 
False Memories

By C.L. Bunnell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 C.L. Bunnell

Chapter I January 15th, 2006

The Short Depressing Days Of Winter

1

Donny Maer stood inside the low-lighted, silent factory where he worked—in his mouth, was an unlit Marlboro cigarette. He had always smoked Marlboros, and he swore that on his last breath, the air that came from his lungs would be thick with the cool, satisfying taste that can only come from such a beautiful product.

"'You get a lot to like!'" they used to say, or print, or something, maybe in an ad he had seen, or perhaps it was from his father. Preached during one of his drunken tributes to the American way of life. "To capitalism and freedom, and those who gave it all to protect it! God bless America!" he would call out as he held his glass of whiskey and water up to the ceiling. "God bless these great states of America!" Then he would take a drink and imagine God was joining him.

Donny could see this very clear in his mind's eye. It had happened many times in the past, but it never would again. Praise Jesus!

"That's only when you smoke Marlboros," Donny mumbled under his breath. The cigarette jumped around and would have fallen from his lip had it not sucked the moisture from his mouth and was now stuck. It quivered like a worm on a hook, but it wasn't going far, and Donny knew this. Forty years of smoking had taught him well, and he was good at it, as good as a man could get, especially one who had continued smoking through the twelve hundred percent price increase that hit over the years.

But who among us can put a price on being cool, he had asked his wife. But then, smoking wasn't cool any longer. Not since James Bond gave up the drink, and smokes to pursue a healthier lifestyle. Shit, the secret agent, laughed in the face of danger and stood before it, dared death to come for him. But then, every man does have his fear and for James, apparently, his was emphysema.

So now, smoking had become nothing more than a pathetic habit. But he had had worse addictions in the past. The lesser of evils, he would say. That is if he realized he was currently smoking. Truth was, the habit had become like breathing, or swallowing, or blinking. Sometimes, he lit a cigarette only to learn his last still burned while wasting away in his ashtray. He thought this strange. But then, he was a busy man.

In his left hand was a worn, faded, tan, Carhart coat, and this jacket he wore during the winter months, and it was winter now. Under the coat, was a dark, blue, hoody sweatshirt which he used for extra warmth. The hood, it was for those trips back and forth, from his vehicle to the next heated area. It kept the wind off his head, his neck and face. And here lately, the wind was so frigid, and the temperature, so low, any skin exposure meant burning, followed by stinging, ending in numbness. And on this late afternoon, it wasn't looking like there would be any reprieve.

"I should have moved South with the others," He whispered, but deep down, he knew that wasn't true. He wasn't there, and he could be, so that said it all.

He felt a chill, so he put on the coat. He looked at his watch, It had been an hour since the workers had left. Most likely the janitor had already turned down the furnace. But that's all right, he thought.

At the front of the building, which wasn't that far, there were large bay doors which had glass that ran along the tops. He could see it was snowing outside, and it was already dark. Damn these winter hours, he thought. He hated seeing the sun set before six in the afternoon. It was dark when he arrived at work, and dark when he left. Hardly a way to spend a day. But this snow—it was predicted, and the weathermen were becoming so accurate these days.

He smiled, but only a little as the memory of being a child flooded his mind. How he would pray, the snow fell as predicted and hard, thick, drifting so there would be no school in the morning. So he could sleep in, remain in his warm bed, under his covers ... This feeling he found pleasant, so he blocked it. He pulled it from his mind because feeling good came with a price. He believed this, and it was something only he believed. But he lived by it and that price, it was a steep one. A painful one and it went something like: twice the bad would be paid for each of the good. It was the way it was, at least for him. Maybe not for all—no—some were blessed, he had seen them in the past. The blessed ones that could find joy in the simplest things. But that wasn't him, so he felt it was better to not let that tab grow too large. But he feared it already had ...

He clamped his lips tight onto his cigarette. His stomach burned, it always burned. Ulcers bled and for some reason, he took comfort in that. Maybe it was proof he was still alive, or perhaps it was proof the end was near. Either way, it made him feel good, and there would be no payment needed.

He could see the metal doors bowing as they resisted the winds beating. They would snap back as the gust temporarily gave way, making a noise that sounded like metal screaming, or bones snapping. The outside lights suddenly turned on and now showcased the snowflakes that were circling around the glass panes, slaves to the powers unseen. They made a series of

white miniature tornados. Small but dangerous in their own way. A warning perhaps, but one Donny didn't take seriously.

He thought of a time, not that long ago when he would be happy to see such weather. A time when he ran a plow for extra cash. Cleared the parking lots for some of the more prestigious businesses in the Elkhart, South Bend area. That is after he had stopped and bought a fresh bottle of Peppermint Schnapps. One had to remain warm if one stands a chance of getting the job completed, he thought. And this was a special time as the roads were deserted, people were locked away in their homes. Looking out their windows, as though their eyes would change something.

He chuckled as he thought of the times his friends would ride along with him. Happy to get out of the house, away from the wife and kids. He would pick them up, swearing there was work to be done. Important work, and then he would drop them off drunk and stoned. He would watch as they entered the house holding some new dollars in their gloved hands. He would wait until the door was closed. He could see them, through their windows and his friends would wave the money around, or throw it in the air, as though they had won the lottery. It was always some display of celebration. And why not, they had accomplished something of great importance, just as Donny had said. He would then plow their drives which took one swipe and make his way through the storm on home, where his wife would be waiting. Where she used to be waiting.

What happened to that? He wondered, and the answer followed soon enough. I grew old, he thought, that's what happened, that's the reason I don't plow. I found it harder and harder to stay up all night and then work all day. And when I became the foreman, missing a little work, or being a couple hours late suddenly became a big fucking deal. That's what happened, that's what always happens.

So—and I remember the day. It was fall and even though I didn't advertise the truck for sale. There came a knock on the door and the next thing I knew, a stranger was driving it away.

Yeah—I remember all right, I watched. I walked out to the road and watched, and I felt something strange. I felt life was taking away something I wanted. And I knew, even back then, I knew—it would be replaced with something I hated.

But did it? Did it really? I don't believe it did. I don't think anything replaced it, nothing at all. After that, I was like all the others. I stood at my window and looked out as though my eyes would change things.

"That was long ago," he whispered as he took one last look around his little office. He then closed the door. And although there was nothing in there. Out of habit, he checked to make

sure the door was locked. He wasn't sure the reason for this, perhaps at one time there was something of value he kept in there. But if there ever was such a time—it surely had passed.

The building he was in, this factory, was long but narrow. The roof was rounded like an old airplane hanger. Designed for high winds. And it was old, real old, built back when men were men and heat was for pussies. There wasn't much in the way of thermal properties. Temperatures would change in minutes should they differ between the outside and in. Truth was, the owners would have done well to have torn it down and start over, and that's what many others in the area had done. But Donny was glad they hadn't because it was home, or at least a second dwelling and he had spent a far amount time welding trailers inside this building. And he hated change. More so than most. He related it to age, and everything aged, from humans to the Earth itself, everything has a beginning, middle and end. And nothing gets better as it gets older or as it changes. Maybe wine, perhaps whiskey, but he couldn't think of much else.

His Carhart jacket was beginning to warm him now, so he headed for the door, as he did, he pulled a Zippo lighter from his pocket. This lighter was old and worn. Stainless and had said something long ago, but the words were no longer there. Pap's Funeral Home, something like that. Donny couldn't remember, but he looked at it as his fingers popped open the cover. It fell back making the traditional clink sound that Zippo is famous for. He flicked the wheel that rode over the flint, and a flame came to life. Zippo had no doubt perfected the pocket lighter. Their design had stood the test of time, and this was what he thought as he lit his fag.

"You know you can't smoke in here," he heard, and he turned to see Vern the plant manager walking his way.

