An Evening at Colleen's

I've been in an assortment of establishments that sell alcohol; everything from topless/biker bars, to clubs, where you're expected to dress up. They all had a story to tell; and many were a constant source of drama. 

The following story came to my mind one evening. Compelled as always, I wrote it as it appeared. 

Enjoy

                                                                  ***


The tavern was almost empty, with only a few customers in the pool room. The woodwork, mirrors and furniture were of an age long ago. Decades of wear left some marks, but all was well polished, clean and the atmosphere was still of a place where friends could gather to toss back a few after work or on a Saturday evening.

Catherine stood behind the bar and idly spoke with her waitress, Nicola. Catherine resembled her grandmother, whose name graced the tavern. With red hair, green eyes and a full figure, she could only be described as Irish and her fiery temper would dispel any thoughts otherwise. Age was taking its early toll; her smile lines were etched permanently on the edges of her eyes and relayed her age as over fifty.

Nicola was a stark contrast to Catherine. Thin, olive skinned and with hair almost black, she was the epitome of her Italian heritage. At twenty five, she was struggling to finish college and find a job that would take her away from the city. She felt trapped and longed for escape to the world beyond the neighborhood of generations.

“How’s your mom, Nicole?”

“Tired. Uncle Frankie has been a handful for the last few weeks. She doesn’t know how long she’ll be able to help and dreads putting him in a nursing home.”

The thought saddened Catherine. She’d known Frankie since they were children, although there wasn’t much to know after his injury.”

“How’s your mom?”

Catherine paused before answering. The question brought back memories of her mother as she ran the bar. She’d learned much from her mother, who wouldn’t back down from anything and could control even the most rowdy with a quick word. To back up her words was a double barrel shotgun behind the counter. She never used it, but she’d reached for it a few times.

“Not so good. She can hardly get out of bed and her legs hurt constantly.”

Nicole only shook her head and stared in the mirror. She wasn’t happy with her skin, or her hair. Burning the candle at both ends left bags under her eyes and her dark, brown hair looked like straw. She knew she could spend more time on herself after she finished college, but until then, she needed too many hours each day in the effort to reach her goal to never work in a bar again.

“I saw your dad the other day, so I asked why he wasn’t coming around much anymore. I didn’t realize he was taking on side work to help with your uncle.”

“They’re hard headed Italians, just like their parents. They don’t want anything they can’t get for themselves.”

“It’s going to kill them, but I understand. I’m the same way with Mom. I’m just lucky Dad left a good life insurance policy, so we’re comfortable and Colleen’s makes up the difference.”

The door opened and a middle aged man stepped inside. Both women checked him out as he entered and approached the bar.

They both guessed he was in his middle fifties, stocky built and in good shape. His step was light and he covered the distance to the bar in seconds. Before he spoke, he glanced around the bar and spent a few moments on the photos around the room. This gave Catherine time to think about his face and try to remember why he looked familiar.

His sandy hair was still full and flecked with gray. His neatly trimmed beard was almost completely gray and his complexion told of years in the weather. His blue eyes were almost startling to Catherine, when he finally finished examining the room and looked into her eyes.

“Would you have some coffee? It’s chilly outside and a fresh cup would be good”

Catherine finally answered, but it took a moment. His voice stirred more thoughts and she was almost embarrassed she couldn’t remember why she found him so familiar.

“I always have a fresh pot. With the rowdies soon to come in, it takes lots of caffeine to keep up with them.”

The man smiled and spoke to Nicole: “There’s not much of a crowd tonight.”

Smiling, and a little unnerved, she replied: “There’s a game tonight and they’ll be here in an hour or two.”

Nicole found the man handsome and it bothered her she felt so attracted to a man twice her age. Maybe it was his eyes and the way he stared into her eyes when he spoke. He wasn’t that handsome, but the way he carried himself gave her a feeling of comfort, which she found unusual these days. Little gave her comfort and no man she met lately gave her any comfort.

As he turned to take his coffee, Nicole noticed a fine scar that ran from under his eye to disappear behind his beard. The stitch work was hardly noticeable, but the scar pulled enough for her to know the cut was deep.

“Thank you.”

“Would you like some sugar, or cream?”

“No thanks. I like it black.”

Taking a sip, he smiled and carefully set his cup back on the bar.

Catherine was thrilled, for some reason. She took pride in her coffee and his smile was better than any compliment.

Before she could ask any questions, he rose, took his coffee and made a quick remark: “I hear pool balls and I think I’ll go see if I can still play.”

As he walked away, Nicola was first to speak: “I’ve never seen him here before. Do you know him?”

Catherine was quick to respond: “I could swear I do, but I just can’t place him. Maybe it will come to me.”

Entering the pool room, the man scoped out the room, the four young men playing and finally sat at one of the small tables that lined the room.

As the young men checked him out, he carefully looked each in the eyes and asked: “Is the table open? I haven’t played in years and would like to see if I can still hit the ball.”

The four young men, friends from birth, waited and James was first to speak: “Are you a hustler?”

The man smiled and quickly answered: “Heavens no. Playing for money can be dangerous.”

The remark made James a little uneasy. It wasn’t so much the words, but the way he said it and the quick fire in his eyes.

“It’s open, although I doubt it will be for long.”

The man rose, removed his jacket and placed it on his chair. Walking to the table, he carefully racked the balls and spoke to James: “Your break,”

The three other young men felt a little slighted by the remark, although they knew James was the best player and the unofficial spokesman of their group.

