CORNFLAKE, ARKANSAS

“Cornflake, Arkansas”. That’s what the first sign said after I crossed over the Mississippi. I’d been driving for almost six hours straight, and it was getting on for two in the afternoon, so I thought I’d take a break and get a bite to eat or something. I didn’t have to get to Oklahoma City until tomorrow, so I had time. I’d eat something and then go to a bank and see if I could cash a check.

 

“Josephine’s, The Best Food in Cornflake”, was what the next sign I noticed said. I stopped the Dodge right outside the front entrance, stretched a little, and got out. It had been raining all the time I drove through Tennessee, but here the sun was suddenly shining and the air smelled like summer.

 

Main Street was like something out of the nineteen-fifties. All the cars were parked against the sidewalks. Nothing seemed to be moving at all. It seemed more like a Sunday morning than a Tuesday afternoon. So, for the first time in three days I left my gun in the car, under my jacket, and walked into “Josephine’s”.

 

“Josephine’s” was practically empty except for an old man in a black suit sitting next to the jukebox in the corner. I came to the counter, sat on one of those high stools upholstered in red leather and called towards what I presumed was the kitchen area.

“Ma’am?” No answer.

“Excuse me…” No answer.

 

This sometimes happens in these little towns off the beaten track. And I admire this type of lifestyle. People can go shopping or go home for lunch and leave their businesses open. They know no one will steal from them; they know everyone in town. They trust everyone. So I presumed that the owner or the waitress would come back soon. I leaned over the counter, helped myself to a bottle of beer, and thought I’d play something on the jukebox, just to kill a little time.

 

Nothing on the jukebox was later than the sixties, the price per song was a dime, and it wasn’t even plugged in. “Afternoon,” I said to the old man. No answer.

 

I was beginning to think that it might be best to leave “Josephine’s” and look for somewhere else to eat, but I had this bottle of beer in my hand, and I’d have to pay someone for it, so I sat at the counter a little more and waited.

 

I was just about finishing it and thinking of leaving a dollar on the counter before going out when a fat old black lady comes in. She’s carrying a wicker basket with a live chicken in it, and she’s followed by a big, fat, white cat.

 

“Oh, I am sorry! Have I been away all this time? I’ve been shopping,” she said, presumably meaning the chicken. Then she went behind the counter and let the chicken out of the basket. It clucked a little and then strutted off towards the kitchen area, separated from the snack bar by a curtain of multi-colored beads. The cat followed it.

 

“That’s no problem, ma’am. I hope you don’t mind me having helped myself to a beer. I’ve never heard of this brand.” “Napoleon?” she answered with a smile. “We make it here in town. You won’t find it anywhere else in the whole of Arkansas.” Then she wiped her hands on a cloth hanging behind the bar, took a deep breath, looked me straight in the eyes and said: “So. What would you like?”

 

I looked at the menu on the wall. It was one of those old aluminum, enamel-painted picture menus, with a slate in the middle for writing on in chalk. On the slate it said: “Chicken Sandwiches”, and below this there was a clock, with a mechanical date-panel underneath. The date said: “Tues: Feb 21: 1969”. The clock was ticking.

 

When I finished my chicken sandwich and my second ‘Napoleon’, and had paid my 85 cents to the old lady, I said goodbye and walked to the door. I didn’t really fancy spending much more time in Cornflake, Arkansas.

 

*****

It was even brighter outside when I pulled aside the sash to go out. I walked towards the car and was about to open the door when I heard, “Freeze, Mister!” I turned round to see six police officers, all pointing guns at me and looking pretty determined about shooting me. A couple of the younger ones were shaking visibly, and one of them couldn’t hold his hand still, his gun wobbling all over the place.

 

I’d been in plenty of situations like this before, and I knew where the danger might come from.

“I’m unarmed,” I said.

“Keep your hands away from your body, sir, and turn round and lean against the vehicle!”