Donny took a long draw and inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. He smiled as he looked at Vern and then exhaled. "I'm a fucking welder," he said. "I've breathed nothing but smoke from the moment I stepped foot in this place. Suddenly you're concerned?"

"Not about your health—no, but there are cheaper insurance rates to think of."

"You want me to take a piss test as well?"

"Wouldn't hurt." Vern laughed as he held up his hand, his fingers twitching as in 'Give me one!' So Donny pulled out his pack and obliged. He then gave Vern his lighter.

"You really think that's done any good," Donny asked, "the whole drug testing and designated smoking area rules?"

"Not my call, but seeing my job is to get things done, the last thing I like to see is something that makes people not want to work."

"You mean like when they're jonesing for a smoke and can only think about the smoking area?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I mean."

"But there are those cheap insurance rates," Donny said as he took another drag and looked at Vern through the corner of his eyes.

"Yeap," Vern replied, then did the same and then looked around as though someone was watching. Donny saw this and smiled. He knew Vern was a company man who apparently had something to lose. Although he hadn't a clue what that something would be. Surely it wasn't his piece of shit job. As for Donny, he didn't care what they saw, they could all go straight to hell.

"You know," Donny said. "When I was a welder, I remember thinking that year after year, you walked around doing the same job. You never moved up or down. You were a fixture, or as Pink Floyd said, 'you're another brick in the wall.' I remember feeling sorry for ya back then."

"Oh yeah, ya still feel that way? I mean seeing you're the brick that's straight off to my left now?"

Donny laughed, "No, but I still think you're a sap, but I suppose now— I'm one too."

"That's nice, real fuckin nice." Vern took a drag, and his facial expression changed. He was serious now. "So—how are things going?"

"All right," Donny replied, "why would ya ask?"

"Hear things, ya know."

"Don't believe all ya hear, I'm as good as I've ever been."

Vern was looking at him, he wasn't buying it. "You ever wonder if this old place has fucked us up?"

"What'd ya mean?" Donny looked straight ahead.

"All the people that's come and gone. Ya know I can't help but wonder why we stayed all these years. I mean ... what made us different?"

Donny took another drag, then looked down. "We had nowhere else to go."

Vern ignored what he said. "You know," he continued on, "Back in the day, I can understand people spending their lives at the same job. I mean they had pensions, excellent pay, insurance. But all that's gone now—and yet—here we are?"

Donny laughed. "Aah, I suppose they realized that none of that matters, `cause the real men will stick around anyhow."

Vern pulled himself from the side of the trailer, he threw his smoke on the concrete floor and stomped it out with his foot. Turning his toes from side to side to make sure it was extinguished. Then he picked it up and put the butt in his pocket. "No sense leaving any evidence," he said. "Better start for home, the weather's looking bad out there."

Donny nodded his head and watched as Vern walked away. He knew Vern was right, few made a career out of working at the trailer factories. No one got rich, and most used it as passing employment. Someplace to work until a real job came up. And it seemed as though those jobs did come around. At least for everyone else. But not for Vern, not for Donny. But that didn't matter now, not any longer and he wasn't sure it ever did. Who's to say those people are doing better than me, he thought. And he had lost touch, even with his closest friends. They had drifted away, and that was how he thought of it. He was a tree that had fell into the river. The leaves on his branches were all those around him he cared for. Slowly, they pulled from his grasp and floated away with the current.

One by one they left and he was helpless, he was stationary. He couldn't move, and he's still there, in the same place. Only now he's aged, and the end is so close. Now, he can see it all so clearly, and it's sad, and it hurts, and he wondered if at some point, he had pondered on good thoughts too long. He figured he had. So he went back to what Vern had said, all those benefits of the old days that were gone now. "If you only knew," he stated in a low voice, as he sucked his cigarette down to the foam filled butt. He looked at it, "You get a lot to like! I will give ya that!"

2

Donny wasted no time getting to his four wheel drive truck, and once inside, he started the engine. The Chevrolet Silverado purred now, unlike it did in the morning when the oil was thick from the cold. He revved the engine a couple of times and then lit another cigarette. He waited for it to warm up.

The dash lights glowed, all different colors, and this light illuminated the cab, and the outside temperature was displayed in the glass of his rear view mirror. Minus twenty degrees it read and that was damn cold.

Snow had accumulated over the windshield, he thought of stepping out and cleaning it off but turned on the wipers instead. They shook and quivered as they were frozen to the glass, but then they broke away and pushed the snow off the side of the truck. They scraped and squealed as they cycled over the ice but that would soon end. He reached over and turned the heat to the defrosters. As for the side windows, they would blow clean as soon as he started motoring down the side street.

He took a draw from his Marlboro and waited as the heated air melted the windshield ice, and watched as the wipers pushed it away. With each minute, his vision was better, and now he could see the outside of the old brick building he had just left. "It seems like only yesterday," he whispered, speaking to himself. "this would be the best time of the day. Me and the guys would clock out and head straight on down to ole Cappy's our favorite local tavern. Just down the road and off to the left. All the whiskey and beer you can drink, and all the breaded walleye you can eat!"

He smiled, as he thought of the sign that hung above the bar: After A Dew Drinks, This Ship May Start A Rockin! Ole Cappy was a character. As old as he was wise, and he may have been a captain at some point, Donny couldn't say. But it didn't matter, he acted and looked the part, and that was plenty good enough. With his white captain's hat and smoking an old pipe. His wrinkled leathered skin and his white-bearded face.

He's a charismatic man, one that knew how to keep his customers happy and drinking. And he took care of them also. Knowing a patron in jail wasn't going to make happy hour. When his building was originally built, the owners made the upstairs an apartment. This was where they lived. Ole Cappy had his own home, so he lined the rooms with beds so the drunks had a place to sleep it off. More times than he cared to remember, Donny woke up in one of this beds and was damn happy he did. Happy he wasn't in a jail cell.

"No sir," He mumbled under his breath, "there's not many men like Ole Cappy, and that's a fact!" And this made him sad, and lonely. Made him wish there were more like Ole Cappy. A lot more, a million more. But there wasn't, and when Cappy passes on, he knew he would wish he had spent more time with him. But he wouldn't and he knew this because he wasn't like Cappy, he wasn't happy-go-lucky. And he didn't want to pay for being happy any longer, and when he was around people like him while drinking, that was what he was—happy, and fuck that!

He looked at this watch, and it read 5:30 which meant he was leaving earlier than most days. However, this wasn't like most days, this day was special, now wasn't it.

He had received notice that his 'soon to be' ex-wife would be stopping by with the local Police to pick up some of her belongings. He had been sent a list via the postal service. Certified mail and those cats deliver no matter what the weather. And they did straight up deliver it, and he signed for it so those cops would be coming. But hell—that was all right, and she didn't need the police, she was always welcomed at the old homestead.

"What she gonna do with them," he mumbled, "have `em carry her shit to the car?" He reached over and pulled a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps out of the glove compartment. He spun off the cap and wasted no time bringing the mint crusted bottleneck up to his mouth. He took a mouth full and swallowed. He didn't wince like amateurs did, he looked straight on and took another mouth full. He replaced the cap and laid the bottle beside him on the seat.

His stomach burned—damn how it burned. He closed his eyes as they began to water, but that was all right. The reward would be worth the pain.

His hand went up to the shifter on the column, he was close to pulling it down into drive. Donny always backed into his parking spots. Especially in the winter, because when it snowed, you weren't able to look out the rear. Not unless you brushed the flakes away, and the hell with that. Not when a little driving would do it for him.

