Prior to entering the ministry, I was employed by what is now known as the Department of Energy. My job was to check gas stations and oil companies for adherence to price controls. In 1975, we were called upon to check out coal company prices, although they were not under government regulations. This is one of the stories of those 2 years I spent working out of the office in Roanoke, Virginia.
GALAX
I drove into Galax, small-town cozily tucked away in southern Virginia, looking for the Baker Coal Company. This month our assignment as Federal Energy Administration investigators, was to visit all the local coal companies in Virginia to determine whether or not coal prices were rising as quickly as gasoline prices. The year was 1975.
Down by the railroad tracks, I finally spied the building. This was not a large prosperous concern. Instead I was looking at a wooden shack that had seen better days. There wasn’t enough paint left on it to even say it was peeling. The windows were so thick with coal dust, I couldn’t see inside.
A sign on the door declared “Gone fishin’. Call Ezra if you need me.”
Since I didn’t know Ezra or his phone number, I continued on down the road. On my return trip, I tried again and found the door jar.
I stepped into a room which might have been medicinal green years earlier, but now was called dust gray. An old well-used Ben Franklin stove stood in the middle of the room. The ceiling around the stove pipe was an even darker gray.
I immediately saw three or four moth-eaten cats meandering around the room, which was no larger than my bedroom when I was growing up. One cat had one eye, one had a half- eaten tail, the other glared at me. In the corner was a spittoon surrounded by years of misses. I wanted to turn around and leave so I could drive home and wash my clothes. I felt filth penetrating my shirt and skin as I stood there.
I hesitated when I heard the doorknob turn. In walked a tall, broad-shouldered man who matched the room. He looked as old as his stove. His full head of gray hair hadn’t been washed for months, but was a good match for the five-day growth of coarse gray stubble that covered his face. The hairs were long enough to have caught random pieces of spittle and tobacco, which dotted his chin.
His coveralls were gray, too, but whether by design or wear was a toss-up. I could tell he had had eggs and sausage gravy to eat within the last week. Even if I hadn’t heard him, I would’ve known he had come in by the aroma which walked in with him. I was afraid I could touch the fragrance of sweat and body odor, which overcame the room. My nostrils quivered and my stomach lurched in revolt.
Yet he had kind, sparkling eyes and wrinkles born of laughter. I stuck out my hand out of habit and introduced myself. His giant, grimy paw grabbed mine. He smiled and opened his mouth to tell me his name.
Where most people have teeth, he had gaping black holes, accented by a few worn down yellowed stubs. Tobacco juice adhered to the remnants of the teeth and the corners of his mouth. “I’m Ben Baker. Pleased to meet you. What kin I do for ya, girlie?”
I told him I needed to ask him some questions about his business and asked if I could lay out my paperwork on the drawing desk in a small alcove in the corner of the main room. He nodded and pointed. The desk was surprisingly clean and uncluttered.
“How long have you owned the business? How much coal do you sell? Has the amount increased or decreased since the gas crisis? Have your prices changed over these last two years?” I ran down the questions as quickly as he could give answers, so that I could leave.
Unfortunately, he was hesitant to answer. I wasn’t sure whether that was because he wasn’t certain or he resented a revenuer, as he called me, prying into his business. Slowly, I was collecting the information I needed.
I asked the next question, but he didn’t respond. Continuing to look down at my paperwork, I repeated the question. When he still didn’t answer, I looked up. He was standing with his arms touching the walls on either side of me, blocking my exit from the alcove with his body. His proximity startled me. I was about to repeat the question, when he asked politely, “Would you like to give me a kiss, Sweetie?”
What I thought was, “You are the last person on earth I would want to kiss, you filthy pervert.” What came out was, “No thank you, sir. Thank you for your cooperation,” as I hastily shoved pen and paper work into my briefcase. Then using the briefcase as a shield, I pushed my way forward and ducked under his arm.
I wasn’t fast, but I was quicker than he was. Cats scattered in all directions as I bolted out the door, jumped in my car, locked the doors and sped across the railroad tracks back to civilization. Two hours later, I was in my shower, scrubbing myself from head to foot.
Back at the office the next day, I wrote” Survey terminated prior to completion,” with a detailed explanation of events. My gentlemanly boss in Richmond called to check on me and assured me I wouldn’t have to go back. Neither did he send anyone else to finish up.
As I’m writing this, I wonder whether he really was the creepy, lonely old man I thought he was. Maybe it was a deliberate ploy by a sly old fox to avoid giving the government any more information. If it was, it worked.
