Hannibal: Corn, Sweet Tea, and a Good Cigar

I came back to Hannibal carrying the same dangerous equipment every boy has carried into adventure since the first one slipped away from home with a pocket full of provisions and a poor understanding of consequences.

Curiosity.

The Mississippi waited below town, broad, brown, its freight southward. Sticks turned slowly in the current. Her surface familiar. Cicadas worked the trees above the bank with enough enthusiasm to qualify for wages. Heat rested on the boards along the riverfront, thick Missouri heat, and the air carried mud, leaves, old timber, warm brick, cornmeal drifting from somewhere nearby, and supper cooking farther uphill.

Hannibal knew how to put a boy back inside a grown man.

That was the trouble.

I had come looking for quiet. A little river time. A little Mark Twain country. Maybe coffee. Definitely sweet tea. Possibly a cigar later, once the day had earned one.

Then I found the fishing pole.

It stood in the corner of an old shop near the river behind chipped bait buckets, cork floats, dusty tackle boxes, and enough ancient fishing gear to prove several generations of Missouri men had been improving the truth.

The shopkeeper saw me studying it.

“That pole has stories,” he said.

I picked it up. The cork grip had darkened from years of hands. The reel clicked once, dry and metallic.

“Good stories?”

He shrugged. “Depends who’s telling them.”

Now we were speaking my language.

I bought the pole, a little line, several hooks, and a tin of corn because every serious expedition benefits from one questionable decision made early.

Outside, I stopped for sweet tea. Large cup. Plenty of ice. Enough sugar to restore the morale of an entire church picnic.

Then I headed toward the river.

The dock boards were warm under my shoes. A paddleboat moved far downstream. Somewhere behind me a screen door slapped against a frame.

That sound stopped me.

Fremont came through immediately.

Summer.

Bullard Street.

Sprinklers ticking across lawns.

Bikes dropped in driveways.

Somebody’s mother calling a kid home.

A baseball hitting something expensive.

Pure boyhood.

I stood there in Hannibal, full grown, holding a fishing pole and sweet tea, and felt twelve years old again.

Perfect.

I baited the hook with three kernels of corn and dropped the line into the Mississippi.

The current took it gently.

I took a long drink.

The river moved.

The heat pressed.

Time loosened.

Then somebody behind me whispered, “He’s using corn.”

Another voice answered, “I can see that.”

“That’s a vegetable.”

“It is bait when you put it on a hook.”

“That doesn’t make it bait.”

“It does to the fish.”

I turned around.

Tom Sawyer stood ten feet away with both hands planted on his hips.

Huckleberry Finn stood beside him barefoot, alert, already judging my fishing technique and finding room for improvement.

Behind them stood Samuel Langhorne Clemens.

White suit.

Wild hair.

Mustache.

A cigar rested between two fingers. A pipe sat in his coat pocket. Mischief sat openly in his eyes, enough for both boys and plenty left over for himself.

Twain looked at the sweet tea.

“At least one part of the operation appears competent.”

Tom walked straight toward me.

“You catching anything?”

“Possibility.”

Huck glanced at the line.

“Possibility doesn’t fry well.”

Twain smiled.

“Mr. Finn has destroyed another philosophy through practical application.”

Tom crouched beside the bait tin and picked up a kernel.

“You eat this too?”

“Sometimes.”

He popped it into his mouth.

Huck shook his head.

“You just ate his bait.”

Tom chewed.

“Still corn.”

Twain stepped onto the dock and looked toward the Mississippi.

“Gentlemen, civilization advances.”

I laughed.

The afternoon had changed.

Tom spotted my notebook beside the tackle box. His eyes sharpened.

“You’re him.”

“That depends.”

“The California fellow.”

Huck looked at me.

“The bike kid.”

Twain took a slow draw from his cigar.

“The gentleman from Fremont whose childhood appears to have required considerable supervision.”

That did it.

I stood.

“You’ve read my stories?”

Tom grinned.

“Course.”

Huck nodded toward the notebook.

“You’ve got some good trouble in there.”

From Huck Finn, that carried weight.