He stalled as he saw the door to the offices open. The offices that were an afterthought and built off to the side of the main building. The offices he tried to avoid as though they reeked with sickness, and perhaps they did. Or maybe it was a special area, the opposite of a church where the church brings one closer to God, this one allows you to stand close to the Devil. So close you were able to breathe in his acrid exhaled air ...

I mean... that is if you believed in such things. Donny didn't.

But he did believe in evil, he had seen it up close. And it came in many forms and was all around. And surely there were none as sneaky or as powerful as what had just walked out those office doors. This Entity, this evil, came in the shape of two women. And these women worked for what Donny had named, 'The Colon Characters,' on account of they took what was made at the factory, turned it to shit and then shot it out the ass of this place where it was then exposed to the public.

Now most would think shit makers wouldn't be treated like royalty, but they would be wrong. As like the human body, too many days without taking a dump and one becomes uncomfortable, add a couple more and one is in pain. Soon, anything the colon desires will be given, just please, GET THIS SHIT OUT OF HERE!

"Sales is the engine that drives the business!" Was preached during company meetings. And that was what it was, a sermon, a motivational speech with all the trimmings. The chest beating, the hands held to heaven, the shouting, and passing out of graphs that showed pure greatness, pure genius, pure talent. And they would slap each other on the backs and smile. And they would call out all that was good and on the way. Because this was only the beginning.

But there were no shout outs for those who built the product. None for Donny or Vern who worked with the low life or employees. For them, there were no conventions, no five-star hotels., no high priced hookers, no over the top pay, no world travel and no holiday trips to Fiji.

There was nothing, only more regulations like drug testing, and designated smoking areas. Rules that stifled production and made their jobs more difficult. Or even better, how they would be told that yearly pay increases weren't going to be as high as expected and for reasons not known. Those who thought they were going to get a twenty-five cent boost will only get ten. But make sure you tell the men to keep up the good work! Oh—and stay off the drugs!

There were three foremen (including Donny) and Vern who was the plant manager, and they were all forced to sit in on these meetings, and they hated them, and none had a clue why they were there. What good it could do? Perhaps it was to get a glimpse at what they had done wrong? The life choices made in error? No one knew, but they spoke about it often, and they were sure that if there weren't so many paid trips to Fiji maybe poor old Benny out there on the line. Ole Benny with a couple kids and ten years of service. Just maybe he could get his twenty-five cent bump in pay.

So it was the last meeting, the one held just two days prior, did Donny sit in his chair, and his face was red and burning. He could feel it, and it wasn't only because he was hungover, although that was some of it. But most was rage, anger, and disgust. So it was when the Vice President in charge of Sales: a short fat man who went by the name Ted Jolson. A man who greased back his hair, and wore toilet water that was way too strong smelling. It was when he had finished his PRAISE JESUS! Speech did Donny do the unthinkable. He spoke out, and his voice held a tone of disgust. His eyes showed anger and his lips showed entrapment. He was a cornered rat. That's what the others in the meeting saw. A rat that no longer held hope for escape. And he was ready to die if that's what it took.

"Sell all you want," he said, and the room fell silent. "Break those old records, but it won't mean shit if the trailers aren't built. And you may want to keep that in mind while you're having your dicks stroked down at the happy-ending massage parlor." He stood then, and the meeting wasn't over, and no one left early. But it was evident Donny didn't care what protocol was. He walked to the door and then stopped and turned. "If you want to save some cash," he said. "I have something for ya. Don't waste paper on sending me an invitation to your little 'pansy party' here. I won't be attending another!"

After he closed the door and left the offices, he went back to his little toll booth and began boxing up his things. He was sure he was fired, and in some, deep way, he hoped he was. But Vern came soon after and said that they knew what he was going through and they

understood. Which was damn good of them. Considering! That's what Vern said. So Donny, although he didn't unpack his belongings, he didn't add to them. He just threw the box off to the side, and that's where it still was. Off to the side, ready to go.

So now, while sitting in the snow storm out in his truck, Donny watched as the ladies, these temptresses walked across the ice and snow in their high heels. He watched as their ankles bent and gave way. As they slipped and slid and struggled for traction. They held onto each other as they screamed and laughed. Any other time he would have thought the sight as humorous, hell he may have offered them a ride to the parking lot. But those days had long passed, and they would get nothing from him.

There was one woman, the one on the left, who he had recently asked out for a date. If you want to call it that. She's young and beautiful. Looked to be in her late twenties. Which in hindsight could have been a little too young for a fifty-four-year-old man. Her name was Wendy Rosado, and she had never given him a hint of interest. But like most who suddenly find they are alone, he became desperate. So desperate he didn't ask out a woman. Instead, he went for a little girl. And although it was nothing more than a question. He was called into the Human Resources office the next day on a sexual harassment related claim.

"I only asked her if she would like to go out for dinner," Donny told the greasy office man who suddenly had reason to look down on him.

"We are aware of that, and it's the only reason you won't be fired," Frank the resource manager stated. "But we are warning you to stay away from her. We don't want a lawsuit!"

Now, sitting in his truck, Donny glared at her, and it wasn't a look of lust, it was pure, unfiltered hate. And he didn't care if she looked through the windshield. If she saw him through the multi-colored dash lights. She was a sick bitch, no different than the others around her.

He caught his thoughts and shook his head. He adjusted the rearview mirror so he was looking at himself, "What have you've become," he mumbled as he looked at his eyes. They were drawn back in his head. Bags hung below them, dark almost black. "Why would anyone like her want to be seen with someone like you?" he asked, but there was no answer. Not even his own mind had one for that question.

He reached up and pulled the tree down into drive, he then pushed the four wheel drive button and pulled from his spot. The truck was warming now, the heat pumping out comfortable air. He dropped the passenger side window, just a little. The smoke from his Marlboro was sucked out into the open air. He reached into his pocket, pulled out another. He lit the new cigarette with the embers of the old. Then he flicked the butt out the window and drove home, no different than a thousand times before.

But this time was different, and he remembered this. He looked at his watch as he pulled into the drive. Six-thirty, it said, and that meant he had some time before his beloved wife arrived. His beloved Kathleen Maer. Or Kathy for short. Or whatever the hell she went by these days.

He was calm as he walked up to his door. His keys, they lay idle and loose in his right hand. A Marlboro cigarette once again was stuck to his lips. He opened the door, pulled off his jacket and hung it on a hook which was next to the door. He flipped on the kitchen light and threw his keys on the small table that held an old tin can for such things. There was a clatter as they landed and slid back and forth coming to a stop. He had heard this sound so many times, for so many years.

He went over to the thermostat where he saw the temperature was set at a cool sixty-five degrees. He knew the four bedrooms, two bathroom home wasn't easy on the wallet. And since the kids were grown and the wife wanted half the money. He was sure it would be on the Paulyet soon. All the same, checking the temperature was an old habit, one that was embedded deep in the back of his mind.

He reached out as he passed the kitchen table, he grabbed one of the chairs. He dragged the thing out to the living room where he positioned it so if faced the front door. He laughed as he remembered the table and chairs were on her list of wanted items. He sure hoped the officers were in good shape. They had some work to do.

He walked upstairs and into the master bedroom where and without turning on the light, he reached under his bed and grabed ahold of a four-ten gauge, single shot, shotgun. He took a seat on the mattress and hit the button that split the barrel. He opened the drawer on his end table. Searching with his fingers, he pulled out one shell. He held it up to the light which came in through the open door. He blew on the shell, knocking off the dust. He then put it in the chamber and snapped it shut.

Along the side wall inside the closet, there was a gun case, and on the door of this case there was a sticker which read: 'Lifetime NRA Member,' and behind the steel door that was locked and secured, there were a variety of firearms. As a matter of fact, the four ten he currently held in his hands was in there only the night before. And these weapons, and he could have chosen any, would have no doubt served him better than the one he was holding. The nine millimeter Glock, the 357 magnums, the twelve gauge pump, take your pick. But that night, the night previous to this night, his hands passed by all those guns and stopped when he came to this one particular precious item: a single shot, four-ten antique, needs to be reblued, mini cannon.