James never spoke as he broke. The balls scattered and two low balls fell into the pockets.

The man quickly said: “Well that’s settled and it looks like you’re ahead.”

James proceeded to clear the table, except for the five and eight ball. He scratched and the man carefully walked to the table to begin playing.

Chalking the end of the cue he’d carefully picked from the rack, powdered his hand, planned his shot, and proceeded to clear the high balls from the table. Within minutes, he’d cleared the table and was only left with the eight ball. Taking a little more time on the shot, he finally placed the eight ball in the side pocket and exclaimed: “Well how about that. I didn’t know I could still shoot pool”

The remark, and what James perceived as insincere humility make him angry. With malice in his heart, he commented: “Sometimes even blind pigs - and old men - find an acorn.”

If the comment bothered the man, it didn’t show. James friend’s only laughed, although they knew the friendly game had turned into something less than friendly.

“Your rack.”

James racked the balls, stepped back and waited.

As the man began his stroke to break the balls, James hollered at Nicola: “Hey. We’re ready for another round back here. “

James intended to break the man’s concentration, but it didn’t work. The break sent three high balls, and three low balls into the pockets.

With a small smile on his face, the man commented: “I guess I have to decide what balls I’ll need to shoot.”

Nicola soon appeared, glanced around the room and summarized the event. The slight flush on James face, the anticipation of his friends and the fact the man was shooting made her uneasy. James was hot-headed and she’d seen him at his worst. Catherine even kicked him out one night when he threatened a customer after he lost a twenty dollar bet.

As she set the beers down on the table, she paused to watch as the man cleared the table. It was fascinating. Every shot was without error. When the eight ball fell into the side pocket, she quickly looked at James.

His anger was apparent. Without even asking if his friends wanted to play, James quickly racked the balls and stood back. His friends, now knowing what was set into motion, only waited to see how far things went.

The man smiled and asked: “Would you like to break?”

Blind fury erupted on James’s face for a second. He quieted his anger long enough to reply: “I’d hate to have an unfair advantage over you….old man.”

Without hesitating, the man introduced himself. “I’m Carl.” Reaching for the hands of the four young men, all shook his hand and gave their names. James tried to crush the man’s hand, but it was a futile effort. His strong grip made the muscles in his forearm stand out and it became evident he was far from weak, or helpless.

Nicola left and went to tell Catherine what she observed.

Catherine replied: “We can only be ready. Who knows, they might end up friends, before it’s all over.”

Nicola studied Catherine’s face and knew her expression told a different feeling.

For the next thirty minutes, James, and the "old man", continued to play. Every game was the same and every game brought another call from James to bring more beer. His anger, now fueled by beer, was almost to the point of no control. He didn’t like losing and the fact the man did it without effort only fueled his anger.

“Hey. We need another round back here.”

The way James called, the obvious effect of the alcohol, and the knowledge of his behavior made Nicola hesitant to return with another round. She knew she could tell them they were too drunk to have more, but it wouldn’t change things. Grabbing four more beers, she headed for the pool room with the knowledge James had lost another game.

By the time she arrived with the beers, the game was almost over. Again, the man ran the table and there was only the eight ball remaining for him to shoot. Carefully, he walked around the table and looked at every angle. Looking up, he carefully studied Nicola’s expression. Without speaking, he winked, took his shot and sank the eight ball in the corner pocket. The cue ball, slowly moved to the side pocket, balanced on the edge and fell. The game was over.

The man spoke: “Oh well. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.”

Picking up his jacket, he soon had it on and was starting for the door.

“I have a plane to catch, gentlemen. It’s been nice and I’m glad to meet you all.”

As he passed Nicola, she saw the handle of a gun barely protruding from the inside pocket of the jacket. He touched her on the shoulder and quietly said: “Thank you.”

Nicola only responded with a short “You’re welcome.” She couldn’t figure out what he was thanking her for, since she didn’t serve his coffee at the bar and never asked if he’d like another.

As he left, he passed a few patrons that were just arriving. Looking at the bar, he spoke: “Thanks for the coffee, Catherine; it’s the best since I came to town.”

In a moment he was gone, and Catherine could only stare as he left.

In the pool room, Catherine could hear the young men ribbing James and their laughter seemed to cheer the tavern. Nicola soon approached, with a relieved look on her face.

Neither spoke for a few moments, but Nicola made a simple statement: “He said his name is Carl.”

The mention of his name toppled decades of blocking memories and Catherine instantly knew why she thought he was familiar. 

The sick look on Catherine’s face forced Nicola to ask: “Are you okay.”

Catherine had to gather her thoughts and calm down before she spoke: “I know why he looked familiar. I know him.”

Quickly, she added: “Go take care of those customers.”

Nicola did as she was told. As she drew their beer from the tap, she kept glancing at Catherine, who now was sitting on the stool behind the bar looking deflated.

In a few minutes, she returned. Before she could ask anything, Catherine spoke: “Carl is the son of the butcher that lived around the corner.”

Nicola remembered a butcher shop when she was child. It was named after the old man that ran it with his wife: “Abram’s.”

“When I was really young, Mr. Abram would come in every Saturday around six and have two beers. Carl would come along to shoot pool.”

Nicola waited for her to continue.

