The Trust Read Online Free Page A
Author: Norb Vonnegut
Pedro, South of the Border, and the blight of signs along I-95. The five men were about to ignite a firestorm. They knew it. So did the owner of Smithfield Outdoor Media. He’d agreed to post the advertisement only after negotiating top dollar and a hold-harmless agreement.
* * *
Greater Fayetteville, pronounced “Fed-vull” by the locals, is 200,000 people strong. It’s an eclectic place, where patriotic residents take pride in the military presence. Were it not for the armed forces, Fayetteville might be another one of those countless two-blink towns that sprout like mushrooms along muggy Southern highways.
Thousands of soldiers, hailing from every state in the nation, are stationed at nearby Fort Bragg and Pope Army Airfield. They train and run military maneuvers, which make armed caravans a common sight. Many troops deploy to the Middle East, leaving their loved ones behind.
When the soldiers return, local television stations broadcast joyous reunions at Pope. Couples kiss. Little kids hug their mommies or daddies. Everybody has a good cry. And during those moments, parents forget their worries about tight budgets and mortgage payments.
Some families—they’re more the exception than the rule—have lived in Fayetteville for generations. They’re fiercely proud of their heritage and bristle at the occasional mention of “Fayettenam,” military-speak ever since the Vietnam War. The historic district, long-timers note, may be small. But it’s bursting with Southern charm, with the craftsmanship and detail orientation that predated the military’s arrival en masse.
For the most part the communities are full of hardworking families. Parents take jobs with local businesses that provide services to those living steady lives in tidy neighborhoods. There are big wheels in front of the houses, dogs and cats everywhere.
Neighbors are always getting together for backyard barbecues. They talk football and local politics. They plan day trips to places like Mount Olive, birthplace to the pickles that line supermarket shelves across the country. Or they compare notes about more distant locations, historic resorts like New Bern on the coast.
But Fayetteville, however all-American, suffers a unique misfortune. Located halfway between New York City and Miami, it serves as a convenient hub for the East Coast drug trade. The area’s combustible mix of soldiers on furlough, lonely spouses, and a steady supply of recreational drugs makes the city prone to spectacular, sometimes sordid events.
* * *
In Fayetteville 28312, where the five men from Smithfield Outdoor Media were working, there were fifty-six churches in total. Twenty-four of them were Baptist. The residents, young or old, military or otherwise, were God-fearing folk for the most part. Sunday services buttressed their lives like the pillars inside the various houses of worship.
Neighbors were accustomed to freeway billboards. Many signs were visible from their backyards because of size and shape. But the new advertisement was a real monster. It soared forty feet in the air, high atop a thick metal pylon. The ad space measured fourteen feet by forty-eight feet. And powerful spotlights illuminated the message dusk till dawn.
None of the neighbors would be happy with what they saw. Size was hardly the issue. It was the promise of comfort food, the pledge of clean showers and spotless bathrooms, and the prurient offer of Sodom and Gomorrah to every trucker on the East Coast.
Three members of the team stood on a metal gangway, behind the billboard’s face and high over the ground. They clasped sturdy ropes and began to pull, hand over hand.
Smithfield Outdoor Media no longer employed sign painters. They were a vanishing breed. These days, the company hung preprinted tarps on their billboards. Two men at the bottom fed the sign to their colleagues up top. They took great care to prevent the vinyl tarp from flapping in the breeze.
The giant
* * *
Greater Fayetteville, pronounced “Fed-vull” by the locals, is 200,000 people strong. It’s an eclectic place, where patriotic residents take pride in the military presence. Were it not for the armed forces, Fayetteville might be another one of those countless two-blink towns that sprout like mushrooms along muggy Southern highways.
Thousands of soldiers, hailing from every state in the nation, are stationed at nearby Fort Bragg and Pope Army Airfield. They train and run military maneuvers, which make armed caravans a common sight. Many troops deploy to the Middle East, leaving their loved ones behind.
When the soldiers return, local television stations broadcast joyous reunions at Pope. Couples kiss. Little kids hug their mommies or daddies. Everybody has a good cry. And during those moments, parents forget their worries about tight budgets and mortgage payments.
Some families—they’re more the exception than the rule—have lived in Fayetteville for generations. They’re fiercely proud of their heritage and bristle at the occasional mention of “Fayettenam,” military-speak ever since the Vietnam War. The historic district, long-timers note, may be small. But it’s bursting with Southern charm, with the craftsmanship and detail orientation that predated the military’s arrival en masse.
For the most part the communities are full of hardworking families. Parents take jobs with local businesses that provide services to those living steady lives in tidy neighborhoods. There are big wheels in front of the houses, dogs and cats everywhere.
Neighbors are always getting together for backyard barbecues. They talk football and local politics. They plan day trips to places like Mount Olive, birthplace to the pickles that line supermarket shelves across the country. Or they compare notes about more distant locations, historic resorts like New Bern on the coast.
But Fayetteville, however all-American, suffers a unique misfortune. Located halfway between New York City and Miami, it serves as a convenient hub for the East Coast drug trade. The area’s combustible mix of soldiers on furlough, lonely spouses, and a steady supply of recreational drugs makes the city prone to spectacular, sometimes sordid events.
* * *
In Fayetteville 28312, where the five men from Smithfield Outdoor Media were working, there were fifty-six churches in total. Twenty-four of them were Baptist. The residents, young or old, military or otherwise, were God-fearing folk for the most part. Sunday services buttressed their lives like the pillars inside the various houses of worship.
Neighbors were accustomed to freeway billboards. Many signs were visible from their backyards because of size and shape. But the new advertisement was a real monster. It soared forty feet in the air, high atop a thick metal pylon. The ad space measured fourteen feet by forty-eight feet. And powerful spotlights illuminated the message dusk till dawn.
None of the neighbors would be happy with what they saw. Size was hardly the issue. It was the promise of comfort food, the pledge of clean showers and spotless bathrooms, and the prurient offer of Sodom and Gomorrah to every trucker on the East Coast.
Three members of the team stood on a metal gangway, behind the billboard’s face and high over the ground. They clasped sturdy ropes and began to pull, hand over hand.
Smithfield Outdoor Media no longer employed sign painters. They were a vanishing breed. These days, the company hung preprinted tarps on their billboards. Two men at the bottom fed the sign to their colleagues up top. They took great care to prevent the vinyl tarp from flapping in the breeze.
The giant
Readers choose
Jen Greyson
Bette Lee Crosby
Edie Harris
Daniel Waters
Joseph Heller
Joanne Harris
David Hernandez
Mary Higgins Clark
Mary Hogan