So he was standing now, and the four-ten, this gun that had no name, felt so good in his hand. And he had looked for a name, many times. But there was none and if there ever was, it

had worn away. Even with a magnifying glass he searched but there was nothing. And he was told the gun came from the mountains, far from Elkhart Indiana. And the owner was as crazy as any mad hatter. He was a moonshiner, and shiners aren't often seen unarmed. So maybe it was his hand that worn the name away. Donny had wondered about this many times ... this wasn't one of them.

He walked downstairs where he stopped at the liquor cabinet and took a look at at what was left. There was a half a fifth of Knob Creek whiskey. A bottle of Tanqueray. Some Vodka from Cuba. He grabbed the Knob Creek and a glass using his only free hand. He used his shoulder to close the door. He then went over and took a seat on the chair. The one he had just placed in the room. The only furniture left in the room. He sat the bottle down on the hardwood floor. Then the glass. He poured a double, he left the cap off the whiskey. He brought the glass up to his mouth, and he drank it down. Like a pro, he drank it down, and his father would have been so proud. But his stomach burned, and his eyes closed and watered, and that gun, that four-ten, thick as hell, steel barrel laid heavy on his lap.

He calmed down, refilled his glass and while holding it in his hand, he stared at the door. And his heart, his entire body felt full, and it was hate that filled those voids. It was the same hate that rolled over him as he watched Wendy Rosado walking to her car. Why wouldn't she want a free meal? Am I really that bad? What makes you so good? There was a time when you would have given your virginity if that's what it took to accompany me! So a little respect would be in order! YOU COULD HAVE JUST SAID NO, YOU FUCKING BITCH!!!!

But then—they are all the same, aren't they. Behind every broken man, there she stands. Most times in the shadows, maybe holding the hand of her next victim. The hands of a clam, the hands of the damned, the hands that are strong are suddenly weak. The warrior so mighty will become the meak. They too will cry out in sorrow and weep, for Eve, the temptress, is in control again!

The phone rang, the landline which he wasn't sure why he still had a landline. Only assholes used the landline, assholes, and bill collectors. Fuck em both!

Then the answering machine picked up."Dad," he heard a voice say, "I thought that maybe you could come over and help me drink the storm away. I know mom's coming by, and there's no reason for you to be there." There was a pause. "I'm worried, Dad, please pick up ..."

Donny could hear the voice on the phone, he could hear it well. But he could also hear the vehicles as they pulled into the drive. And hearing his son's voice had distracted him—it did. There was a moment of clarity, and it had been so long since he had thought clearly. But it didn't help, it didn't change anything. It didn't ease the sadness, and life is so sad, filled with so many bad things and so few good. It didn't alter what was to come, it did nothing at all.

He had read somewhere that Hemmingway had taken his life the same way. That he used his toes to push the trigger while he held the barrel in his mouth. Donny found that unnecessary. He stood up, bent over, his cigarette fell down inside the barrel. His mouth went over it. His hand, it was right there, right on the trigger. It was so easy and felt so natural. Like a dream, a good dream, one that would never end. And as all those pellets blew through his skull, he instinctivly inhaled and his lungs filled with gun powder smoke, but along with it, there was the smoke from his last Marlboro cigarette. And that was that ... You get a lot to like!

"Dad pickup ... are you there....? Pickup!"

Chapter II August 3rd, 1961 Seven years old

The Carnival

1

"What do you get when you dip a chili pepper into a jar of honey?"A carnival entertainer shouted out into a crowd of people. He stood on a small stage, and Donny was short enough to see under the plywood sheets that made up the floor of this stage. They rested on on top of a series of sawhorses. These sheets of plywood, they buckled and waved under the weight of this carny who danced across it like he was more of a rock star than a word slinger. And that's what this man was, a slinger of words, and this bored young Donny. Reminded him of Sunday Services.

So, up until this man asked that question about the pepper and honey, this floor that looked like the surface of a lake on a windy day, had Donny's full attention. He could see the grass down there, still green and alive. The carnival didn't remain in one place long enough to kill it. There were electrical cords that ran underneath, and he imagined they were snakes, and they were slithering through the tall grass, and they had come to a stop now because they too wanted to see the show. Or maybe they were the show? He wasn't sure.

But this question about the pepper and honey was a riddle or at least young Donny heard it that way. And he loved riddles and even though he wasn't good at answering them, he thought he was and found them valuable for passing the time. And that's what he was doing now.

Donny wanted to ride the rides. The merry-go-round, the tilt-a- whirl, the bumper cars, and there were many more. But time was passing, at least two hours, and so far, he hadn't been on one. Donny was beginning to think his father wasn't partial to rides. But he certainly was the side shows. And since his mother was home watching his younger brother (Benny) who had some type of illness. Measles or something. He was stuck with Daddy Don. And so far he had seen the bearded lady, the werewolf, and of course, the three-headed man.

Donny wasn't sure why anyone would want to see such freaks. But his father seemed to be getting a kick out of them, and the more he drank, the louder he was getting. So far, and Donny was old enough to count, and he was counting. Don Senior had been shhh-ed three times. A couple more and there was going to be a fight. At seven years of age, Donny already knew this.

So this man, this Carny who asked the honey/pepper question pulled Donny's attention from what was under the stage to what was on top. Which presently was the mic-man (Or Carny) and there was look to be a cage and Donny was certain it was because although it was covered with a large sheet, he could see the bottom, and it was a wire mesh.

The sheet that covered the cage was hooked to a rope, which went around a pulley with the ropes other end hanging loose not far from the mic-mans hand. And there were sounds coming from that cage. Sounded like a dog was in there. Or maybe a tiger or something like that. Medium size, that was for certain. But up to this point, the animal, or man-beast was fairly calm.

Donny was looking up because he was standing in the front row in this rather small tent. And Don Senior had to get in early because he wanted to be sure Donny could see. And he could see all right. At least at first, but as time passed, and they came closer to the curtain being raised, people filed in, more and more, pushing those in the front row closer to the stage. So now, the mic-man was standing so close Donny could touch him. And this stage he was on was thirty-six inches off the ground. Which is the standard height for sawhorses.

On his left, there was Don Senior, on his right was a large woman who smelled a lot like pickles. And it was hot on this night, and humid as Northern Indiana is known to be during the month of August. And this tent wasn't helping, every once in a while, the smell of armpit mixed in with the pickles and it was strong enough, it made Donny's eyes water, and it turned his stomach, and the man-beast hadn't even made his appearance yet.

But there was a blessing, as there usually is. All that's needed is for one to look long and hard enough. Donny found his blessing to come in the form of smoke—cigarette smoke, because in 1961, everyone smoked everywhere and all the time... Donny was having a heard time breathing, and that's important so it trumped worrying about the smell that rolled and mixed in with the haze that was building around him. Donny was pretty sure pickles and body odor wouldn't kill him but no oxygen would. He held his breath to see how long he would last. He thought no more than a couple of minutes. But that wasn't going to happen because breathing cigarette smoke at such a young age only feels like it's going to kill you, it never actually does, at least not right away. It's an illusion sort of like waterboarding prisoners for torture. And Donny was being tortured, whether those around him knew it or not.

So there he was, watching this mic-man who danced around on his makeshift stage. Even with eyes that watered, he could make out this entertainer. It was him, he was the one adding the body odor to the air. He was thin, too thin to be healthy. He was medium height. He had short blonde greasy hair and what teeth he had left—and there were only a few—were black and broken. He was wearing a tuxedo, but it was old, real old and faded. Stains were showing, and Donny had seen magician shows where those types of suits were worn. But this one looked as though it was the original. It looked like he had pulled it from the trash, perhaps ten years ago, he brushed it off and has used it ever since.