“Carl wouldn’t drink anything except coffee; even after he was twenty one. He said he didn’t like alcohol and it wouldn’t do any good for both him and his father to be drinking.”

“Carl was always the skinny kid and smart. He was going to study to be a doctor, but that all ended one Saturday evening.”

Nicola, now very curious, was quick to ask: “What happened?”

“It was a typical Saturday. The regular customers were here; including Mr. Abrams and Carl. A group of young neighborhood men came in to shoot pool and drink beer. We knew them all, but they had a tendency to be rough and bullies.”

“Carl was good at pool, and they knew it, but they were determined to show him he wasn’t as good as they were. They challenged him to a game for twenty dollars, which was a substantial bet. He accepted and the game was on.”

“Billy Grimes was the head of the group. He decided he should play, so he was first to shoot.”

“It was a disaster. Within minutes, Carl had his twenty dollars and the rest decided to take their chance. They lost too and the next hour led to all of them drinking too much beer and losing what little paychecks they had at the time.”

Catherine paused. Her expression was of sadness and horror. Nicole waited out of respect, but her curiosity soon led her to ask: “So, then what happened?”

“Billy finally lost his temper and sucker punched Carl. Within seconds, Carl returned the punch and decked Billy.”

“Billy wasn’t moving, so his friends decided they’d make an example of Carl. That was their mistake.”

“They had him for a few moments, but soon were losing. Carl went to work on all of them with his pool cue. Two decided they needed to leave and were out the door in seconds. Only one was left and he grabbed a pool cue, which led to a Carl striking him in the head with his own. The cue broke and a piece of wood stuck in his head.”

“Billy was almost between Carl’s feet, and was awake, when he struck Frankie.”

Shocked by the name, Nicola asked: “Frankie who?”

“Your uncle Frankie. There was no accident at the factory. Carl caused his injury.”

Nicola was shocked and could only sit in silence as Catherine continued. Years of lies were exposed and she wanted to know the entire story.

“Billy jumped up with a knife in his hand and swung at Carl. He cut him across the face and the blood went everywhere. I was standing a few feet away and some even splattered on my dress.”

“When Billy went for Carl, a gun appeared and he shot Billy.”

“Billy fell like a sack of potatoes Carl peeled out half the money he won, placed it on the table and walked out of the bar. I never saw him again…until tonight.”

They both sat in silence for a few minutes. Catherine spoke first: “Billy recovered, but was never the same.”

“What happened to Carl?”

“Nothing, I guess. When the police arrived, nobody would give a name. As far as we were concerned, Carl was family and Billy had it coming.”

Catherine had tears in her eyes as she continued: “He was so nice. I even had my eyes on him, since he seemed to be heading for bigger and better things. I didn’t want to work in the bar back then and was planning to escape the first chance I had. Something died in me that night and was gone forever”

Catherine continued: “Mr. Abrams never came back. He would never talk about what happened and he died within twenty years. His widow was always taken care of, was quiet, and she passed away last week. I guess Carl came for the funeral.”

Digesting the story, Nicola finally asked: “What happened to Billy?”

“He spent a long time in the hospital. They had to remove a lung and he never really recovered. Mom finally had to bar him. He’d get drunk and harass the customers. Since he never took care of himself, nobody was surprised when they found him dead in his apartment a few years ago. I’m guessing he drank himself to death.”

For the next hour, the patrons kept coming in a soon filled the tavern. It was a joyous evening, since their team won, but Nicola felt a melancholy that occupied her thoughts.

She wondered: “Why did he thank me? Did he know enough from my expression to know my fear? Did he lose on purpose? “

The thoughts would occupy her mind forever. Time stood still, returned the past and the outcome was better – although the events would never change. Things would always be the same, and nothing changed until those involved were willing to make them change.

As she left the bar, Nicola had a determination she never had before. Unwilling to live the past, she’d decided to make her future something different. She’d finish college, find a better life and never look back.

Quietly speaking to herself, she said” “Maybe I’ll send them a postcard.”, and laughed. She was thinking of a future; somewhere else and it was bright.

On The Road

Pete sat in the small camp as the heavy traffic passed a few hundred feet beyond the trees and brush that hid the freeway. Deep in thought, he enjoyed the warm sun that felt good after the morning chill.

Pete was thinking of the pain in his gut. It was sharp today, which kept him from panhandling on the corner a mile down the road. The week before, he'd finally succumbed to the advice of his friend, Sid, and gone to the local emergency room. After a day of sitting, shuffling between tests and some stern advice from doctors, he slipped away in the evening and came back to the camp. Their diagnosis was incomplete, though they knew his liver function was not right and more tests were needed to determine the cause. Pete felt closed in and only wanted to escape.

Maybe he should eat. He thought for a moment, then decided to wait. It only hurt worse when he ate and he wanted to avoid the pain. Maybe it would ease off later.

Pete's thoughts wandered to Rhonda. They'd started on the road together over twenty five years ago. Both were first year college students and both wanted to "see the world" before they settled down and started their lives. After five years, the thoughts of settling down slipped further away. Their lifestyle was ingrained and they had lost the resources to escape. Neither had communicated with family for years and neither wanted to make the effort to return to the life that was now alien to both.

Pete remembered when she disappeared. It was a rainy night, she wanted some cigarettes and would only be gone for a short time. She never came back. At first Pete assumed she had just left, but soon realized she was the woman killed by a hit a run driver as she crossed an intersection. He saw the report in a newspaper at a store where he was buying a beer. He knew he should have done more, but he, also, knew it really didn't matter. His world shifted that moment. He gathered his belongings and was hundreds of miles away within days.

