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convey.
    “Coming from a guy who sells blue sky and green fields
for a living, that’s a heavy trip,” I said, “but what he said doesn’t matter,
eight miles or 80. I’m going nowhere and in no hurry to get there.”
    “Are you staying in Vandalia?”
    I’d only glimpsed the town’s surface and felt as if
I’d re-discovered Erskine Caldwell's 'God’s Little Acre,' minus the promiscuous
women. Vacant houses however were plentiful and property was selling cheap,
even though it meant a financial loss to someone. Besides, there were more
trees then people and that made me curious to know about the local industries.
    “Where do the ‘grass roots’ folks make a living?” I
asked.
    “The kids grow some of the county’s finest hemp,” he
said. “There are a few coal mines still scratching around in the hills, and
everyone owns a pickup truck and a chainsaw, which means they cut and haul
firewood.”
    “Sounds seasonal,” I said.
    “You cut it in the spring and summer and haul in the
fall and winter, that’s year-round work.”
    “What’s the average income?”
    “About six thousand dollars,” he said.
    “A month?” I asked, concerned that I’d been too long
out of touch.
    “More like a year.”
    “Are there any other major employers besides Mother
Nature?”
    “The schools and the state; we’ve got a few doctors
and lawyers; lots of lawyers, lots of litigation.”
    “Why is that?” I asked, sensing his need to spill a
little judicial blood.
    “We’ve got a lot of unemployment, which translates
into a lot of unpaid bills. People lose their homes, cars and furnishings. They
start stealing from each other and screwing each other’s wives and daughters. They
have too much time and energy on their hands and nothing constructive to do
with it. Eventually that leads to bigger crimes, like making illegal whiskey or
growing pot, robbing stores and gas stations to pay for it, and finally they end
up shooting someone.”
    “Sounds like one of those irresolvable social dilemmas
that only war, Dr. Ruth or Oprah can resolve,” I said.
    “That’s where the lawyers come in,” he said
sarcastically. “One hundred bucks an hour to cop a plea, and those bastards
have the balls to say they aren’t making enough to make it worth their while.”
    “If it isn’t enough, they shouldn’t take the case,” I
said.
    “The state has got it rigged so they can’t pick and
choose,” I said. “Hobson’s choice: if they want in on the action, they can’t
refuse. If they could, there’d be lots of hillbillies going to the electric
chair for drunken driving, disorderly conduct and a myriad number of old-fashioned
sex offenses.”
    “You mean their crimes are so reprehensible?” I mused.
    “There is no crime here,” he said. “Only unemployment,
hunger, privation, ignorance, greed and neglect, and those are crimes
perpetrated against people, not by them.”
    He took a minute to settle down and then continued: “It
wouldn’t be so bad if lawyers won once in awhile, but around here you get 1-5
for jay-walking or murder, it’s all the same.”
    A few blocks past the main intersection, we were out
of town and heading east. Houses were growing fewer and farther apart. Only an
occasional service station or ‘mini-market’ appeared on the highway.
    “Where is Elanville?” I asked.
    “Not far, about 10-15 miles out of town. It may seem
farther because of the road, it winds a little.”
    Twenty minutes later, the car topped the crest of a
hill. Virgil pulled off the road and set the brake.
    “I’ll show you a bird’s eye view of the house,” he
said.
    We left the car, climbed a gnarled guardrail and
walked to the edge of the hill. The view overlooked a narrow stream and wooded
hillside. In the distance, there were a few cleared fields and a dilapidated
barn.
    The sun on the back of my neck and shoulders felt
warm. The green leafy landscape before me was bright and cool. For the most
part, it was an