The Tale of Harley Stokes
Harley Stokes was a snake oil salesman. ‘Course he never called his
product that; it was an elixir that Harley sold. An elixir that was the cure
for every ailment known to man. From the
back of his old covered wagon; one that he’d hoodwinked a family crossing the
Dakota plains for, for two bottles of his miracle cure, Harley Stokes pitched
to anyone that’d listen… and even to those that didn’t. Once Harley had grabbed
a passerby’s attention by the shirt collar, it was only a matter of time before
he had the money out of their pants pocket. Harley had the gift of gab. It was
his only gift.
Harley Stokes was an
unremarkable man. He wasn’t a man of stature or looks. Quite the opposite,
Harley was short and balding and had a beltline that looked like it kept a keg.
He wasn’t particularly clever. He wasn’t much for honesty or the good book that
preached such things. But Harley could talk. He could talk fast and slow; quiet
and loud. He spoke with conviction. Sometimes he even started to believe the
words and promises that flowed over his tongue. Harley Stokes was a preacher of
sorts. He praised his elixir like a man of the cloth praised the Almighty.
Harley’s pitch was as much physical as it was an oratory. He’d raise his hands
to the sky as if he were surrendering, “Hear me when I tell you that God
himself has blessed me with this mission to deliver all of you good people from
the evil ills that haunt your sanctuaries!!”. Then as quick as the fastest draw
in the West, Harley would drop his hands and with his stubby index finger target
some poor old member of his “congregation”. “You my dear friend. You are in
need. I can feel your pain and I have the cure.” Harley’s ability to feel ones
pain was greatly aided by his ability to spot a figure that was fatigue with
sickness, or skin that was yellow with jaundice, or hear the all too familiar
hacking cough of tuberculosis. Disease was not difficult to see; if you knew
where to look. Harley knew. As easy as the frail are to spot, so to are those
that prey on them. Most folks watched Harley’s show, as that was it was to
them, out of boredom or maybe in the slightest hope that a real miracle drug
had rode into their old dusty town like a savior. Harley paid no attention to
the naysayers or those that mocked him. They weren’t the ones that he concerned
himself with. Harley only needed to sell a few bottles. Those always went to
the most desperate. Those that had almost lost all hope. Those who didn’t come
to be amused or entertained by Harley’s pitch. Those who were in need of
exactly what Harley was selling; hope. Harley only needed to sell a few bottles
in each town he visited. In each he would find enough weak sheep in the flock
to fill his purse enough to get him to the next town.
At 50 cents, just one
bottle could put enough oats in Harley’s old mare’s feedbag for a week. Another
bottle sold paid for a bottle of rye which served as Harley’s elixir. Rye was
one of the ingredients in the cure he slung. Rye, sugar, water, red pepper and
whatever grew by the side of the road of the next town that he’d roll into next
were the ingredients of Dr. Watts Elixir
of Life. The label had that printed on it along with some kind of Latin
gibberish that Harley figured made the bottle look more “medical like”. The
lettering was printed over an outline picture of an eagle and a cross. 50 cents
purchased one bottle. Three could be gotten for a mere one dollar and
twenty-five cents. It was the least Harley could offer his most enthusiastic
patrons; who were usually the most desperate of the desperate.
Harley finished his
show. His pitch hit a crescendo with an improvised howl of sorts. It was a
cocktail of drama and warnings delivered with a high pitched whine. It was nothing
short of an alter call and it worked. At least it drew three patrons to answer
the call. The town drunk, a deaf/mute and some old fella who’s malady wasn’t
apparent although he did have a severe case of the shakes. As Harley collected
their money he urged them to take a spoonful in the morning and just before
turning in. “Double the dose if you’re fellin’ particularly under the weather”;
his last bit of advice as he disappeared into the back of his wagon.
There he sat in the
half darkness of the hot dusty wagon. He counted his money and mumbled to
himself as he added up his take and calculated what he could purchase before
leaving town. “Not a bad take” he thought aloud as he pulled a dirty handkerchief
from his pocket and wiped the dust and sweat from his brow. He hacked a few
coughs and damned the dust that he’d chugged during his pitch. “What’s this” he
murmured to himself as he noticed a patch of wet blood on the handkerchief he
used to cover his mouth, “Not again, damn.” Harley had gotten used to the
chronic cough that had dogged him for over a year now. He wrote it off to all
of the dust in all of the towns he’d been. He did suck a lot of dust down during
his pitch. But over the past few months he had been perplexed and somewhat
frightened by the blood that came up and wondered what to make of it. What he
didn’t know was that he was dying. His tuberculosis was making its presence
known more and more each day.
