18 May, 2014
Houston
It's said that travel broadens the mind. I say that if you travel far enough and long enough, you're liable to see just about anything. You may even see or experience things that just defy explanation.
For a few years I represented a New Jersey company in Louisiana and southern Mississippi. I used to leave on Tuesdays and returned on Fridays. I did that every week of every year.
Whenever I'd go to Shreveport or Monroe, I'd have to pass through Alexandria, LA. Just below "Alec" as it's sometimes called, is a small nondescript town called Bunkie. In a later job I had, some folks I worked with called it "Funkie Bunkie." I laughed every time someone said that, because it just seemed to fit the town so well.
There wasn't much to this town; it was slightly more than a wide spot in the road. The only reason I noticed it at all was because of a Starks Restaurant that used to be right on the highway. It offered coffee for 10¢ (cheap even back in the mid-1970's.) It wasn't the best coffee in the world, but it was a potty stop and something hot to keep me awake for the long trek northward. Now and then I'd even grab a bite to eat as well.
It was a "fer piece" as my mother would say, from New Orleans to Shreveport or Monroe. It took nearly 8 hours because of the sub-standard roads. Once you pass Bunkie was the town of le Compte, and north of that you just transitioned from 'Cajun country to Redneck. I used to tell folks I was going "way, way north - up to Yankee country - way north - up to Shreveport." Somehow I don't think the good folks of that northern city would cotton to be called "Yankees."
I called on the lumber, building materials, and hardware trade. I would always stop in and say hello to the folks at the small mom & pop hardware stores. It didn't bring me much money, but there is more to life than money. There is something honest, wholesome, and typical of what I love about the United States - something called Americana - that was embodied in these little places.
Once inside, I'd travel to an earlier, simpler time, when a man worked an honest day for an honest day's pay. Houses were built to last, with solid construction - not slapped together with inferior materials and shoddy workmanship.
Nowadays it's minimum required - maximim desired... getting the most from others while giving the least of oneself. In my grandfather's day they called that dishonesty and greed.
During those years on the road as a salesman, I watched as, one-by-one, the little places would shut their doors - put out of business by the hyper-marts and chain mega-marts. Their day had come and gone. They call that progress.
As I mentioned, it was a long haul from New Orleans to Shreveport or Monroe. I'd traditionally leave the house at midday, so by the time I'd get to Bunkie, with traffic and all, it usually was about 6:30 or 7:00pm - often it was later. I preferred to drive long distances at night. It was more relaxing. I could be alone with my thoughts, listen to the car's AM radio, or put on my own music in the form of cassette tapes.
Bunkie had a small hardware store, located on the south side of town, right on Main Street. It was about as nondescript as the town it was in. Whenever I'd pass through the town, I'd notice it, but it was always closed. Hardware stores usually closed at 5PM or sometimes even earlier back then.
On the day this story takes place, I was was running early. I didn't think that word was in my vocabulary! I was always late for everything back then! Yet here I was, arriving in beautiful downtown Funkie Bunkie at about 5:30pm. Heck, the SUN was still up, sort of. And if that wasn't enough, Bunkie Hardware Store was apparently open for business.
So I pulled in front of the store and parked. No other car was in front of the store. I opened the front door, the little bells tinkled, heralding my arrival. Nobody was in the place at all. When one considers the vastness and population density of the Greater Bunkie Metropolitan Area, that was not surprizing in the least - even if you take into consideration the ancillary trade from such towns as Cheneyville and le Compte!
I began to look around the store. It was quite chilly in the place - guessed the A/C was running on full tilt and without any customers to open doors continuously, the temperature dropped considerably. It was a relief from the repressive Louisiana summer heat and humidity!
When nobody came to greet me, I made my way to the back where I heard some noises, and I walked into a small workshop located just behind the counter. There stood an old, grey-haired man, working on threading a pipe - or some such quotidian tast known to take place in small hardware stores.
I introduced myself to him, and he told me his name: Mr. Duck. You don't often meet somebody with a name like that, and I was reluctant to ask him his first, fearing an uncontrolled guffaw on my part if it happenned to be Donald. We talked shop for a few minutes, I left him some literature on my company's products, and then left and headed north on Highway 71. I gave this incident no further thought.
About two years passed, and I found myself at a national hardware convention in Houston, TX. This is the time when those little, piddling sales calls pay off, as orders are usually placed here and dealers learn about all the new products and get discounts on orders. It is also here where bosses can see how well their salesmen penetrate their territories, as people stop by their booths. One should see lots of familiar faces as the various hardware store managers file by.
In fact, it's an ideal conversation starter (as if I ever NEEDED one!) to shout: "Hey Jim! Nice to see you!" It's an old salesman thing. Then I saw a few people from Bunkie Hardware. I did not recognize any of them, but remember, I only called on them once. They stopped at my booth and I enquired: "So, how is Mr. Duck?" recalling my one visit a couple of years back.
They all stopped talking and got a little serious. "Mr. Duck?" asked a younger man, with the words "Bunkie Hardware, Bunkie, LA. - MANAGER." on his nametag.
"Why, yes," I replied, not understanding the reason for the change in demeanor of the small group.
"Did you know Mr. Duck?" the manager asked me. (I figured the poor old fellow had passed away - that explained it.)
"No, not really," I replied, changing my demeanor out of respect. "I met him a couple of years ago when I called on the store. Why, did he pass away?"
"Yes, sir, I'm afraid he did pass away - but you don't understand," the man explained, "Mr. Duck died a full TEN YEARS ago."
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Today, the town of Bunkie is still on Highway 71, but it is now also just off I-49. There is no listing for Bunkie Hardware, although another bigger, better, more modern store exists in another part of town. No longer does traffic pass through that little town. It's been bypassed by the modern Interstate highway - and progress.
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