As the showman turned, Donny could see one of the two tails, the penguin tails, was missing from the back of his jacket. But the man didn't seem to care, and Donny figured the reason for his care-free attitude was he knew the people in the audience weren't there to see him. Hell no! No one would give three red tickets to see this character. And that was the price to enter, three red tickets. And those tickets weren't cheap, and the allotment Don Senior had purchased had just run out, and they had yet to enjoy a single ride. It was looking like there would be no rides, only shows and as the night wore on. And Don Senior drank more from that metal flask, Donny knew ... oh yes, he knew ... it was best they went on home.

On the outside of this tent, and Donny had seen this upon entering, was a wood sign that was painted by an amateur. The words were thick, black on a whitewashed piece of timber. It looked like someone took a one-inch brush and a couple of minutes and made them a banner. Donny asked his father what the sign said:

"Come see the half man—half beast!" His father had replied. This didn't bother Donny, but the picture around those words did. The manbeast was standing on the outskirts of a city. Could have been Elkhart for all Donny knew. He was massive in size, towered over the buildings and this man-beast looked mad. He looked hairy and naked. He looked ugly with fang teeth, with needle teeth. This picture, unlike the letters, was drawn by someone quite good. An artist and there was no wondering where the money went. Certainly not the letter painter. Donny stared at the picture, and he was scared. He didn't want to go in, but it didn't matter what Donny wanted.

"Don't worry," Don Senior said. "The man-beast has been captured. That's why we can see him." He took his flask from his pocket and took a drink. He put the cap back on and returned it so it was out of sight. "The man-beast won't be able to hurt anyone any longer!"

Donny saw this, and he heard it. By Seven years old, he already knew what it meant. The playful slurring of words wasn't a playful thing at all. The casual drink from the steel container was by no means casual. It was transformation juice, and the man-beast wasn't contained. He was standing right there next to Donny, he just hadn't turned yet.

Now, as he looked at that small cage on the stage, Donny knew it wasn't large enough for what was on that sign outside. He wondered what was in there, and the more he watched the sweaty mic-man shuffle his feet across the stage, the more the pickle-smelling woman moved along with him, swaying back and forth, bouncing against Donny, who in turn bounced against his father.

"Stop it!" he heard, and he looked up to see his father looking down at him. A cigarette hung from his fingers. A Marlboro cigarette and the fire had been knocked off the fag and was now smoldering on the ground.

"Sorry," Donny whispered and pointed to the large lady next to him. "She keeps bumping into me." It was then, he realized he was holding his left arm. That it was stinging, or burning and it was him who had knocked off the ash.

"Look what ya did," his father balked. He was looking at the damaged end of his fag. "Ya messed up my smoke!" And Donny thought it was still smokable, just needed to be relit. But his father threw it on the ground and pulled another out of his pack. He reached into his front shirt pocket and out came his Zippo lighter.

This Zippo, this piece of engineering genious was given to Don Senior by a funeral home, Pap's he thought. This lighter was the sweatest thing Donny had ever seen. A gift for choosing Pap's as the home to bury Don Senior's grandfather... This lighter was smooth, always worked, and he was told always would because it was made in America. With American pride, by American workers. "Japanese, they're the ones that make trash," His father had told him. "If I had my way, we'd a kept on bombing them bastards. Remove `em from the face of the Earth. Send them and that island they live on straight to hell!" Then he said something about how the women over there had sex parts that ran the wrong way. Donny wasn't sure what he meant, by this time, he was daydreaming. Which was usually for the better.

So he watched as the lighter's lid clicked back, and the sparks flew from the flint. The fire, amber in color drew light in this dark tent. And Donny thought, if, for no other reason, he would smoke just so he could use one of those lighters. Yes, he would smoke because it was cool, and there wasn't a kid around who would say otherwise. His eyes remained on his father as he drew in the smoke. The burning tobacco glowed bright and then his father pulled the fag from his mouth and inhaled as deep as he could ... God, it was awesome. It was rugged and manly. It would be shortly after this, Donny would begin smoking. But he wouldn't get that lighter until after his father had passed.

As Donny watched this demonstration, he suddenly realized that his father was about to face the man-beast. And the man-beast was no doubt an animal that was wild with its only priority being something as simple as staying alive ... It wouldn't think of an altercation as a fight that could end with a mere black eye. He would see it as a kill or be killed, and he wondered if this would scare his father. If Don Senior would look into the eyes of this beast and see something familiar, something a little too close to home. He wondered if his father would see what was painted outside on the sign. If he would see the rage that was inside the man-beast and if he would realize that's the way Donny saw him on most evenings. He thought most likely not.

2

The show had already started, but now, there was more than a spotlight that only showed the Mic-Man. Now, the entire stage was lit up which meant it was getting close to the

time when they would unveil the freak. But Donny could see nothing except the black toothed carny and that cage which was still covered with a table cloth. And then, his hand went for the rope, Donny knew it was time. And he had all but forgotten about the riddle that was asked at the beginning of this fine, theatrical performance. (What do you get when you dip a hot pepper into a jar of honey?)

"You find that something that although started out so sweet ... Can, in the end, bring on great pain," He shouted and then pulled the rope and the sheet went up into the air in a dramatic fashion. And it was the fan, which now blew strong that carried the sheet back and out of the way.

The crowd gasped, and the pickle-smelling woman jumped and brought her hand to her mouth. And for a moment, there was a feeling of panic around him, an energy of sorts. One no one could explain. Donny immediately thought of the caribou herd he had seen on the television. The herd that can feel what they can't see. The Lion that's sneaking in the shadows, and suddenly they burst into a run, all at the same time. This was what he felt, and this scared him more than the man-beast who wasn't doing much at all.

So they bounced off him, they pushed him as they were like dominos' and each movement affects others. And this building was burning. At least you would have thought that. But then as fast as it began, it ended as they realized that what they were looking at was in no way what was outside on the sign.

It was a cage, and in the cage was something that although had the face and head of a man. The body looked to be that of a sheep. And fear turned to humor as the men started making comments about how such a thing could have happened. And that they were glad it hadn't happened to them. Or at least not that they knew.

But the carny, he went on, immune to the sneers and snickers from his audience: "Let those who tempt fate see what's waiting for them!" He shouted, and the man-beast began circling his cage and kicked at his prison bars. "Let it be known that the Apple that brought down Adam and Eve still grows on the tree. But now the serpent has a different way of pulling in the men with weak souls!" He screamed as he kicked his hard-soled shoes down on the wood flooring. Then he shouted out a verse from the Bible: "Leviticus 18:23 - Neither shalt thou lie with any beast to defile thyself therewith: neither shall any woman stand before a beast to lie down thereto!"

"Is that your offspring?" Someone in the crowd shouted.

"Yea...," another yelled. "You look like the type that would think a sheep looked sexy!" Everyone started laughing, but the carny didn't miss a beat. He no doubt had heard it all before, many times most likely, and it was his job. And not everyone could be so lucky as to build Zippo lighters.

Donny, he only heard these comments from a distance, as he was staring at the man-beast who was now looking up at him. And the look on this things face was so damn sad. His eyes were big and full of fear. His wool was dirty, matted with clumps that that clung together. His cage was filthy was some straw laid on the bottom. Not much, just enough to soak up the piss. And the smell of urine was strong. And this smell mixed with the body odor, pickles, and cigarette smoke. Donny was sure he was going to vomit, but he didn't want too because the man-beast was watching him. Begging him for help, as though he knew Donny was the only one who understood. But there was nothing he could do, and for the beast to see him vomit would only make things worse.

