The Republic of Crisfield

After about two long minutes, Ben heard the yelp of bloodhounds coming down the trail they had taken from the Evan’s house; his hair when straight up in alarm. “Oh my God,” he thought, “how am I going to outsmart a pack of bloodhounds?” Ben’s heart leaped clear up his throat. Desperation took over. He couldn’t think. He jumped up and started to move toward one path, then another as he explored the options at the speed of light. Nothing obvious came to mind and that was terrifying. The hounds were getting closer, excited by the freshness of the trail. Without knowing why, Ben bolted for the north trail, away from the two trails being explored by Sparky and Forty-Five. The decision was propelled by instinct. His instincts were good, for when the dogs got to the spot were the trails intersected, they had three separate scent trails to follow. Ben thought he might have a one in three chance of escape. He had not realized there were three dogs, each with its own handler, in pursuit. They could divide up and search all three trails at once. Ben ran and in less than thirty seconds the trail ended at the back yard of the Handy house on Main Street Extended. He passed the house on a run by its more secluded east side. There were no woods for cover. He was out in the open in a residential area. For the first time in his entire life, he was without a plan. He was not in control any longer; he stood out like a beached whale. He crossed the yard and reached the sidewalk in front of the Handy house. A Hummer was coming. He could hear it approaching the corner at the end of the street by the Baptist Temple. It would be in sight before he could run across the street and get behind a house. On top of that, he could tell the barking hound dog would soon emerge from the woods behind him. He was trapped. It was all over. He couldn’t move and stood rigid with fear. “Get in,” said the old man without much alarm, pointing with the bill of his baseball cap to the wheelbarrow he had been pushing. It was only then Ben realized an old man was standing motionless near him on the sidewalk shadowed by a boxwood bush. The old man had heard the commotion and stopped to see what would happen. The large wheelbarrow was piled high with junk, all kinds of junk: cast-off bits of construction materials, a broken stool, worn cushions, an old curtain, cans of empty paint, a large wad of plastic sheeting filled in with lesser junk of every kind. Ben looked at the pile, still transfixed by terror. The approaching Hummer geared down to round the corner and come into view. That was encouragement enough. Without knowing how, Ben dove into the junk and wormed his way to the bottom of the pile with the old man’s help. The scene of Ben’s desperate struggle to disappear amused the old man. Ben heard him chuckling as he filled junk in around Ben to perfect the camouflage. His humor was surreal. The Hummer turned the corner and came up the street, stopping by the old man and his wheelbarrow. A sergeant riding shotgun called out, “Hey old man, seen anybody you don’t know running around here?” The old man thought for a minute and responded, “Nope.” The fact of the matter was that he knew that whoever it was who got into his wheelbarrow was a Crisfielder and that would mean he was a “somebody he knew” in a Crisfield sort of way, so he wasn’t lying. In the fetal position, Ben had suspended breathing for the time being. The Hummer moved off down the road just as the sound of the hound dog became a new source for Ben’s terror. Around the house came a dog, nose to the ground, pulling his handler, who was struggling to maintain control. The old man heard Ben from in the wheelbarrow moan pitifully, “Oh my God.” The old man turned and looked back down the sidewalk. A few feet away were a couple of metal garbage cans. The old man sniffed the air, picked up his wheelbarrow and ambled a few steps over to the garbage cans just as the dog and handler arrived. “Seen anybody running by here?” asked the sergeant, out of breath. The dog was beside himself with glee. He had found Ben. Before the old man answered the question he removed the lid, lifted a garbage can and dumped the contents on top of the trash in the wheelbarrow. The contents made a sucking mushy sound as rotting crab scraps oozed from the garbage can and soaked down through the junk. A cloud of flies swarmed out of the reeking mess. The soldier and the dog stepped back to get breathing space. The slime enveloped the wheelbarrow as the men watched, and soaked down through, covering Ben. Ben had already quit breathing so it didn’t much matter. Having completed his maneuver, the old man knew the dogs were hot on Ben’s scent so he couldn’t very well lie and say that he had not see anybody so he said, “Yes”. “Well, were did he go?” asked the solider impatiently. “He got into a car and drove off,” responded the old man. Another soldier and his dog ran up to join the conversation. Meanwhile, the first dog, who knew exactly what had happened to Ben, was now confused. He was barking the “I found the him” bark but his handler was not properly responding. He looked at his master and the smelly wheelbarrow and back again. The other handler took his dog across the street to substantiate the old man’s story. Sure enough, there was no fresh human scent on the other side of the street. The second solider joined the first soldier to consult on a course of action. Grabbing his walkie-talkie, the sergeant called base. “Bingo, appears he got into a car. Tango, over.” “Roger, Tango. Any details on the car?” He paused to listen. “Bingo, over.” The dogs took it upon themselves to sniff cautiously around the wheelbarrow. In spite of the stench, the dog that knew better seemed to communicate to the new dog blinded by the rotten crabs that Ben was there. They both took a step forward and renewed their excited barking. The old man removed the lid of the second garbage can and with an air of doing a day’s work, routinely dumped a second load of rotting crabs, stale beer cans, and other food scraps. . The dogs withdrew back from the wheelbarrow a little further and looked questioningly at their human handlers as if to say, “What in the hell is going on?” Being well trained, they recovered their sense of duty and returned to the wheelbarrow, baying for all they were worth. They knew Ben was there even though the second dose of rotten crab scraps had now totally eclipsed his smell. The handlers, using their leashes, pulled the dogs back against their will. A test of wills ensued; Mother Nature versus human nature. The dogs renewed their efforts, pulling their handlers closer to the smelly wheelbarrow. The handlers again pulled them away. “My God,” said one, “you’d think we never feed’um.” For effect the old man grabbed his shovel lying across the arms of the wheelbarrow and stabbed around the junk as if to solidify the mess, knowing, of course, to what depth he could safely poke. This final touch worked perfectly. The Agents firmly pulled in their hounds and commanded them to sit. Confused by the situation, they obeyed but were upset by the handler’s inconsistencies. You could see they wanted to argue the point. “What kind of car?” asked the Fed leader. “Ah, it was big and white and went that-a-way,” pointing down Main Street Extended toward town. “What kind was it? What make?” asked the Agent. “Don’t know cars. Can’t tell you. All look alike to me, some are big and some are small,” responded the old man in exactly the way an dumb old man is expected to respond. Dismayed, the team leader took out his walkie-talkie again and relayed the old man’s brief description of the car. He requested a pickup. With that, they moved off along the road, dragging the dogs that continued to look back at the old man and his wheelbarrow in disbelief as they were being led away. The old man picked up the wheelbarrow and moseyed off toward Downneck. Lying in a heap, nauseated