Just then the quiet
was broken by a gentle breeze that pushed the old canvas flaps draped loosely
over the back of the wagon aside. The breeze cooled the hot space. The stale
stench of the wagon began to disappear and was replaced by the scent of
honeysuckle. Harley’s gaze left the handkerchief and found the gentle movement
of the canvas. The slow waving movement was almost hypnotic. It was calming
like the breeze that carried it. Harley felt an odd sense of relief as if
everything was going to be alright. His peaceful moment was broken by the sound
of a knock on the sideboard of the wagon. It startled Harley. It was followed
by another knock and the sound of a mans voice, “Mr. Stokes. Mr. Stokes are you
in there. Hello.” Harley’s first thought
was, “Oh no. Someone is having second thoughts and wants their money back.” It
was never a good sign to have a visitor after a sale. Rarely did anyone return
to offer gratitude or a testimonial as to how well the elixir has worked. Even
rarer were the times a body had second thoughts and wanted to make a purchase.
Harley wanted to
ignore his visitor but it was evident that this man wanted to speak with
Harley. “Mr. Stokes, just a moment please… I know you’re in there. Please Mr.
Stokes.” The man was persistent. Harley sheepishly made his way to the back of
his wagon. He straightened his collar and dawned his hat. He cleared his throat
and pulled back the canvas. The breeze kissed his forehead as his eyes peered
down to see a family of three at his gate.
Her name was Sara. A
child of 11 years was she, though her soul was one hundred and eleven; maybe
more. She was pure and light and she shined. If spring inhabited a person, it
found its home in Sara. Her hair was black and straight and pulled back with a
white ribbon. “She’s so clean” was Harley’s first thought as his eyes met hers.
For a moment Harley lost his sense of reason as it became apparent that the
young girl in front of him was the source of the breeze that had proceeded her.
Nonetheless, there he stood staring at her. Sara stared back at Harley with a grin.
She broke the somewhat awkward silence with a sweet, “Hello”. Harley was at a
loss for words; a rare event for sure.
This young girl’s gaze was as hypnotic as the cool breeze that now
surrounded them. His best effort produced and simple, beleaguered and
understated “hello” in return.
“Mr. Stokes my name is
Luke Joseph. This is my wife Elizabeth and this is our daughter Sara.” Mr.
Joseph stood to the left of Sara and his wife was to her right. He was dressed
like most of the other folks in the town as were his wife and Sara. Harley
assumed that he was one of the local ranchers by their dress and demeanor.
Barely taking his eyes from Sara and with his same understated tone Harley
mustered up a stuttering, “uhhhhhhhhh yes errrrrrrrrrr I mean hello, what is it
that I can do for you Mr. Joseph?”. “Mr.
Stokes, our daughter Sara is sick”. Harley heard the sense of restrained
desperation is Mr. Joseph’s tone. He saw desperation on Mrs. Joseph’s face as
the reality of the situation began to ebb into the sense of peace Harley found
in Sara’s eyes.
Harley’s throat
tightened. His heart beat hard in his chest. A response was not forthcoming.
For the first time ever Harley wished with all of his might that a prospective
sale would disappear. For the first time, Harley Stokes felt something he’d
never felt before; a conscious. “Mr. Stokes, if it’s not too much to ask, We’d
like to buy a bottle of your medicine.” Harley was still at a loss. Words still
failed him. His eyes once again fell upon the little girl in front of him. It
gave him a place of refuge from this spiraling scene. “Mr. Stokes, please. We
will pay you double if we have to.” Luke’s pleads were no longer restrained. He
all but begged Harley. Here before him stood the perfect customer. With little
effort Harley could have sold the Joseph family 5 or 6 bottles of his snake oil
and been on his way before they gotten their first dose.
Harley began to think. His mind muddled over
his options. If he were to refuse a sale, the word might get out threatening his
credibility, or folks might think he was out of product, or that there was
something wrong with it. His newly found conscious would not allow him to sell
his worthless elixir to these poor folks in the hopes of saving their divine
young Sara. A dilemma indeed was at hand.