He watched as the carny removed a metal walking cane which was hanging from his belt and then hammered it on top of the cage. This sent off an ear piercing echo of steel violently bouncing off steel. Now ... The manbeast screamed out in terror, but the sound wasn't of words. It was high pitched, something Donny had never heard before. But it was painful, and Donny instantly covered his ears with his hands, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

Once again ... the animal, the human, the whatever, quickly circled the cage and Donny could feel it was searching for some obscure way of exiting, something that it had missed in the past. And Donny wished there was, God knew there was nothing more he would have liked to see. But life isn't fair. At age seven, Donny already knew this. He had been told it many times. "Life smiles on some and shits on all the others!" his father had said ... there was no denying, life took one impressive bowel movement on the man-beast.

As he stood there, he wished he had never asked his parents to take him to the carnival. And if he had another chance, if he could, he would walk on by this tent with the poorly painted sign. He would take a beating, he would run away, he would leave Elkhart. He would do anything because he knew, there was no forgetting. No taking this moment back. He knew, he would never return to the carnival.

So he stood there with his hands over his ears. And he looked down because he couldn't bare to see those eyes again. He could hear the man-beast, still speaking out against his enemy, cowering no doubt. Then, the voice of his mother came through, everything around him muffled down until her words were crisp and clear: "Your father will be home soon," she said. "You need to get to bed."

He would do as she said as this was her way of protecting him. And many nights he wouldn't be able to sleep so he would lay there in the dark while listening to him rant about life, about work. About the car, the mortgage, the power bill. It was something, always

something and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. But there was no way. Not then, not now, not when the Man-beast is screaming out. No one will sleep!

3

Don Senior, he made his living as a punch press operator. One who made parts for the automotive industry. It was his job to stand in front of a giant steel press with his hands in a safety harness. One that would pull them away before the dies came together sheering out brake pads or engine mounting brackets, or a variety of other needed parts. He ran a cookie cutter. That what it was, the only difference was his father was standing in front of a machine that would cut through half inch steel in one quick movement. Sheer it like a knife going through warm butter. Form it into something that no longer looked like a flat-steel-plate.

There was a time when Donny was younger, and his father didn't seem to hate him so much. He would go with his mother to pick him up from the factory. In the parking lot, he would look out the car window at the building where the presses were running. He could hear the thumps as each revolution completed its cycle. And it sounded like there were a thousand machines all pounding at different times. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

If he stood on the ground, he could feel the concrete quivering as it absorbed the violent hammering. It felt like he was in the car while driving down a rippled dirt road. And when his father came to the vehicle. He smelled like oil, and not regular oil. This was a special lubricant that gave the dies a longer life. And it was pungent. He had told his father this..., but only once.

"You think I like what I do?" Don Senior yelled, and as soon as the words had left his mouth. Donny knew he had made a mistake. He should never have said he stunk!

"Do you think I can just go anywhere and make the kind of money that I do here? That all jobs have the benefits that you and your fucking mother take for granted? You want to know the truth..., huh ...? Well, here it is...! If it weren't for you, I could go elsewhere and work at a job where I don't stink so bad! Hell..., maybe I could just stay home with your mother and then I could smell like she does, all pretty and clean!

"But I can't, because someone around here has to pay the fucking bills. And it isn't going to be you, and it's damn sure not going to be your mother. So the next time you look out the window, and the snow has given you the day off from school. Go back to bed and cozy up under the covers in your nice, warm room. But just remember...My ass is standing in front of that fucking press and each time it slams down. It's spraying oil that stinks on me. But that's all right, I'll make sure I shower before I come home so you don't have to smell me! YOU LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT!!!" That was the last time Donny went with his mother to the factory.

He thought of that day now, as he looked down and away from the man-beast. He wasn't sure why it came to mind, but it often did. Perhaps it was because this when he realized that his father couldn't go anywhere else because of him. Or that he really wasn't loved, that he was a mistake, a costly one. But there was something to be learned here, and it was burned into his brain now: never work at a factory just for money or benefits.

4

Once the show as over, the mic-man, he took his bow, as for the man-beast, he circled his cage. It was going to be a long night, and more shows. The lights came on, and Donny stood there as the tent cleared. Once Donny was outside, they walked down the carnival midway. He said nothing.

The lights were flashing everywhere, all different colors. Round and beaming timed to perfection. The music was blaring, horns and organs and there was no escaping it. Off to the side, he could smell the sausages cooking along with some onions, some peppers. He thought of what happened when you stick a pepper into honey. But he didn't smile, he felt sick as he thought of the creature in that cage.

"It wasn't real," Don Senior said. Noticing his son was quiet. "It's a midget in a suit, nothing more."

But Donny had his doubts. The bearded lady was real, the three-headed freak was real. So why wouldn't this be real? "I can still hear his cries for help," Donny said.

"It's his job, once the curtain's closed, they probably sit around and have a beer." Donny had his doubt, although hoped this was true.

There was an energy in the air, one of excitement and anticipation, and this helped pull his mind from the show. As they walked past the roller coaster, he could hear the people screaming and the sound of the train dropping down the steel tracks. Picking up speed and then whooshing as they reached the bottom. He could see their hair flying and their eyes, which some were closed. They were holding on tight, and smiling, yelling and Donny wondered if they knew anything about the man-beast who was caged just down the way. He was sure they didn't.

And there were booths where men stood wearing cloth aprons. They were calling out to his father, wanting him to play one of their games. Big Don ignored them, as did Donny. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Don Senior take his last drink from the flask. He could tell by how high it went, by the way, his father shook it. This meant it was time to leave. So as they walked away from all the sounds and lights, and once it was silent, his father looked down at him. "Well," he asked, "was it worth it?"

Chapter III October 13th, 1963 Nine years old

A Baby Is Born

1

"Few things in this world will bring a family closer together than the birth of a baby brother or sister," Glady's said, and she put her arm around Donny. "You just trust your grandmother." She patted him on the shoulder three times and then hugged him.

They were sitting at her house on the couch and not far away was his Grandfather (Marvin) who was in his favorite chair while watching the television set. He was ignoring the conversation while complaining that the old black and white, tube tv was rolling again. "Can someone turn Vertical Hold button?" he asked. Donny stood up and walked over and slowly turned it until he was told to stop. "That'll do just fine—thanks, boy!" he said, and Marvin always called Donny 'Boy' Just boy, nothing along with it.

Donny went back and took a seat next to his grandmother.

They were the parents of his father these two, as his mother's parents lived in Wisconsin, which was a fair distance from Elkhart Indiana. And Donny's home was catty-corner from their home with only a corn field separating the two dwellings ... Donny saw them often while his other grandparents not so much, which according to his father was a good thing.

Marvin was a strong man, a big man who fought in the second world war. He wasn't a hero, and he would tell Donny this. "The only heroes in war are in the movies," he would bark out. "In real life, we were trying to stay alive. If a hero came out of that, it was pure damn luck ... Now I'm not saying there weren't times that we carried a soldier to safety. But that was only so we could sleep at nights." He would pause now, and relive something, something that was painful. And then he would end it with: "Horrible thing leaving a friend to die. Even if ya know, there's nothing gonna stop it ... Something like that, most only do once."

He had the scars to prove his service, the purple heart hung in a picture frame above the fireplace mantle. On the mantle, three pictures were in the same style frame. One was him and Gladys on their wedding day, the second was him in his dress uniform just before he shipped out. And the last was when he returned.

That was the picture that always caught Donny's eye, and as he sat there next to his grandmother, he stared at. He saw it, and wondered if others did as well?

His grandfather in this picture was standing and looked to be wearing the same uniform as what was in the second picture. Only now he looked much older, and there was a long scar that ran across his left cheek. One that was made by a passing bullet.