Twain studied me for another second.

“Mr. Sawyer finds your adventures inspirational. Mr. Finn considers your escape instincts acceptable. I remain interested in your willingness to confess acts of youthful stupidity once every responsible adult involved has safely aged beyond punishment.”

“That seems fair.”

Tom picked up the notebook.

“What else you got?”

“A lot.”

“Street stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Trains?”

“Yes.”

“Cops?”

“Yes.”

His face lit.

“Fire?”

“Some.”

“Bikes?”

“Definitely.”

“Candy?”

“Enough to sustain an expedition.”

Tom slapped Huck on the shoulder.

“I told you.”

Huck pushed his hand away.

“You tell me everything.”

“Eventually I’m right.”

Twain raised his cigar.

“That principle has sustained politics for generations.”

I sat back down. Tom dropped beside me. Huck settled on an overturned bucket. Twain remained standing, watching the river with the relaxed authority of a man who already knew what happened next and planned to enjoy watching us discover it.

Tom pointed toward the notebook.

“Read one.”

So I did.

I told them about Fremont nights.

The bedroom window.

Mama asleep.

The careful climb into the dark.

My root beer brown Mongoose with black mags waiting in the garage.

Hostess cherry pies.

Astro Pops.

Gobstoppers.

Abba Zaba.

Chick-O-Sticks.

Flashlight batteries fading by the minute.

Lake Elizabeth.

The railroad tracks.

Hobo Jungle.

The fire.

The feeling that a boy could leave home after midnight, ride five miles into darkness, build something irresponsible near a railroad, eat enough sugar to alter consciousness, and still consider himself the sensible member of the group.

Tom became restless halfway through.

“You had a Mongoose?”

“Root beer brown.”

“Black mags?”

“Black mags.”

He looked wounded.

“We should have met sooner.”

Huck rubbed his chin.

“What’s an Astro Pop?”

I stopped.

Tom stopped.

Twain turned from the river.

I stared at Huck.

“You’ve never had an Astro Pop?”

Huck shrugged.

I opened my bag.

Some instincts survive adulthood.

I still travel prepared.

I pulled one out.

Tom’s mouth fell open.

Huck accepted it carefully.

He studied the pointed layers of candy.

“What do I do?”

“Survive it.”

He tasted it. His eyebrows moved.

Tom reached for one. I handed him another. Twain held out his hand without turning around.

I gave him one too.

He examined it beside his cigar.

“America remains capable of invention.”

For the next several minutes, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn stood on a dock in Hannibal eating Astro Pops while Mark Twain smoked a cigar and critiqued modern confectionery.

That alone would have made the trip worthwhile.

Then I told them about the orange cones.

Tom froze.

“You closed a street?”

“We redirected traffic.”

“With permission?”

“We had cones.”

“I asked about permission.”

“The cones carried authority.”

Huck grinned.

Tom stood.

“You stopped cars?”

“For a while.”

“Real cars?”

“Yes.”

“With grown people driving?”

“Yes.”

He started pacing.

“This is excellent.”

Huck looked at him.

“You’re thinking.”

“I’m improving it.”

“That usually costs somebody money.”

Tom turned toward me.

“What happened?”

“Fremont Police arrived.”

His enthusiasm increased.

Huck sighed.

“Of course.”

“We scattered.”

Tom pointed at me.

“You ran.”

“Fast.”

“Good.”

“Then Mama got involved.”

His finger lowered.

“Oh.”

Every boy understands the shift from police involvement to mother involvement.

Police represent law.

Mama represents jurisdiction.

I told them about the investigation. The questions. The attempt at dignity. The Boy’s Life magazine tucked into the front of my pants for reasons that had seemed defensible earlier in the day.

Tom collapsed.

He hit the dock laughing.

Huck folded forward, shoulders shaking.

Twain removed his cigar and stared at me.

“Boy’s Life?”

“Yes.”

“Inside your trousers?”

“Yes.”

“For protection?”

“That was the working theory.”

Twain looked toward heaven.

“Lord, preserve the republic.”

Tom rolled onto his back.

“I would have done that.”