"Hey Pete. I brought you something."

Pete looked up to find Sid handing him a 44 ounce malt liquor. "Thanks" was his reply.

"I had a good day Pete. People were generous on the corner. Maybe tomorrow you'll feel like making some money?"

Pete replied: "Maybe. I'll probably feel better."

Pete opened the beer and took two long swallows. The cold liquid  immediately burned and caused the pain to increase. Taking two more swallows, he laid back on his sleeping bag and waited for the buzz to dull the pain.

"You hungry Pete? I brought some cans of chili."

The thought of eating turned Pete's stomach. He wasn't hungry any longer. Taking another slug of beer, he answered: "Maybe later. I'm not real hungry right now."

Sid and Pete spent the next hour discussing nothing and watching the sun start to fade. Eventually both were just staring and Pete eventually nodded off. Sid looked at Pete to make sure he was asleep.

After he was satisfied Pete was sleeping, Sid rolled up his sleeping bag and made sure all his belongings were stored in his knapsack. Standing, he approached Pete and pulled a knife from his pocket.

Sid stared at Pete and thought of his time in the army. Advance training taught him how to kill a man within seconds. No pain; no screaming; just oblivion. He looked down at Pete. In a low voice that was almost a whisper he said: "That's not my job."

Reaching into his stash, Sid took a ten dollar bill, wrapped it around the knife, and set it on the sleeping bag next to Pete. He made over a hundred today and he had his boot knife for protection. Examining Pete, he realized his skin was now a noticeable shade of yellow. It reminded him of an old man he'd met a few years before.

They called him old man, although he was probably only in his late forties. His life on the road, and alcohol, had aged him before his time. Sid found him dead one morning, so he flagged down a cruiser as it passed. Three days later, less all his belongings, he realized he never wanted to be involved with another police investigation. He'd done nothing, but the police wanted to be sure before they set him free. They wouldn't give his belonging back. They'd said something about a health hazard.

Never looking back, Sid slipped from the wooded area and started walking down the shoulder of the access road. Holding out his thumb as he walked, he hoped to flag a ride and be a few hundred miles down the road by morning. He'd head south. Winter was coming and he wanted to spend it in the Keys. The dumpsters always had good food and there were miles of bridges to sleep under.

Sid knew there was one rule on the road, which was there were no rules. Glancing back one time, he pushed Pete from his mind and picked up his pace.

Bloodline

Steve stepped from his porch, surveyed the day and decided today was a good morning to explore. He was now completely moved in and ready to spend some time examining the land he purchased.

Steve was once a very successful owner of a small construction company. Years of hard work, some good contracts and a natural inclination for selling led him to the opportunity of selling his company at the young age of fifty two.  The deal was lucrative, which left him with a fortune and the ability to do whatever he wanted.  After years of working every waking hour, his immediate want was to spend some time relaxing and enjoying the freedom of what others might describe as retirement.

Steve’s land was almost ten thousand acres in the deep woods of East Texas. The land, never acquired by the lumber industry, was a rarity in such a large quantity. The original family harvested some of the timber years ago, but the rest was still unmolested by mankind.

Steve met the last surviving heir to the land before the start of negotiations for his company. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, whom he guessed was in her late sixties. Not the least bit reserved, her questions were direct and to the point.

They met while attending a construction conference. He was having breakfast, when she stopped and asked if she could sit at his table. Her explanation was she didn’t like eating alone and he had an honest face. Not really knowing what to say, he told her he’d be honored.

Over the next hour, they spoke of business, the construction market and the current economy. He found they had similar opinions and strategies on taking full advantage of what was offered. It was a pleasant surprise to Steve. His original impression was that he would not enjoy his breakfast. Instead, he was a little disappointed when she politely excused herself and left for a meeting.

As the conference progressed, Steve realized the woman was far from a small business owner. She was a major stockholder and on the board of one of the largest construction companies in the world. Later, he would find out more and realize she was far from a trust fund baby, even if she had inherited much of what she used to increase her fortune.

When the large company offered to buy Steve’s company, he was surprised and felt a little uneasy. He wasn’t on the market, but knew it wasn’t uncommon for such offers to be made. Before he responded, he sat down with his accountant and attorney. His instructions were to assess the complete worth and research the legalities of the transaction.

Steve stated his price and waited. Over months he received no information except for a letter stating the offer was received, even though it was sent by certified mail. He was impressed. It was a small unexpected courtesy.

While on a project site, Steve received an unexpected call from the woman he met at the conference. She asked if he could meet with her and discuss his price. He agreed and they set the meeting date one week from that day.

Arriving at the corporate headquarters, Steve was escorted to the woman’s office. She rose, shook his hand and asked him to sit. After a few pleasantries, she handed him a small stack of papers and asked him to review the information before he responded. 

“This might take some time.”

“I’ll have my assistant bring us some coffee.”

It took almost an hour for Steve to complete his examination of the papers.  The well prepared information was almost identical to the report from his accountant, which he used for basing his price. An expert at negotiations, he added twenty five percent to the actual worth for his asking price. Obviously, either his accountant had provided the information to his buyer, or they were well prepared for assessing a company. Either way, it was time to get down to business, so he set the papers on her desk and waited.