Then Harley had an epiphany. He spoke, “Mr.
Joseph, I’d be happy to sell you some of my elixir to help your dear, sweet
young daughter, but I have a bit of a problem.” “
Problem, what kind of problem” inquired Mr.
Joseph.
Harley continued; as he regained his composure
his tone turned back into a smooth sales pitch, “You see Mr. Joseph, I’m all
but sold out of my elixir. I do have a batch, but…”
Mr. Joseph interrupted, “But what Mr. Stokes?”
“Well it’s missing a critical ingredient. So
I’m afraid that I can’t guaranty the results.” Harley delivered his sentence
with a humble smile, not generated by humility but more from a gratuitous slap
on his own back for coming up with such a clever solution to his predicament.
Mr. Joseph persisted, “What ingredient? What’s
missing? When will you get it?”
Harley needed to think quickly now. He’d hoped
that his answer would have sent the Joseph’s on their way, but it didn’t. Harley thought hard and spoke. As if from
nowhere he found his answer. “A rare flower. It’s found in the hill tops
growing in meadows. Uhhhhhhh north facing meadows. Doesn’t do well in the sun.
Nope, won’t grow in too much sun.” Harley continued on with his tall tale, “It’s
got a pretty lavender flower. Real tiny one at that. And it smells as sweet as
uhhhhh,” Harley raised his nose opened his nostrils and took in a wif of air
as if heaven sent, “well as sweet as honeysuckle in the summertime.” That was
the sweet smell that had been in the air since Sara and her family’s arrival.
The Josephs stood speechless not knowing what
to make of what they’ve just been told. All except Sara, whose smile had never
left her face.
Harley continued, “But you see sir, that flower
is rare and it will take me some time to find.” Feeling completely exonerated,
Harley the salesman reappeared. “Now what I can do, NO GUARANTIES OF COURSE”
Harley underscored his disclaimer with a loud baritone voice, “is offer you
kind folks some of my unfinished batch for a discount. Ya see, although I can’t
guaranty it, one never knows.” And with that, Harley had skillfully maneuvered himself
from the corner he’d been placed by this almost hopeless family and actually
made a sales pitch in the same breath.
Mr. Joseph paused for a moment. He looked down
at his angelic daughter then over to his wife. She didn’t have to say a word.
Her face was a picture of wishful hope and heavy desperation. “Okay Mr. Stokes”
Mr. Joseph looked back to Harley, “we’ll take what you’ve got.” Harley reached
back into his wagon and fetched three bottles of his elixir. Mr. Joseph handed
Harley some silver coins and Harley exchanged the bottles. “Thank you Mr.
Stokes” Mrs. Joseph said as the family turned to leave. “Uhh yes uhhh thank
you… but no guaranties folks” Harley delivered his final disclaimer. Harley
turned his back on the three and started back into his wagon. Just then he
heard Sara, “Thank you Mr. Stokes.” Harley pretended not to hear and continued
into his wagon where he dropped the coins into his old leather purse.
It was Harley’s
routine to leave a town after a day of pitching his goods. He did that for a
number of reasons; he wouldn’t be around when an unsatisfied customer would
inevitably reappear. Rarely was their a
chance to make a second round of sales. No point in getting to know any of the
folks in any of the towns he visited and the more towns he went to; the more
money he could make. That said, Harley was tired and wanted a decent meal and
bed to sleep in tonight. He figured the extra money he’d made from the Joseph’s
would afford him just enough to spend the night in the local boarding house and
a proper supper. Harley would eat well that night. He’d even take a bath and
shave. The bed in the boarding house was soft and comfortable. Exhausted by his
travels and by his worsening condition Harley fell into a deep sleep. Harley
slept for hours and hours; a sleep that was only interrupted by the eyes of the
young angel that had paid him a visit that day. He slept so late into the next
day, that the owner of the boarding house informed him that he would need to
pay for an additional night as she had to turn away a prospective guest for his
room. Normally Harley would use his keen sales skills to negotiate his way
around such a charge, but the thought of another warm meal and restful night’s
slumber quelled such a thought and Harley stayed for another night.
