In the Middle of Nowhere

Tine and Rubob ventured out beyond the village late yesterday afternoon, on a bright and chilly fall day, and they came across this curious sight in the middle of nowhere:

"It reminds me of a phone booth on the Pennine Way," Tine said. "It was on the edge of a moor, by a deserted road. I thought, 'What a nice surprise!' and placed a call to a friend in New York."

Rubob was contemplating placing another sort of call.

"I need to micturate," he said to Tine. "Too much coffee, I think."

It was one of the few things Rubob had said on the walk. He'd been absorbed in his thoughts about repairs he'd been making to the barn all day. Tine had dragged him away from the project for their walk.

"Our every need is provided for in the wilderness," Tine mused as Rubob busied himself in the remote British Telecom call box.

"It's extraordinary what one finds in the middle of nowhere," she thought. And she recalled the area by the riverbank called Nowhere in the town where she'd lived as a child. Nowhere was down a cobblestone lane leading to the mudflats by the river. The lane was lined with fishermen's red brick cottages.

The fishermen's boats were pulled up on the mud flats, and their nets hung on poles standing in the sand.

"A convenient facilty," Rubob said, emerging from his call.

"British Telecom at your service, Rubob," Tine said.

"British Telecom?" Rubob asked.

"You weren't listening," Tine said, and she told him again about the phone booth in the middle of nowhere on the Pennine Way.

"'Who have you forgotten to call today?' she thought, recalling the slogan on British Telecom vans. "Shouldn't it be 'whom'?" she wondered.

As she and Rubob returned to the village down Meadow Road, Tine kept an eye out for other useful items in the middle of nowhere.

"I don't think we have much use for one of those," Tine said to Rubob, "though it puts me in the mood for a pint at the Plough and Harrow." Unfortunately, the village didn't have a Plough and Harrow. Just the thought of a pub was enough to sustain Tine, however, on the walk back into town.

"And here's a bridge in the middle of nowhere, without even a stream," she said.

It was the Eighty-Acre Bridge over the Pequabuck River, the bridge the Amistad Africans, including Foone, used to take from the village to the Meadows each day. The Pequabuck River had been redirected in the 1980s, leaving the bridge, well, in the middle of nowhere.

"Shame, rilly," Tine said, quoting one of the her uncle's favorite remarks.

"And here's something," Tine said, after turning back onto the village's main thoroughfare. "Look at this, Rubob," she called out to him. Rubob had been moseying on ahead, eager to get back to the barn. For a gentleman farmer like Rubob, fall is the time for fixin'. For an idle hand like Tine, it's the time for leisurely afternoon walks, having a good look around.

"A heron, Rubob," Tine said. "Well, I declare. And once again, in the middle of nowhere."

"That is something," Rubob allowed.

Venturing nowhere in particular certainly does make for a pleasant walk, Tine thought as she and Rubob turned up Hatters Lane toward home.

"Yes, all in all it was a very pleasant walk," she mused.