“As you can see, we have a pretty good idea what your company is worth. If your accountant is worth his beans, the figures we’ve provided you are close to what they provided. So, that’s why I’m going to offer you fifteen percent over that figure as my final offer.”

Steve just sat over the next few moments and sipped the last of his coffee. Before he could speak, she had one more thing to add:

“There are two more things I’ll add before you make your final decision: You must agree to not compete for ten years and you must purchase some land I own with stipulations attached.”

Steve looked into her dark brown eyes and tried to read what was on her mind. The effort was fruitless, so he asked:

“How much land and how much is it per acre?”

“Ten thousand acres, with a comfortable home and the price is one dollar per acre.”

The price was astoundingly low. Unless it was a chemical waste dump, even just doubling the price for resale would be well worth the paperwork.

“What are the stipulations?”

“You cannot sell the land to anyone. You will have enough money to guarantee the preservation of the land from developers or business.”

Steve had to know, so he asked: “Why so cheap and what’s so special about this land?”

She responded:” I’m hungry. Why don’t we discuss this over lunch?”

Steve agreed and spent the next two hours learning the history of what would soon be his.

She was the descendent of original settlers to the land. English by heritage, they carved a life out of around eighty of the acres. From this land, they survived, but one of the sons had a particular skill that led to the family fortune. In the present, he would be an engineer. In his day, his ability to move large amounts of timber down the Sabine River forged an enterprise that grew over time. As the family fortune grew, the ability to keep the land from harvesting became a family tradition. While others harvested the timber, they refused to change what they learned to love and protected the land fiercely.

“I’m the last descendent with any interest in our heritage. I have a daughter, who I love dearly, but she’s as wise as a box of rocks and horribly self-indulgent. She has no interest in the land and I can never trust her decisions on the land would be best. That’s why I’ve made you the offer. You’ve proven your honor by your actions and from our conversation at the conference, I can see you have a deep respect and love for the land. We may be some of the greatest manipulators of our environment, but we can never reproduce old growth trees or accelerate what takes centuries to change.  I’m not so foolish to believe the entire world needs to be treated as such, but I am wise enough to know some things within our grasp are treasures to cherish.”

Steve sat and pondered on the offer. Amazed at how wonderful it was, he was hesitant to agree. Could there be some other stipulation? What was he missing?

“You’ve put a lot of trust in someone you barely know.”

“I know, but I’ve found my opinions on people are true over time. I don’t think I’m making a mistake.”

“I think we need to shake on our agreement.”

Steve rose, reached for her hand and said: “I have one stipulation before we close this deal.”

Surprised, she asked: “And, what is that stipulation?”

“You must personally give me a tour of the land. I would trust nobody else.”

She smiled; they shook hands and started discussing the process of finalizing the deal. Before the day was over, they agreed on when the tour would happen.

The tour was on a brilliant early spring day. The dry, cool air of a late cold front had provided a perfect day for their task. A few red buds were blooming, but the heavy growth was still mostly brown from the winter.

Steve immediately liked the house. Modest in size, it had a covered porch that ran completely around the perimeter. The single story building sat on brick piers, which were enclosed by a skirting. The windows and doors were modern, but the he could tell the original structure was old. Time, and effort, had preserved the old building, which now had modern appliances.

Behind the house was a large combination work shop and caretaker quarters. It too was old, but had been modernized. The quarters were comfortable and the shop was well equipped with just about anything a craftsman would need.  At one end was a small stable stoutly built and well drained. Adjacent to the stable was two acre pen enclosed by a wood fence.

“Does someone live in these quarters?”

“Mr. B lived there up to six months ago. His age, and health, finally prevented him from doing what he loved.”

“It sounds like you really like him.”

“He’s like an uncle. He loves this as much as I do, but he knows it’s time to turn it over to someone else. He’s very glad you agreed to purchase the land.”

“You can tell him I’ve decided to move here.”

“That’s rather sudden. What brought that on?”

“The last hour; if I wanted to, I don’t think I could build something that fits me this well.”

They spent the remainder of the day sitting on the porch in idle conversation. By the time to leave, both were much more comfortable with what they set in motion. When they left, she was leaving forever, except as visitor. He was leaving only long enough to make final deals and prepare for moving. Her sadness was obvious, but she found she admired his exuberance and was content with her decisions.

                                                                     ***

Steve walked to the stable and opened the door. Bill, his gelding, snorted as he entered and pawed at the ground for a few seconds.

As Steve opened the stall, he spoke to Bill: “I know. I’m ready too.”

He let the horse loose into the pen adjacent to the stable. Bill pranced as he went into the pen and immediately rolled in the sun warmed grass. Steve ignored the horse as he gathered his saddle and tack. He’d let Bill spend some time being a horse until he saddled him for the ride.

As he worked, Steve thought of his new life. He’d never ridden in his life, much less owned a horse, but it was part of the deal he made. Since motorized vehicles were to remain off the land, he needed some method to move about the land other than by walking. Bill was his all-purpose vehicle. A stout quarter horse, he was trained to do just about anything Steve needed. The trainer had taken extra time to insure Bill was totally prepared and choose him from stock that was known as smart and gentle. Bill cost Steve much more than many would pay for a horse, but for those that knew such things, he was well worth the money.

“Are you ready?”