Huck wiped his eyes.

“You would have used two.”

“For superior protection.”

Twain nodded.

“Mr. Sawyer has discovered armor.”

We laughed until my stomach hurt.

That old boyhood laughter returned whole. Dignity disappeared. Management followed. Adult concern about volume evaporated. Breathing became optional. Everybody came out weaker.

A bell rang across the river.

One note.

Deep.

We quieted.

Fog began moving across the Mississippi.

Missouri summer held steady around us while pale vapor rolled over the water, thickened between the pilings, climbed past the dock, and swallowed the opposite bank.

Tom stood immediately.

His whole body changed.

Every boy on that dock knew what came next.

Huck watched the current.

Twain put the cigar back between his teeth.

A second bell rang.

Then came the paddlewheel.

Slow.

Heavy.

Water churning inside the fog.

A dark hull emerged.

Deck rails.

Lanterns.

Windows glowing gold.

A tall stack breathing smoke into the evening sky.

The name appeared across the bow.

CITY OF MEMPHIS.

Tom grabbed my arm.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“Boat.”

“That answers very little.”

“It answers enough.”

Huck stood.

“He does this.”

Twain stepped toward the gangplank as it lowered.

“Bryan-David, boyhood requires three ingredients. Opportunity, poor judgment, and friends willing to participate.”

Tom ran aboard.

Huck followed.

Twain gestured toward the boat.

I looked back at my fishing line.

Something tugged once.

Twice.

Tom shouted from the deck.

“Leave the fish!”

I pulled the line.

The hook came up bare.

Huck leaned over the rail.

“Possibility got away.”

I grabbed my notebook and sweet tea.

Then I boarded.

The deck smelled of timber, rope, river mud, lamp oil, tobacco, coffee, molasses, pork fat, and machinery. Barrels stood near the freight doors. Sacks of grain filled one corner. Crates marked COFFEE sat stacked near the galley.

Tom discovered a handcart.

This immediately became a problem.

He jumped onto it.

Huck grabbed the handles.

“Ready?”

“For what?”

Huck shoved.

Tom shot across the deck.

A crewman yelled.

Tom yelled louder.

The cart struck a coil of rope, bounced, turned, and headed toward a stack of barrels.

I caught one handle.

Huck caught the other.

The cart stopped three inches from disaster.

Tom looked at us.

“Excellent.”

The crewman arrived. He had shoulders built through years of freight handling and patience reduced through years of boys.

Twain stepped between us.

“My good man, these young gentlemen are conducting transportation research.”

The crewman stared.

Tom nodded solemnly.

“Important research.”

Huck added, “Still early.”

The crewman pointed toward the bow.

“Research somewhere else.”

We moved.

Fast.

Once we cleared the freight deck, Tom whispered, “He bought it.”

Huck stared at him.

“He threw us out.”

“Same result.”

We reached the upper deck laughing.

The river moved beneath us.

Then the world changed.

Missouri fell away.

The Mississippi widened into darkness.

Stars shifted overhead.

Wind came colder.

Tom stood at the bow, hair flying.

Huck watched the water.

Twain joined me at the rail.

“Where did you always want to go when you were a boy?”

“Everywhere.”

“Good answer.”

“Brooklyn.”

He nodded.

“Naturally.”

“San Francisco too. Oakland. Anywhere BART would take me.”

“BART?”

“Our train system.”

“You called it a train?”

“I called it a subway.”

Twain smiled.

“Brooklyn ambition.”

“I was halfway there in my head.”

“That is where every worthwhile journey begins.”

I looked toward the black water.

Fremont rose inside me again.

Ten years old.

BART ticket.

Jacket zipped.

City ahead.

The whole Bay spread out beyond home, full of noise, people, danger, food, lights, bookstores, pool halls, sidewalks, trains, smells, languages, and grown men doing things I wanted to understand.

I told Twain about Oakland.

Smoke filled pool rooms.

Balls cracked under green lamps.

Men moved around tables with calm hands and measured eyes.

A boy learned plenty by keeping quiet and watching.

Tom overheard.

“Pool hall?”