This scar was by no means handsome but was harmless compared to some of the others that were hidden behind clothing. But it wasn't the scar that caught his eye, it was how his grandfather wasn't smiling. Instead, he looked beaten, and Donny had always wondered why? After all, they won the war. He thought if anything, his grandfather should look happy, but the photo wasn't lying ... it couldn't.

There were medals now, pinned to his chest. Different in color, shape, and design, each meant something although his grandfather wouldn't say what. Ribbons and shiny rewards that no doubt represented a job well done. But to look at Mavin's face in that photo, he didn't look like he was proud. He looked empty.

"Grandpa, where's your metals? Ya know, the ones in the photo?" He pointed to the mantel.

Marvin looked away from the television, his eyes followed Donny's finger. "I have the one up there. It's hanging on the wall." Speaking of the purple heart.

"But where's the others?"

"Most likely turned to dust for all I know. I think you're grandma threw them away when I wasn't looking."

Gladys looked offended. "Don't you be telling the boy that nonsense."

Marvin laughed, "Ahh, may have been mistaken `bout that. Truth is, I threw `em away. Had no use for `em."

"You didn't want to wear `em?"

Marvin smiled, but it was forced. "Don't care to recall them times, to be honest. Now that purple heart, that represents pain, and I'm fine with that. The rest I'd just as soon leave in the past." He turned and looked at Donny, and it was as though Marvin could look into his mind and see how it worked. And maybe somehow he knew how little Donny thought. How he processed things, and how he dwelled on the misery of the past. Maybe Marvin could see Donny was already suffering. Already seeing life as something sad, cruel and unfair. Hard to say, but Marvin saw something. "You would be wise to remember that little piece of advice," he said. "It'll serve ya well."

2

"Grandpa, what'd you do when you came home? Ya know, from the war?"

"Well, I came on home, to West Virginia where you're Grandma, and your Dad were waiting. Why would ya ask?"

"I had heard we came from down South, but never was told how we wound up here."

"You're Pa never told you about your roots?"

"No sir."

"Well, sit back and take it easy, `cause we're about to fix that ... Gladys, dear, would you go get us something to drink. My throats about to dry shut." Glady's went into the kitchen, poured some iced tea in two glasses, she added some ice while she listened to Marvin speak of the old days.

3

After the war, Marvin returned to West Virginia, back to where Gladys and Don senior, (who was a child at this point) were waiting. Tioga was the name of this little town, and it was where Marvin had grown up. So upon his arrival, he was met with family and was thrown the traditional 'welcome home' celebration. But that didn't last, at least not long enough, because Marvin was having a hard time dealing with the past.

"I was a killer," he told his Priest who remained after the other guest had left. And this priest saw what Donny would see in another thirty years. He saw the eyes and they were empty, the same as they were in that third photo.

"You did what you had to do," Father McCarthy said. His hand on Marvin's shoulder. "God will not hold this against you."

"So—you're saying it's all right to kill? To murder?"

"There are circumstances where it can't be helped."

"Is there? You've been my Priest every since I can remember. You want me to come to confession? Tell you all I did? Well, you'd better scratch off a day in your calendar book. `Cause I did a lot of bad things. Things I don't think I can be forgiven for ... I don't know how I could."

"You have to let it go. It wasn't murder, it was self-defense. There is a difference."

Marvin looked at Father McCarthy, and the Priest knew, Marvin wasn't speaking about what happened on the battlefield. He was speaking about other things, and during a time of war, those other things will happen. Men get lonely, they get scared. They do things they regret, they panic, they feel abandoned, lost. They seek shelter, comfort, and safety. If only for a little while. And some are willing to pay a very high price for those few moments. Perhaps willing to give up the most valuable thing they have... Their soul.

Father McCarthy knew all of this, Marvin was only one of many who had returned. They all had the same stories. And there was really nothing he could do. Sure, he could say God would forgive them, but would he? Is that really how it works? He didn't think so, and he knew just saying something didn't mean it was true. He didn't believe that all sins were forgivable. He was certain that not all who support the church will make it into heaven. So he sat there, with his hand on Marvin's shoulder and watched while the Veteran stared at the wall as though he could see through it.

"You have to let the past go!" he said "You're home now, you have a family. You have to let go, for the good of all those around you!"

By the end of the next day, all the medals, along with the dress uniform were in the trash. In the can, waiting for pickup. All but two photo's and his purple heart were saved. Glady's stood on the front porch, she watched, and she said nothing. She smiled as Marvin returned to her. And it took some time, but he did return, and his eyes once again showed life.

4

Marvin, within a month from his arrival home, took a job working in the West Virginia coal mines. He spent a year there, and it didn't take long to see what the mines really were. And the foreman's didn't hold the truth back. No sir: "This here," they would say as the men stood before the mine shafts opening. "This here is schoolin` for when you're sent to hell. So work hard boys, swing them picks. `cause the devil don't put up with no—damn—weak—backs!"

The Carlton Mine Company! That was it was called. And was owned by one James Carlton. And James was good at making money, yes sir! He was swimming in it, but time does pass, and even money can't stop it. So James was old now, some claimed he was as old as the dust that caused the black lung that plagued the miners. Marvin would guess them to be close.

But before this, somewhere around the beginning of the twentieth century, James built a town around the entrance to the mine. And at first, the miners thought he was a real nice fella. Shoot, he supplied cabins for those who worked for him, and their families were welcomed to stay. For free too!

And just when they thought it couldn't get no better, Ole James Carlton paid them with currency that could only be used in his town. Miners Money it was called, and it wasn't worth a whole lot, wasn't even printed on good paper. A little wetness and it dissolved like toilet tissue. And seeing Ole man Carlton set the prices for his goods, it wasn't long, those prices were well above what was sold in town. Which wasn't but a few miles South. But what did that matter, the store owners didn't want miner's money, said they'd pay no more than ten cents on the dollar. They claimed it wasn't good for nothing more than what it was originally made for, and that was—you guessed it—wipin' one's ass!

5

"So what'd you do Grandpa?" Donny asked he was sitting on the edge of the couch now. Eyes wide and listening.

"Well, one day I come home, and your Grandma told me there was goin' to be another mouth to feed. And I remember that day. Damn sure do, real good ... I had a sick feelin' `cause I knew what kind of stronghold that old man Carlton had on me. On everyone who worked for him. And ya know—they'd outlawed Slavery long before my time. But if you ask me, what that weasel was allowed to do was pretty damn close to it."

"So, what happened?"

"I thought long and hard. And I saved my Miner's money. And then I left taking your Grandma and father with me. We went off to the nearest town, and I sold those coupons. Ten cents on the dollar. Just like I told ya. And I took that money and headed out. Took a train as a fact."

"Up North?"

"Sure did, ya see, down in the mine, everyone talked about the motor city, or Detroit Michigan. It was rumored that there were unions where workers banded together to make sure they was done right. They said the pay was good, and the benefits were even better. Hell, at the time, I hadn't a clue what the word benefits even meant."

"So you went to Detriot?"

"No, `cause I asked `em if that were true, then why was they down here working in the mines?"

"What they say?"

"They said those jobs was so great, it's impossible to get one. Especially when you was an uneducated southern man who came from the mines. They claimed those in the big city hadn't time for ridge-runners."

"What's a ridge-runner?"

"Mountain folk."

"Owe ... So you thinkin they were scared you had the black lung?"

"That's what they said, and I would think `em right. No sense hirin' a man who can't work."

"So—how come you come here?"

"We only had enough money to get us to one place. So it had to be a good one. And around the mine, I noticed there was a truck, a truck we used that seemed to be able to take more of a beatin` than the others. So one day I took a good look at her. Ya know, at the tag and ya know what it said?"