The next day, Harley
hurriedly checked out of the boarding house. He was sure that the matron of the
house would not be pleased when she discovered the blood on the pillow case
that Harley had left. “That damned cough” Harley thought to himself as he
settled up his bill. “She’ll have to wash that pillow case for hours and even
then so much blood probably wouldn’t come out.” Harley hurried to his wagon and
began making preparations to leave. His thoughts were lost somewhere between
his next stop and the amount of blood on the pillow case. He began to cough and
his lungs burned. The blood had spewed over the handkerchief and onto his hand
and the bed of his wagon. Harley cursed aloud. Harley was scared. He knew his
cough was getting worse. His despair was interrupted by the subtle movement of
the canvas draped over the back of his wagon. The gentle sweet scented breeze had
returned. The sweet honeysuckle began to fill the wagon again just as it had
when the Joseph’s had visited a few days before. The breeze cooled him and the sweet scent
began to ease Harley’s despair and lull him into a sense of calm and peace.
Just as a few days prior, his hypnotic bliss was interrupted by a knocking on
his side board. But this time the knock was not as hurried or hard. The knock
was a bit softer and slower paced. A soft voice followed, “Mr. Stokes, are you
there?”. Harley recognized the voice. It was Mr. Joseph. Harley froze. “Damn
that’s all I need now. That Joseph fella wants his money back and I spent it
all at the boarding house”, Harley thought to himself. But Mr. Joseph knocked
again and again asked, “Are you there Mr. Stokes?”. Harley was in a spot, if he
ignored the man, he’d have the sheriff there next, or worse, Mr. Joseph would
take the law into his own hands. No, Harley would have to talk his way out of
this scrape. After all, he made sure that family knew there were not guaranties.
He cursed to himself, “I knew I stayed in town too long, damnit.”
Harley made his way to
the back of his wagon and pulled the draped canvas back. Expecting to see the
whole family, Harley only saw Mr. Joseph who was holding one of the bottles
he’d purchased two days ago. The man looked different to Harley. The hope and
despair that had been on his face the last visit had been replaced with
sadness. Regardless, Harley began to prepare his defense that he’d surely have
to provide to this man that was certainly there to seek a refund. Harley began
with, “Uh Mr. Joseph, what brings you here? I’m just getting ready to move on.
Not much time to chat. I’m have a schedule to meet.” “I understand Mr. Stokes.
I won’t stay long. I just came to give you this” and Mr. Joseph handed the
bottle up to Harley. “Well Mr. Joseph. There are no refunds. I told you that
there were no guaranties. I made it clear the one of the key ingredients was
missing.” Harley’s tone was quick and nervous. He struggled not to stammer. “The
lavender flower” replied Mr. Joseph. “What’s say there?” Harley was taken aback
by Mr. Joseph’s response. “The lavender flower, Mr. Stokes. The missing
ingredient.” Mr. Joseph was slightly surprised that he’d had to remind Harley
of such an important fact. Harley looked down at the bottle that was now in his
hand, “Oh yes, the flower. That’s right the lavender flower. That’s exactly why
I couldn’t guaranty my elixir. Why I can’t give you a refund.” He began to hand
the bottle back to Mr. Joseph. Mr. Joseph held his hand up and gently stopped Harley from handing the
bottle back. “You don’t understand Mr. Stokes. I’m not here for a refund. I’m
here to give you this bottle back.” Harley’s brow rose and his nose wrinkled up
in bewilderment. “What’s that you say? Give me the bottle back??” Harley was
now thoroughly confused. “Why on earth would you do that?”
Mr. Joseph paused for
a moment and looked down at the dusty ground beneath them. He took a long
breath and sighed. “You see Mr. Stokes, Sara wanted you to have this bottle
back.” His eyes met Harley’s and Harley could see a tear start in the corner of
Mr. Joseph’s eye. Harley was speechless. He had not other choice but to let Mr.
Joseph continue. “Ya see Mr. Stokes, we lost her last night. She was just too sick
and we lost her.” Harley didn’t know what to say. He felt his heart break. His
heart broke into a million pieces. It didn’t make sense to him. He barely knew
the girl; barely even spoke to her. But it made no difference; he felt crushed.