“Yes.”

“You went alone?”

“Sometimes.”

“How old?”

I told him.

Tom looked impressed.

Huck looked concerned.

Twain looked delighted.

“California apparently outsourced parenting to geography.”

The City of Memphis rolled onward.

Fog formed ahead.

Cold air reached us.

Tom rubbed his arms.

“What happened to Missouri?”

“San Francisco,” I said.

The fog opened.

There she was.

Hills.

Lights.

Wharves.

Cold summer air.

San Francisco.

Tom stepped onto the landing and stopped.

“This is summer?”

“Yes.”

Huck shivered.

“That city is dishonest.”

Twain drew on his cigar.

“A city possessing weather, hills, politics, gold, sailors, writers, thieves, dreamers, preachers, fortunes, fog, and excellent coffee has earned a little dishonesty.”

We walked into the city.

Tom wanted to inspect everything.

Cable cars. Alleys. Shop windows. Ships. Street performers. A man selling roasted chestnuts. A bakery still working into evening.

He spent ten minutes watching a cable car turn around and immediately developed three plans involving unauthorized transportation.

Huck rejected the first.

Twain rejected the second.

I rejected the third because I had survived enough childhood already.

We found a coffee room near the wharf. Dark wood. Brass rail. Steamed windows. Coffee roasting somewhere behind the counter. Men sat around tables debating business and politics with the confidence of people who expected history to consult them before proceeding.

We took a corner table.

Coffee arrived.

Bread.

Beans.

Pork.

Molasses.

Tom reached for the molasses.

Huck caught his wrist.

“What?”

“You’re thinking.”

“I’m eating.”

“You think while eating.”

“That is efficient.”

Twain stirred molasses into his coffee.

“Mr. Sawyer possesses the rare ability to convert nourishment into criminal planning.”

I opened the notebook.

Tom saw it.

“More.”

So I read.

Inner tube ball.

Bullard Street.

Manny and Mikey.

The whole crew.

An old bicycle tube wrapped, tied, pulled, twisted, and transformed into one massive black rubber ball designed to survive baseball without traveling far enough to destroy another neighborhood window.

Tom approved immediately.

“That is engineering.”

“It worked.”

Huck watched me.

“For how long?”

There it was.

Huck understood stories.

I told them about the swing.

The launch.

The valve stem.

Mama’s new Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight Regency Brougham.

The long silver scar across the trunk.

Tom slowly set down his fork.

Huck closed his eyes.

Twain stared into his coffee.

Then I told them what Mama said.

“We’ll figure it out. Go be a boy.”

The table went quiet.

The laughter remained in the room, warm from everything that came before it, and something deeper settled underneath.

Twain looked at me.

“She understood the proper value of things.”

“Yes.”

“And boys.”

“Yes.”

Huck looked at the notebook.

“Good mama.”

“The best.”

Tom nodded. His voice came softer.

“She let you keep being a kid.”

That landed.

I looked around the table.

Tom Sawyer.

Huckleberry Finn.

Mark Twain.

Three companions formed through words, sitting across from me while another boy from Fremont tried to explain the woman who gave him room to become himself.

The great gift of childhood was somebody waiting at home.

Somebody who cared enough to worry.

Somebody strong enough to forgive.

Somebody wise enough to understand that broken windows, scratched cars, dirty clothes, missed turns, wild ideas, bruises, bikes, candy, fights, fires, and ridiculous inventions were part of the construction.

Mama knew the difference between raising a boy and preserving furniture.

Twain lifted his coffee.

“To mothers who understood the distinction.”

We raised ours.

Tom used milk.

Huck used water.

I used coffee.

For several seconds, four boys sat at that table.

One simply had more years on him.

Then Tom reached into the molasses.

Huck caught him too late.

Tom flicked one sticky drop onto Huck’s hand.

Huck stared at it.

Tom grinned.

Huck dipped two fingers into the crock.

Tom’s grin vanished.

“Hold on.”

Huck reached across the table.

Tom bolted.

Chair scraped.

Huck followed.

They tore through the coffee room.

A waiter shouted.

