and scope to where only a true picture of the town would do.]

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It is nearly four in the morning, before things finally begin to slow crawl
in the Town of Springdale. The loudspeaker outside the Regal Tavern that
blares music from the jukebox out onto the street all night grows
reluctantly quiet after the tavern closes, as if it would prefer to bellow
into the darkness until the sun rises once again. The solitary night light
inside the Regal shines faintly through a broken front window onto the
uneven macadam that passes for sidewalks throughout the business district in
town.

As the last of the bar patrons have wobbled, staggered or driven their way
out of town, a solitary mongrel dog, himself a vagabond and not that well
acquainted with the rituals of this place, pauses to sniff the scent of
human blood on the pavement front the Reservation Tavern. There was a fight
earlier in the evening, involving Freddy the Logger and Nasty Pavarone, a
Spokane Indian, whose only offense it seems, was to give Freddy's
girlfriend, Lila, the eye while Freddy was off in the bathroom attending to
natures' call.

When Freddy returned, he hauled the drunken elfish wisp a man off the bar
stool that Freddy has always considered his own personal property, drug him
outside and when Nasty attempted to smack him with a healthy roundhouse
punch, Freddy promptly bloodied his nose.

Now that the combatants have all left the bars for the night, a sleepy wind
blows softly through the town, stirring the dry summer weeds growing between
the buildings, while the old dog, losing interest in the brief history of
the fight his canine senses have detected, trots briskly down the street,
hoping to find something to eat behind one the town's two restaurants.

Ben Welchert, owner of the Reservation Tavern and also the Mayor of the Town
of Springdale, finishes cleaning up the inside of his tavern, soon comes
outside with a broom and starts cleaning the sidewalk in front of his
tavern. Actually, he isn't so much cleaning the sidewalk as he is patrolling
the downtown parking area for discarded beer cans which he crushes and adds
to the considerable pile he keeps in the bar's back room.

Once a month, perhaps more often if business in the bar has been really
brisk, he loads the smelly plastic garbage bags full of crushed beer cans
into his battered pickup truck, and takes them to the recycling center forty
miles away in Spokane. The money he gets for the crushed aluminum beer cans
usually is squandered on a wild night in the big city, with stray woman or
two thrown in for good measure. At the age of fifty-five, and feeling the
vigor he once knew beginning to fade, Ben firmly believes that when it comes
to women, diversity is the best policy to follow--one to which his live-in
girlfriend, Lurene, often takes an angry exception.

Welchert, who once made a living as a long-haul truck driver, is still a
trim, somewhat neat-appearing man, so long as he isn't drunk on his ass,
unshaven and filthy with food and beer spilled all over his front. Like most
the men in town, he nearly always wears men's western boots and denim jeans,
and totally disdains wearing anything more formal than a string tie and
western shirt.

His biggest hobby seems to be collecting old out-of-date beer cans and
unusual bumper stickers. When one of his old truck-driving buddies drops by
Springdale for a visit, more often than not, they bring him new bumper
stickers which Ben takes special joy in pasting on the walls all over his
bar. It is said that Ben has the most diverse collection of bumper stickers
of anyone in the United States. His favorite piece of humor, a poster stuck
to the front of his walk-in beer cooler, proudly states: "When the White Men
came to America, the Indians were in charge. The women did all the work,
there was no taxes and nobody was in debt. The White Man thought they could
improve upon that????" The Indians that wander off the reservation seem to
think this piece of raw wisdom hilarious, at least.

Having picked up the beer cans that lay in the street where the cars had
been parked earlier, Ben pauses, leaning on his street broom, and chuckles
to himself. Up the street, he sees Larry Groom's old Chevette, still parked
in front the Crown Tavern. As of late, Larry has been sleeping inside the
bar, hoping to capture whoever it was that keeps stealing his whiskey after
the bar closes. Although Larry has spent at least three or four nights of
each week sleeping on the bare hardwood floor behind his bar for the last
two months, he never has caught his burglar.

'Of course you haven't caught anyone, you dumbshit!' Ben laughs to himself,
the sound echoing faintly back off the quiet streets. 'Parking your car out
in front of the damn bar is a good way to advertise you're sleeping in the
bar, and only a real stupid thief would try to steal your whiskey tonight.'

What does trouble Ben that the same cagey thief that has been knocking over
the Crown Tavern has also broken into nearly every business in town at one
time or another, including Barnies' Auto Shop across the highway from the
Springdale Cafe and Lounge. Nearly everybody in the area likes Barney,
although the only ones who will let him work on their equipment are the
farmers, who faithfully bring him their broken-down tractors, corn binders
and combines to fix during the off-season. Barney is just too damned slow
for most folks.

Where a good mechanic, working at a reasonable pace could fix a minor
problem, such as a broken fan belt or a stuck thermostat, in an hour or two,
Barney takes days or even weeks. First he sits there on his three-legged
stool considering all the possible ramifications of fixing whatever is
wrong. Perhaps there is an unseen reason why some part failed or the car
won't start. One never knows about such things. Then, after fully
considering what the problem might be, it Barney spends at least two or
three more hours trying to locate his tools. Generally speaking, these are
either wherever he last used them, or over at someone else's house, as he
generally will loan his tools to anyone whom he knows.

Ben always sends the town's sand and gravel truck over to Barney's for
service. Ben always tells folks if they are willing to wait, Barney does
excellent work, at dirt cheap prices. You just have to wait on him little
longer than you would your typical run-of-the-mill mechanic.

Looking up the street the opposite direction from Barney's, Ben notices a
car parked back in the shadows behind the Grange Hall he didn't notice
before. At first he thinks it might be a County Sheriff's Deputy, waiting in
the dark to nail a drunk driver trying to make it home after having had a
few too many, or perhaps the liquor inspector checking to see if all the
bars have closed on time. Looking closer, Ben breathes a sigh of relief.
It's just Freddy the Logger who apparently has gotten himself thrown out of
the house again by Lila, who is probably still mad about the fight earlier
the evening and is wisely spending the night in his car to keep the peace.

With his nightly inspection and cleanup tour complete, Ben goes back in the
tavern, his work done for the night. After locking the door, making certain
to first pull all the curtains, he grabs a clean beer glass from behind the
bar and pours himself a tall cold glass of beer, sits down, and begins
reading the want ads from the daily paper. Everything is finally quiet in
the Town of Springdale. Even the dogs have ceased barking and have gone to
bed. The new quarter moon rises, ripe and pink on the eastern horizon behind
the Grange Hall while, his car, Freddy the Logger mutters thickly in his
sleep, turns over and partially opens his eyes in time to see Ben going back
into the tavern, then nods back off to sleep again.

Soon, even Ben is slumbering, his head turned sideways on the scarred bar in
the tavern that is nearly twice as old as he. As he dozes, his hand brushes
the empty beer glass onto the floor unnoticed.

Just before five A.M. the Town of Springdale, like the Mayor, tosses
fitfully in her sleep, the empty beer cans and whiskey bottles clattering in
her hair. As the train from the coast mournfully makes its way through town,
the sky in the east begins to brighten with the prospect of a new day, and
for short time, Springdale is tranquil.