Which I did, and then I was handcuffed, cautioned and arrested.

 

“Under the law of Kellogg County, Arkansas, we are arresting you for the murder of Martha Fine. You have a right to remain silent, and should you give up this right anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney, and should you not be able to afford such an attorney, one will be provided for you by the state of Arkansas. Do you understand, sir?”

 

“Murder?” I said. “I just stopped for a fucking chicken sandwich!”

“Please do not blaspheme, sir.” And then I felt a blow to the back of my head.

 

When I came round I was in a cell. The door was being unlocked by a police officer, and then entered a young man in a dark suit, around thirty, pale-faced, spotty, and obviously incapable of knowing what to do with his hair.

 

“Howdy-do,” he said, stretching out his hand. “My name is Dougall MacMuffin, from the Law Firm ‘MacMuffin, MacMuffin and Poltergeist’. I’m here to represent you.” “Poltergeist?” I said. “You have a partner named ‘Poltergeist’?” “Well, only technically. He founded the firm, but we haven’t seen a lot of him since my brother and I bought the company name.”

 

“Really?”

“So, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty, Mr. Nicholson.”

“The nitty-gritty? What planet are you from?”

“Well, actually, I’m a Cornflakian. I’ve never left town. But why do you ask?”

 

I got up from the little cot I’d presumably been sleeping on and walked over to the washbasin. I splashed some cold water over my face, hoping I’d wake up from this nightmare. I doused my hair with some water and swept it back. And then I turned to face this jerk.

“So, what is the nitty-gritty, MacMuffin?”

 

“Well, I’ve sort of been going over the details of the case, although I haven’t had much time – there was the golf tournament this week, and, y’know – and I didn’t really deal with this type of cases before… Poltergeist usually dealt with murders and sex crimes, and that sort of thing…”

“You don’t say…?”

“But I think we’ve got an angle on this; I think I might be able to get you off on this one,” he finished, now sweating a little.

“An angle?”

“Yes. A way out.”

“And what would that be, MacMuffin?”

“The woman you killed is still alive.”

 

I turned round to the basin again and splashed a little more cold water on my face. Then I looked at this frightened lawyer. “The woman I killed is still alive? Doesn’t that mean I didn’t kill her, MacMuffin? Wouldn’t you say that that was more than just an angle?”

“It’s not as simple as that…”

 

I pushed him against the wall, and put my strong hands around his throat and neck.

“Listen, Mac-fucking-Muffin, if no one is dead then no one can be charged with murder, right?”

“But she identified you positively while you were asleep…,” he grunted.

“What?”

“She definitely stated it was you who killed her.”

“Are you off your cake?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Nicholson.”

“Don’t fucking ‘Mr.-Nicholson’-me, don’t fucking give me ‘Mr. Nicholson’. Just get me out of this shit-hole right away. No one’s dead. No one’s killed anyone. Get me out of here. All I wanted was a fucking chicken sandwich – well, I didn’t even want that – and a little rest for a while. This crap has gone far enough…”

 

“Well, I do have some good news,” he said, now recovering from my almost strangling him, and dusting down his suit.

“And what’s that, Muffin?” I asked.

“MacMuffin,” he said.

“MacFuck,” I said. Which seemed to put a seal on this discussion. He messed around in his pockets looking for a piece of paper, which he eventually found, and brought out in triumph.

“I’ve managed to get us an early trial.”

 

There wasn’t a great deal of space in the cell for me to walk around before I considered my answer to this, so I just kicked at the wall a little before I decided to reply, very slowly and deliberately.

“Now, listen to me, you cream-faced lunatic: I am not going to stand trial for something I didn’t do and which hasn’t even been done. Do you get the message? Because if it doesn’t go in through your ears then I will force it through your internal organs. Am I making myself clear? I am not going to trial!”