The horse snickered and walked to Steve. Within minutes, he was saddled, wearing a halter and obviously energized. He’d be a little frisky for awhile, but Steve knew he would soon fall into his steady walk, which he could accomplish all day, if needed.

Steve headed toward the creek that ran through the property. At the widest places, it was only around 30 feet wide. Artesian fed, and shallow, it supplied a constant supply of water, which was necessary to the original settlers.

As they travelled, Steve’s mind wandered. Without the constant pressure of running a company, he was still amazed at how little leisure time he had in the past. He never noticed, but it was now apparent. He had a better understanding of why his short marriage never worked and why he was almost alienated from his son. They had completely different outlooks on life and his musician son seemed to avoid anything that resembled his father.

Steve decided to parallel the creek and travel to the north, which was upstream. He’d cross if necessary, but planned on staying on the west bank. He had plenty of other days for the other side. Today, he would concentrate on only one.

After an hour, they reached a low bluff, with few trees. Deadfall was apparent, and the groundcover was thick. Blackberry vines created a thicket, which was impenetrable by the horse and rider. Deciding to cross, Steve nudged Bob toward the bank. Hesitant, the gelding slowed and became nervous. Knowing enough about horses, Steve gently spoke to the gelding and rubbed his neck. Eventually, after one step into the water, the horse almost lunged into the water to avoid tripping. When the shallow water cooled the horse’s legs, he snorted in contentment and continued. Steve stopped him in the middle. The bottom was sand and hard packed iron ore, so there wasn’t any threat of sinking. He gave the horse rein and allowed him to drink for a few moments.

Looking upstream at the semi-straight channel, he decided to proceed upstream in the creek. It was shallow and he knew the only deep spots would be on the outside of curves. They should be fine and he’d turn around if he didn’t like the passage.

Bob seemed to enjoy the extra work of waking the shallow water and seemed as curious as Steve.  He scanned the banks and his ears would turn forward at the sound of a frog or movement on the band. Birds flew between the branches of the trees and squirrels fussed at the strangers in their territory.

They were about one quarter mile upstream when they found the creek blocked by a deadfall tree. Thinking of turning around, Steve changed his mind when he noticed the bank gradually sloped up to what appeared as a small clearing. They left the creek, climbed the slope and found a small meadow, only a few hundred square feet in size.  Steve dismounted, let the reins fall and decided to explore a little further on foot. Tying Bob to a small tree, he eased on through the thin brush at the north end of the meadow. He wouldn’t go far; he only wanted to see if he needed to prepare for extended time hiking in the future.

He wasn’t far when he found the tree, or what was left of it. Lying on the side, it was at least six feet in diameter and covered with moss. What had caused the magnificent tree to fall wasn’t important, but the fact it still remained after what must have been decades –or longer – was what stirred Steve’s thoughts.

From the side, Steve estimated the huge remaining section of trunk was thirty feet in length. Close examination revealed what appeared as char on the outside. Steve was wondering if Lightning killed the tree as he worked his way to the end. When he reached the end, he peered into the large hollow section. The other end was covered with dirt, so it took a few moments for Steve’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. As they did, he realized the trunk had been occupied at one time.

Crude furniture occupied several sections of the hollow trunk. They appeared to be old rotten crates with crude timber boards on top. Time had deteriorated the furniture to the point it was hard to discern the original intent, but the crude comforts of home soon became apparent.

On one wall was a crude bed, with a shelf at the far end. Across from the bed was a table with a badly tarnished fork and spoon laid correctly as though they were part of a dinner setting. A large porcelain saucer sat in the middle. The remains of countless candles lay in a puddle on the bottom and the stub of the last candle stood only a few inches above the puddle. It was gnawed at top; probably by a hungry squirrel. Carefully stepping into the primitive abode, Steve examined the walls and floor for snakes. Finding none, he stepped further in towards the small shelf at the end of the bed. The metal box on top was the focus of his attention.

Before reaching for the box, Steve carefully examined the outside. He knew the shape, and the remaining writing indicated it was a surplus ammunition box. Badly rusted, he didn’t want to move it if it would fall apart. Satisfied it would survive being moved, Steve carefully picked up the box, made one last survey of the hollow tree and made a mental note to return in the near future. He had gauged his time and knew it was time to start the trip back to the house. Any unforeseen events could lead to being out without the proper equipment after dark. He knew better, so his curiosity would have to wait.

Returning to Bob, he tied the box to the back of the saddle, quickly mounted and they were off. The next few hours were spent with Bob’s mind in motion. Who was the inhabitant? Was it a former family member’s camp? Was it a stranger? Where did they go?

After reaching the stall, Steve removed the riding gear, gave Bob a quick brushing, placed a little feed in his bowl and left the door open so he could graze in the pasture. Steve would return before dark to close him in the stable.

Stepping into the workshop, Steve found a can of penetrating oil, sprayed the hinges and placed some more on the latch. He’d let the oil work while he prepared his supper. Returning to the house, he cooked and would occasionally look toward the workshop. His mind was on what was inside. He could feel it had something in it. What this something was now completely occupied his thoughts.

After finishing his evening tasks, Steve returned to place Bob in his stall and to open the box. Carefully, he pried on the latch until he had some movement. Working the latch a little more each time eventually allowed the latch to be released. A few minutes more and the latch came completely loose and allowed him to start on the hinges. Using a screwdriver, he pried a little on the lid, which allowed a tiny amount of movement. More penetrating oil, a little more force and Steve continued with successfully opening the box. Within a half hour of tedious work, he had enough clearance to peer into the box. Whatever was in there was wrapped in some type of plain oilcloth. He’d have to completely open the box before he could remove the contents.

