Prose Poem: Four Years in Iowa. (Dedicated to Catherine Lucey.)

 

I went to Iowa by mistake.   The bus was supposed to travel to Sarasota.  So either I got on the wrong bus or there was a massive conspiracy to detour transients such as myself to Iowa.   When the bus stopped in Sheldon there was black crystalized snow piled up on the sides of the streets and none of the stop lights worked.  A man with a long beard told me where to find shelter for the night.   There was no work for hired hands at that time of year.   So I sold used newspapers at the corner of Fifth and Henderson.  You'd be surprised at the market for used newspapers.   They're used to wrap fish and chips, which Iowans dote on.  Abandoned store fronts (of which there are lots in Iowa) by law have to paper over their windows with newspapers.   They build houses out of paper mache in Northwest Iowa.  Patch automobile tires with vulcanized newspapers.   Even stew up old newspapers with hamburger to make Iowa Goulash -- it tastes pretty good with ketchup.   And of course professional journalists, those few working writers who roam the countryside looking under Cadillacs to see who's in cahoots with who, often grow nostalgic for old newspapers.   They collect them, like coins or stamps.   So I wasn't surprised when a lady came up to my stand in early April and bought my entire supply of old newspapers.  I pegged her as a journalist, and when I helped her pile the papers in her station wagon there was a sign on the dashboard that read:  "Property of the Wall Street Journal."   "You a reporter?" I asked her.  "Sure am!" she replied proudly.  She gave me her business card.  CATHERINE LUCEY. INTREPID JOURNALIST. WJS.  Is what it said.   I tucked it into my sweater vest for future reference.  You never know when a journalist might come in handy.   I heard they can fix parking tickets and cure warts.  But a few weeks later I was summarily herded onto another bus and sent to Hugo, Oklahoma.  Where I got a job as a candy butcher with the Carson & Barnes Circus.  We were told never to contact the media or we'd be redlighted.  So I'm writing all this down on the back of a popcorn box.  To hand off to Ms. Lucey when the show plays the White House on the Fourth of July.