 

*****

The courthouse was empty except for the jury, all of whom looked like they had been taking massive doses of valium over the last twenty or thirty years. There was the prosecution lawyer – the old woman from ‘Josephine’s’ -- and one court official, who stood up at 10 a.m. prompt and said:

 

“All rise, Judge Coqueau presiding.”

The judge sat down at his chair and ordered the proceedings to begin.

“Mr. Nicholson, you are accused of murder in the first degree; how do you plead?”

“Not guilty, your honor.”

“Very well. Prosecution, make your case.”

 

The old lady stood up and advanced towards the jury. I was looking for the cat, but it wasn’t there. “We are,” she said “about to prove that this man, a stranger in our town, is guilty of the murder of Martha Fine, an innocent and beautiful young girl with a great and prosperous career in front of her. And she was cut down, mercilessly, by this hideous creature you see before you. A man without pity, without remorse; a man who has no tears to shed for any of the born or unborn. Our duty – your duty – is to condemn him to the maximum penalty permitted in Kellogg County, and I am sure you will.” Then she sat down, visibly tired.

 

MacMuffin stood up: “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, hey, what is this crap? Martha Fine is still alive! Doesn’t that sort of prove, like, that my client didn’t kill her? And he’s sort of a nice guy when you get to know him. So we’re going to sort of prove that he didn’t really do this murder stuff, OK?” And then he sat down again next to me. He had to work really hard to contain the screams of pain that he would otherwise have had to release when I brought my heels down on his toes.

 

“The prosecution calls Martha Fine.” And so in comes this woman I’d never seen before. A few identification questions, and then: “Is the man who killed you present in this courtroom? Can you point him out?” And she points at me. “Let the register record that the deceased pointed to Mr. Nicholson.” And I’m starting to get a little more freaked out than I have been over the last freaked out days. The prosecution rests its case.

 

And so then “cream face” has to get up and say his piece. He’s only got this one angle, which is that Martha Fine is still alive. So he addresses the judge and jury directly. “How,” he says triumphantly “can my client be guilty of murder if the victim is still alive?”

“What do you mean?” asks the judge.

“She’s not dead,” clarifies MacMuffin.

“Can you prove this?” asks the judge.

“Well, she was here just a minute ago.”

“She works in a bank, Mr. MacGuffin.”

“MacMuffin.”

“Whatever. Plenty of people who work in banks are dead but seem alive.”

 

And MacMuffin comes back to our desk. “Change your plea,” he says “to guilty.”

“Are you serious?”

“Listen, stranger, I’ve seen lots of cases like yours. When I was a kid, watching my dad, or watching Poltergeist. You’ll get 30 years or so. We don’t have the death penalty in Cornflake. Not for strangers. Change your plea. Trust me.”

And he touches me on the arm, softly, like a lover does; tender and wanting to be touched by me.

“I’m guilty, your honor. I killed Martha Fine,” I say.

I was sentenced to 30 years hard labor.

 

*****

I looked at the menu on the wall. It was one of those old aluminum, enamel-painted picture menus, with a slate in the middle for writing on in chalk. On the slate it said: “Chicken Sandwiches”, and below this there was a clock, with a mechanical date-panel underneath. The date said: “Tues: Feb 21: 1969”. The clock was ticking.

 

When I finished my chicken sandwich and my second ‘Napoleon’, and had paid my 85 cents to the old lady, I said goodbye and walked to the door. I didn’t really fancy spending much more time in Cornflake, Arkansas.

 

It was even brighter outside when I pulled aside the sash to go out. I walked to the car, opened the door, and put my jacket on, hiding my revolver in the inside pocket. I remembered I had to go to the bank to try to cash a check. I wandered along the deserted street until I came to the First Cornflake Mutual. I walked in and there was no one to be seen. Just like the snack bar. After waiting for a while, and getting really, really, really impatient, a young lady appeared. She had a badge saying “Martha Fine”.

 

I reached into my pocket.

(First published in Ópio magazine, vol 2.2, 2000