Hope

I’ve been to a number of ghost towns on driving trips like this. Towns like Albion, Montana with their heartbeat of stopped, the schoolhouse gym sitting open, a playground for swallows to nest and play tag in children’s place. And I’ve seen the small towns that teeter on the edge of ghosthood, raging against the dying of their light. But Hope felt different. I rolled through Hope Arkansas, a city of some 10,000 people, around 11 AM on a Sunday. Parking on Main St., I walked around the downtown for a solid 20 minutes without seeing a soul outside. I had all but given up hope and packed back into the car to leave town. On the drive out, I found a semi circle of 4 men sitting by a trailer with a few watermelon in it. I bought a watermelon. I realized after buying it that I only had a pocket knife to cut the watermelon. And I sat, initially on a nest of biting ants. Bad start. I moved.

There Billy Braggs, Lenny, David, and a 4th man whose name I never caught, were shooting the breeze. Their ammunition of choice was a gattling gun spray of “goddamn mo’fucker” between words. I squeezed my way into their conversation, first asking “what happened to Hope? Where is everyone?”

Billy took the lead fielding my questions. He said the whole town was mostly in church about now. That they come back out sometime around 1:30 or later on Sundays. Billy had the familiar cadence I recognized from smaller town speakers. A blink-and-you-missed-it collection of vocal habits and well-practiced lines designed to keep words flowing even if he had to monologue. 

“I’m 79 years old now, born’n’raised’n Hope. Been doin’ a whole lot of ev’thing for a mo’fuckin whole lotta years. Way back I used to work for th’public doing quality inspections ‘fore I lef’that. Used to work Monday through Thursday. ‘Pposed to be Friday too but Fridays I went to the horses. M’last time I went down and put $1000 on a mo’fucker and watched ‘im run like the wind. Run and run and see he got second.”

He paused to laugh. We all joined him.

“Now only horse I see is’a ones runnin’ past on the street.  Hadda ice cream truck after that, n’a concession, then I did an ice cream shop, I’m sellin’ watermelon now. If som’n stops makin’ money I try another. That’s just how it goes for me. 

I used to think $10,000 was everything I needed. I could nev’ get it when I was jus’ working but when I started my business I finally get there. And when I got there, turns out it wasn’t all that. It doesn’t set you for life. 

I was talk’n th’other day to a boy bragging they gon’ raise his wage a doll’n’hour. I said son who cares bout your wages, what you need is benefits. You look at your $20 an hour and think its all that but it’s not gon’ do you a lick of good you get sick. You see real quick that it goes like that and then what’s all that doll’n’hour got you?

But that’s the problem here in Hope too. Chamber of Commerce won’t let industry into town, fo’fear that they gon’ raise hourly wages $3-$4 an hour and the other business’ll have to keep up. E’en if they do come in they pu’ch’on piecework, that’s the trick. Tell’ya y’only got 32 hours a week so they don’ need to give y’anything o’benefits. ”

The rest of our conversation drifted away again with the cadence of a 5 person group. I was reminded why I haven’t followed Chicago football for years as Billy proudly sat in his Steelers tee and ribbed me about Bears kickers. He’s right, they’re terrible. 

My mind returned though to Billy’s points as the conversation hummed on. How troublingly right he was about the new tricks of the economy. How frustrating that with that insight, all that’s left still is to sell watermelons by the roadside. That’s the trick, isn’t it. Even if you see they hoodwink, it doesn’t make you any less robbed. 

Nonetheless Billy was in good spirits.

“I’m a happy person. I’ve got 10 kids, and the women they still love me when I come in the room with them. I’ve had nice cars, good food and clothes. I’ve had a good life. I’m 79 and I can’t see anything I regret in my life. It’s been happy.”