As he continued to work on the latch, he wondered why he didn’t just use a power tool to remove the lid. It didn’t take him long to remember he had all the time he needed and to destroy something as rare as his find seemed unconscionable.  He needed to be patient. Within an hour, the hinges finally were free and he could open and close the box without the grinding restriction of the rust. It was time to examine the contents.

The oilcloth was almost brittle, but still in fairly good shape. Reaching into the box, he grasped the wrapped object and set it on the work table. Peering into the bottom of the box revealed a handful of tarnished silver quarters, some buttons and a badly deteriorated sewing kit. Turning to the bundle, he carefully removed the oilcloth and found a small leather binder. Opening the binder revealed a few pencils and what would soon occupy the majority of his night.

Steve cleaned up his work area and placed the box on a shelf. Grabbing his new found treasures, he returned to the house and placed it on the kitchen table. He decided the occasion called for fresh coffee, so he started a pot before he set down to his task. Within minutes, with a fresh cup, he opened the binder and started on the first page of writing:

If you’re reading this, either the good Lord has taken me, or I’ve been found once again. Either way, this journal is far from a culmination of my life, but there’s enough to where I feel what I consider important will not be lost forever by the passage of time.

I was born in 1931 in Illinois. I was raised on a farm, but the farm was not my goal, or my parents. They wanted me to obtain a degree from a university and have life with more opportunities. Through frugal living, and hard work, they saved enough and I studied enough to be accepted for higher education. My goal was to be an attorney, but the tragedy of a tornado took my parents during my last year of college. Without the resources, or the heart to continue, I struggled through and finally ended up with a degree in business. It was enough to start my life and allow me to forever be free of Illinois.

I landed a job with a medical supply company. At that time, a tremendous amount of money was to be made in Occupied Japan, so I was sent to work in the branch office in Tokyo. It was a learning experience and changed my view of the Japanese people. Where I hated them during the war, I found them to be far from the hideous monsters as portrayed in the war films and by reports. They were mostly the victims of the unbridled power of a cruel government. Their only fault was to blindly follow their leaders and they suffered tremendously from this error.

The big change in my life came after a tragedy at a local house of ill repute. A young sailor, inebriated on Sake, turned over a lantern, lit the entire facility on fire and managed to not only receive severe burns, but suffer a horrible cut to his leg. This is where I became involved.

The burns were in need of immediate treatment, but the cut had caused severe blood loss. I was at the hospital at the time, had the right blood type, so I volunteered a pint even though my work mates felt it was foolish. They cautioned the sailor would die eventually from the burns, so why waste a pint of good blood? I wasn’t raised that way, so the blood was given.

I didn’t think much of it and the matter eased from my thoughts over the next week. The young doctor that treated the sailor cornered me in the hall of the hospital and asked me to follow him to the room of the sailor.

When we arrived, I was surprised to find the sailor in good spirits, healing as though he’d spent months in the hospital and unbelievably strong for someone that had suffered such severe burns. Instead of hovering near death from dehydration and infection, he was talking of how soon he would be able to leave.

Within a week, the sailor took a turn that was even better. His skin was healing without severe scarring. This is when the doctor asked me to run a few tests, which I agreed to perform. That was my mistake. I should have denied the tests and run like my life depended on it.

Over the next few weeks, a multitude of tests were performed. Besides the tests, it seemed as though they drained at least half my blood, although I didn’t seem to suffer any problems from the loss. I felt like a human pin cushion and trapped by my surroundings. The doctors offered platitudes and encouragement, but as time went on, I felt like a laboratory animal and they seemed like they only cared for results.

I told the young doctor I’d had enough and wanted to leave. This was my second mistake. I should have just slipped away into the night and disappeared. Within a day, I was escorted to a transport and flown to the mainland. I ended up at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. There, I was kept under guard, while they continued with the tests.

Over time, I realized my blood was being harvested. For what I have no idea, but from the constant visitations of high ranking officials, I assume it was for personal friends or family members. My personal life was gone and I only had a few workers at the hospital I could call friends. This is what led to my escape.

One Christmas Eve, while most of the staff was gone, or drinking, I realized my guard was suffering from a bad meal. He constantly left for a few minutes to relieve the symptoms. That’s when I made my move. Through constant watching, I knew the mail truck would leave at 11:00 pm, the guards never checked the outgoing truck and my only opportunity might have just been presented. I escaped without a hitch, but I knew I only had a few hours to disappear.

I managed to leave the truck at the San Antonio post office, which started my life on the run. At first, getting by was tough, especially with the constant efforts to find me again. There was no massive manhunt, since they didn’t want to reveal the purpose. Eventually, I blended in, found a way out and made my way to Houston, Texas.

I worked on the docks for awhile, but soon realized it was too confining and would allow me to be found. I went from there to the oil fields, which were filled with people that had pasts that they hoped would disappear forever. Few questions were asked and nobody really cared.

One evening, while I was hitchhiking to a prospective job on a rig in East Texas, I found myself on the open road with a tremendous storm approaching. I hid under a bridge to wait the storm out and fell asleep. That was a mistake. The rain swelled creek caught me in the middle of the night and swept me downstream. I ended up caught in some trees, in complete darkness and without any hope of help. Morning brought a better perspective and I found a huge deadfall tree for shelter from the continuing rain. That’s where I made the decision to go “native” and live off the land.