Mr. Joseph went on. “When we left here a few days ago, when we got back to our
ranch, Sara was determined to find that lavender flower. The missing ingredient
flower.” His voice was softer now and was filled with sadness. Suddenly guilt
gripped Harley like a tight noose wrapped around his neck. “Oh dear God” Harley
thought to himself. But he didn’t speak a word. His eyes were lost in those of
Mr. Joseph. Even if he wanted, he couldn’t have found words to offer Mr.
Joseph. Mr. Joseph continued, “We gave her the other two bottles, but she got
sicker. Didn’t hold her back though, she was determined to find that flower.”
“I’m sorry” Harley said. “I’m so sorry Mr. Joseph, had I known I would have…”
But Mr. Joseph interrupted, “don’t be sorry Mr. Stokes, it wasn’t your fault. The
Lord took our angel. It was her time; nothing anyone could have done and you
did warn us about the flower and all.” Harley did not feel worthy of the words
he was hearing, but Mr. Joseph continued. “But yesterday, just before she left
us, she found them.” Harley’s guilt and sadness abated for a moment and his
curiosity took over, “Found them? She found what?” he asked. “She found the
flowers. They were just were you said they’d be; growing in a meadow, in the
shade on a hilltop”. Harley was dumbfounded. What was this man talking about.
He’d made up these flowers. There were part of a sales pitch he’d concocted.
What was going on here. “She found them, ya say. She found the lavender flowers?”
So confused was Harley that all he could do was repeat what had just been told
to him. “Yes sir, she did. She brought them back to our ranch. She crushed them
up. She was so weak that my wife had to help her. She put them in that bottle”
Mr. Joseph pointed at the bottle that Harley had almost forgot he was holding.
“She did what?” Harley almost mumbled to himself. “That’s right sir. She told
us to bring the bottle back to you. That you should have it back and that you
should take it for your cough.” There was a quiet moment when Harley just
stared and the bottle and tried to process all that he was feeling and all that
he was hearing. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Joseph” mumbling again Harley
looked back up at him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Mr. Joseph began to turn to leave and as he
did he said, “Well sir, thank you for that. She wanted you to have it. That’s
why I brought it back. I hope it helps your cough”.
Harley doesn’t
remember much after that. He doesn’t remember if he said anything more to that
poor man nor does he remember seeing him leave or making his way back into his
wagon. He sat and stared at the bottle he held in his hand for what have been
over an hour. He just sat and stared and remembered the angelic face of his
little visitor. “She was so clean” he kept thinking. Thoughts of this poor sick
girl wandering the hillsides with her last breaths, searching for a damned
lavender flower overwhelmed Harley and he began to sob. As he cried he pulled
the cork from the bottle, spit it to the floor and began chugging its contents.
The sweet smell of honey suckle was almost lost on him as he tried to drown
himself in his damned elixir. As the last drops of the cure left the bottle and
slid down Harley’s throat, he collapsed to the bed of his wagon. Exhausted from
the happenings of the day, his emotions, the rye and his sickness, Harley fell
into a deep slumber.
Harley woke the next
morning to the sound of bells from the church at the end of town. It signaled
that Sunday service would begin soon. Harley finished preparing his wagon to
leave this town. He was numb. He felt everything and nothing at the same time.
Harley didn’t plan his next step. He didn’t prepare to move to another town.
Harley wasn’t sure what he’d do next. He was sure that his days of selling
elixir were through. He made his way to the bench at the front of the wagon and
urged the old mare forward with a few quick clicks of his tongue. The old horse
began pulling Harley and his wagon toward the part of town where the sound of
the bells sang their invitation to the Lord. Folks were making there way to the
church for service. A few smiled at Harley and wished him a good morning.
Harley just nodded back sheepishly. As Harley left this small town he heard the
bells ring their last. He looked into the morning sun and instinctively reached
for his handkerchief as he felt his lungs ready themselves for a cough. “Cough,
cough, cough” three loud and full coughs forced themselves up and into his
covered mouth. Harley habitually looked into his handkerchief as he pulled it
from his mouth. Only there was something very different. Something he’d never
expect in a thousand life times; no blood. Not a sign of blood; not a drop;
only the sweet smell of honeysuckle.
Harley paused and took
in the sweet calming scent. After a moment, he looked over his shoulder and back
at the town. The sun was coming up just over the top of the small church. Rays
of light framed the cross atop the bell tower. Harley thought of Sara. He
wondered if they’d pray for her soul that morning… as he began one of his own.