Tom ducked beneath a table.

Huck came around the other side.

A gentleman stood up.

Tom collided with his coat.

Huck slipped past.

A spoon hit the floor.

Somebody cheered.

Twain remained seated.

I stared at him.

“Should we stop them?”

He sipped his coffee.

“History has attempted that.”

Tom shot past again with molasses on one cheek.

Huck followed carrying a dinner roll.

“Why does he have bread?”

Twain watched.

“Escalation.”

The dinner roll flew.

Tom ducked.

It landed in a man’s hat.

Silence.

Every head in the room turned.

Tom stopped.

Huck stopped.

The man removed his hat.

The roll sat inside.

Twain stood.

He took out his wallet.

“Gentlemen, our research has concluded.”

We left immediately.

Outside, all four of us broke apart laughing.

We ran toward the wharf through San Francisco fog, one grown man, one famous author, and two immortal boys fleeing a coffeehouse over one airborne dinner roll.

My lungs burned.

My eyes watered.

Tom slapped my back.

Huck laughed openly now.

Twain held his hat with one hand and cigar with the other.

The City of Memphis waited at the landing.

We climbed aboard.

The bell rang.

San Francisco disappeared.

The river returned.

Hannibal emerged beneath stars.

The boat slowed beside the dock.

Tom stood near the gangplank.

“You writing this?”

“Every word.”

Huck handed me my notebook.

“You can improve some parts.”

“Which parts?”

“The parts where Tom sounds smart.”

Tom shoved him.

Huck shoved back.

Twain stepped down onto the dock.

He turned toward me. Humor, warmth, age, and something steady lived together in his face.

“Spend time with the boy.”

I looked toward Tom and Huck.

Tom had discovered my fishing pole.

Huck was inspecting the corn.

“I do.”

“More.”

The word landed clean.

Twain drew on his cigar.

“A man spends years gathering responsibilities. Bills. Work. Loss. Reputation. Deadlines. Worry. He stacks them until he can barely see over the top. Then one evening he hears laughter from somewhere inside himself and remembers he once owned a bicycle.”

I felt Fremont again.

The tires.

The pedals.

Night air.

The smell of wet grass.

Candy in my pockets.

Streetlights ahead.

Friends waiting.

The finish line had vanished.

Just motion.

Fire.

Wonder.

Home somewhere behind me.

Adventure somewhere ahead.

Tom yelled from the dock.

“We’re fishing!”

Huck corrected him.

“We’re stealing his bait.”

Twain smiled.

“There he is.”

I walked toward them.

The line went back into the Mississippi.

Tom baited his hook with enough corn to feed livestock.

Huck corrected him.

They argued.

Twain lit his pipe while keeping the cigar in his other hand, a level of tobacco administration beyond my training.

The stars opened over Hannibal.

Sweet tea remained on the crate.

My notebook rested beside me.

The boys laughed.

The river carried everything south.

At some point, my eyes closed.

When I opened them, I sat inside the Studio.

Saturday evening.

Lantern light.

Warm room.

Notebook open.

GiGi stood near the door with her nose raised, studying the air.

My sweet tea sat beside me.

Warm now.

Beside it rested a cup of black coffee.

I had brewed none.

The room carried cigar smoke.

Pipe tobacco too.

My fishing pole leaned against the wall.

A small smear of molasses marked the handle.

I smiled.

Then I saw the notebook.

A sentence had appeared beneath the last line.

We should spend more time together.

Underneath it, in different handwriting:

Bring more Astro Pops.

And beneath that:

Bring less Tom.

I laughed loud enough for GiGi to leave the room.

One kernel of corn sat on the desk.

I picked it up and rolled it between my fingers.

Outside, Saturday evening settled over the world.

Inside, the lantern stayed warm.

The map kept opening.

The boy kept going.

He learned some things.

He lost some things.

He earned scars.

He became a man.

The bicycle stayed ready somewhere inside him.

The fire still burned.

Saturday night had arrived.

The Studio door stayed open.

I picked up my pen.

The boys were waiting.

And somewhere beyond the lantern light, the river was already ringing its bell.