It took some time to acquire the things I needed to survive. I had to find the nearest town and do my business without anyone noticing the stranger. I eventually accomplished this task and returned to my new home.

Now, I will journal my life; hopefully without notice and maybe be free from the constant worry of being found once again.

I would give my name, but it might only cause you to acquire problems you never would wish on anyone. If you must place a name to this journal, call me John Brown. It’s a name as good as any, without the stigma my actual name carries.

Steve continued to read the journal. From that point on, it was the daily reflections of the writer. Some entries were detailed, but most were only short descriptions of the weather and if the writer was successful in finding food.

Steve finally reached the end, which was dated July 16, 1961. It only had a few lines describing the heavy logging noises to the north and the need to run the limb lines in the creek. Closing the journal, he sat and sipped the last of the pot of coffee.

Steve’s mind churned with thoughts about the writer. Where did he go? Did he die? Was he captured? During his musings, the old caretaker’s name came to his thoughts: “Mr. B” He realized he never asked his full name or for any details. Could he be John Brown?

Steve realized he would need to turn over some rocks to find the answers. He, also, knew turning over those rocks could reveal things about powerful people that wouldn’t appreciate his efforts. He decided to take the journal, replace it in the box and return it to the tree. He’d make sure it couldn’t be destroyed by nature and leave it for some future explorer to find.  It was too soon to unravel this mystery. Only time would reveal the secrets, or not.  

Steve placed his coffee cup in the sink. He would read the journal one more time in bed. Tomorrow, he would return it to hiding. After that, he would only have memories for recollection. They would have to do.

Afternoon at the Office

Darlene never looked up from her work when her boss said he was going to lunch and would be back in an hour. She knew it would give her an hour without interruption, which should allow her to finish most of the work she needed to complete for the afternoon. After that, she decided to catch up on filing and start her weekly reports.

In her late fifties, Darlene was in the early stages of starting retirement. Her finances were in order, but she was still undecided on when. She liked her job, but didn't like the location. As the only clerical employee for a small steel fabrication company, she knew it would take some time to train her replacement and this task would eventually lead to a point there was no turning back.

"Teency" was Darlene's mother's description of her daughter. At a shade over 5 feet and around 100 pounds, she was small by any standard. That was a deciding factor when her ex-husband was sentenced for putting her in the hospital. He received the maximum sentence and she was sure she wouldn't have to deal with him again for a long time. The marriage removed any thought of another. "Once bitten, twice shy" she'd tell her friends when they made efforts to find her another mate. She had no intentions of marrying again, or developing long term relationships that bound her to another.

As Darlene worked, she heard the fabricators leaving for lunch. In a few minutes, she'd be the only person there, except for the few workers that took a nap in the break room next to the shop. A few times, a few of the workers tried coming to the office to ask questions about their check, or insurance, but soon learned that was her time and to leave her alone. The automatic phone system removed her only assistant a few years before, so there was nobody else to help with these questions. If the employees had questions, they were to ask first thing in the morning, or after 3:00. Those were her rules and the owner didn't object.

Darlene was a little startled when the front door opened. Looking up, she saw two young men walk into the office. One walked to in front of her desk, the other stood inside the door and glanced around the room.

Before Darlene could say anything, the man in front of her desk spoke: "We're looking for a job." Darlene started to lecture the young men about not reading the sign outside that specifically stated all applications were through the local employment agency, but decided to not waste her time, or increase the time she had to smell the two men that reeked of sweat, filth and alcohol.

"We're not hiring. When we do hire, we go through an agency."

Darlene paid closer attention to the young men. Both had the wild eyed look of druggies and she didn't like their constant scanning of the room.

"Then give me your purse."

For a moment, Darlene wasn't sure she'd heard what he said, but when he pulled a large hunting knife from his pocket, she had no doubt she was being robbed.

Quickly glancing at the other man by the door, she realized he was staring at the security camera behind her desk. She hoped he's say something to his partner, and they'd leave, but he only said: "They have a security camera."

The man in front of her desk now had a panicked look on his face and spoke loudly : "Give me your purse and any money you have."

Darlene, now resigned to her fate, responded: "Okay" and slowly bent down to receive her purse from by her desk.

"This isn't good" the man by the door commented. "Now what?"

The man in front of Darlene's desk was now obviously agitated. Darlene spoke, reached into her purse and said: "Here's my wallet."

The man didn't have time to respond when Darlene pulled the small 380 automatic and placed two quick shots in his chest. He fell immediately onto her desk, as Darlene rose to face the man by the door. She was  hoping he'd retreat, when he made a step towards her desk. Two more quick shots snapped the man's head forward and he slumped to the floor.

Darlene spent a few moments sorting her thoughts before calling 911 to report the incident. Her mind was still racing and the last 5 minutes were repeated over and over again. Realizing her ears were ringing, she thought of how loud the shots were in the small office. At the range, she always wore ear plugs, so the unexpected noise was a surprise.

Looking at the blood pouring on her desk, she thought for a moment of moving the body, but decided she needed to wait until the investigation was over. Looking around, she realized her decision on when to retire had been made. She decided to look carefully at her finances and determine if she could retire earlier than 62. She'd had enough and the thought of cleaning up the mess was unpleasant.