"No sir."

"It said it was built right here in South Bend Indiana!"

"They were Studebaker's?" Donny said enthusiastically.

"Yea..., you've heard of `em?"

"Yea, we went to the museum on a field trip!"

"Well..., there you go. Them are some fine trucks."

"So you got a job there?"

"Wow now ... it wasn't that easy. At least not to get hired at the main plant. But what I found was other factories made the parts they used on the vehicles. So I got a job with them."

This was when Donny knew the story was over, "You're speaking of Steelpress," he mumbled under his breath.

"That's right, and even though it took some time to get what those working at the Studebaker plant was makin'. We got there and when the Studebaker plant closed its doors. We just turned and made parts for other car companies that was going strong."

"And you got Dad a job there working with you."

"I did, and some day he'll do the same for you." Marvin could see by the way Donny's head dropped along with his voice that he had said something that hurt the boy. "You want ta tell me what's wrong?"

"Nothin' really ... Just one time Dad told me that I was the reason he had to work there. Said he hated it, and if mom hadn't had me, he could have went elsewhere."

"He told you that? For real?"

"A long time ago."

"Well, he's talkin' pure shit! `Cause this here 's a free country and if I could get out of the mines, he damn sure could a left the factory. Trust me, there's a line ten miles long of men who are waitin' ta take his place! You can tell him that too, but I would suggest again' it!"

"I won't say nothin', but you'll never see me in that place."

"I won't hah ... Well—time does change a man. Suppose we'll have to wait an see."

Donny stood and started to walk away, Marvin went back to watching the television. In the Kitchen, Glady's still held onto two glasses of ice tea. She smiled at Donny and handed him his. "Thanks, Grandma," he said and took two mouthfuls.

Glady's went into the living room where she gave Marvin a loving smile. She pulled a coaster from its holder and sat it down on the end table. She placed his tea on it, and then returned to the couch.

Donny, he took a seat at the table and looked straight ahead. Into the entryway that led to the living room. That's right, he thought. If Grandpa could leave the mines, Dad could have left the factory. Couldn't he?

There was no answer for that, but Donny now knew the reason he was so fond of his Grandfather. He was old, but still a threat to Don Senior, his presence was strong and embedded deep in his father's mind. Grandpa was everything Don wasn't. He had fought and survived a war. He had escaped the mines. He had moved to a strange place and thrived. He was a man, and he was someone to look up to, and Donny was grateful for this. Because he damn sure didn't look up to his father. He would never look up to him, and he would never surrender, and he wouldn't show weakness. No! He would be like his Grandpa, he would be like Marvin!

Chapter IV four February 28th 1964 Ten years old

Donny Gets A Gun

1

Donny was out in the woods with his Grandfather who was carrying his twelve gauge single shot shotgun. There was a fresh layer of snow on top of what had already been there. So the world was white. As white as Donny would ever see it. And although the snow was now knee high and hard to walk through. He didn't mind because it felt good to be outside.

The pine tree limbs were bowed into an arch as the weight of the snow tested their flexibility. Occasionally, one would snap, or the wind would pull the snow from the branches, and it would drop down, ending in a thump. "That there's a good enough reason to stay out from under them branches," Marvin said. He was dressed in blue jean coveralls, he wore a hat that had the ear flaps. An Elmer Fudd hat. And his hands were covered with cloth garden gloves. Donny couldn't believe the man never got cold, but he didn't seem to.

Donny, he was carrying a four-ten shotgun, one he had just received. A present to celebrate his tenth year on this Earth. This gift was from his Grandparents, and there was much debate over whether or not the boy was old enough to carry such a weapon. Donny thought he was, and the future would prove him right.

It was the day before, Marvin came into the living room. The gun wasn't wrapped in paper, nothing like that. He stopped, he looked at Donny, then the gun. Then he just handed it to him and took a seat in his favorite chair, the lazy-boy, the only chair he ever sat on.

"That Gun," he said. "It was owned by a man down in West Virginia. A mountainman. A moonshiner. Ya know what that is?"

"No sir."

"It's men who make drinkin' whiskey."

Donny was confused. "Why would they be called 'moonshiners?' Why not just 'whiskey makers?'"

"`Cause they weren't supposed to be makin` whiskey. So they did it at night, under the stars."

"Why? Who would stop them?"

"The revenuers, that's who. The police, the Government. They's were the ones. Sure enough!"

"Why would the Government care?"

"It was against the law, and still is. Only rich people can make whiskey. Anyone else will spend time looking at round bars. If ya know what I mean."

"Jail?"

"Correct. Anyway, this fella, his name was Woody. At least that's what we called him. And men like him, well, they don't care much of what the Government frowns upon. No, sir. They're tough, every bit as tough as the Grizzlies that shared their woods. And they respected each other. They sure did. Why I heard tell, that when winter come, those Grizzlies would walk right on past ole Woody. Just like he wasn't even there. And go deep into the cave and take their winters rest."

"Woody worked in caves?"

"He damn sure did."

"So how did you get his gun?"

"Well, one day I went to see ole Woody. Ya know, pick up some whiskey, or shine, that's what we called it. And he was down, real down. So I asked him what was wrong? He said his time was up. Said it was time to leave ... I asked him where he was going, but he just said away. Then asked if I wanted his shotgun."

"This Gun?"

"That's right, and as you can imagine, I said sure. So he handed me the gun. Never spent a penny on it. Had it all these years, and now, I'm handing it down to you."

"...Wow," Donny said as he took a closer look at it. "So what happened to Woody?"

"No one knows. At least not for sure. Some say he went back into the cave with the Grizzlies. Others say he moved on. Then some say he just disappeared. But what ever happened to him, he became a legend around those parts. To this day, ya can down to Conrad County and hear stories `bout him."

"So how old do you figure it is? This four-ten I mean?"

"Couldn't say, but would guess it was one of the first guns ever made. But again, that would be my guess."

"Sure is pretty, thanks, Grandpa, thanks, Grandma!"

"I was thinkin', may be best ta keep it over here," Marvin said, using a low voice as though Don Senior could hear. "That ways your Ma and Pa won't be able to mess with it."

"Sounds good to me—Grandpa."

"Now—I want ya to understand, we gave this here gun to you. Not to your father, mother, or brothers. So don't let `em tell ya otherwise, and when you're usin'' it, ya don't let it stray too far from your hands. Lord knows, ole Woody never did. Not until I took it that is."

"I won't Grandpa, promise."

2

Behind their homes, and the corn field, there was a clump of woods that made up a couple thousand square miles. This was where they went hunting, it was the only place they went hunting, and Marvin said the reason for this was there was no place better ... Donny hadn't been anywhere else so he didn't know and really didn't care. At least not until this day when he had his own shotgun.

So here they were, walking in the woods, and Donny was as proud as he had ever been. His gun looked a lot like Marvins. Slightly smaller, but basically the same. Both were single shot, and Marvin had told him: "One shot is all ya need. Any more than that, ya need to go on back and practice! Get yer barrel out of the snow. Ya want her to blow?"

The last part, he had said multiple times. Donny was so short, and the gun was so long. It made it hard. And seemed as though every time he looked down he would have to clean it. So now, he walked with it over his shoulder with the barrel up in the air. Much better.

"Now," Marvin said, "When you see a rabbit, ya pull the gun into position, up there on your shoulder. Only then do you cock it. Only when you're ready. No senses in one of us not makin' it home for lunch."

"I understand, Grandpa."

3

Walking beside these two, there was a dog, and this dog's name was Rooster, and no one knows who gave him the name. Because no one owned him. One day and this comes from the mouth of Esther who lives down 'Day Road' and not far from Donny's home, a car came to a stop, the driver's door opened, and then the car pulled away. What was left was Rooster, standing in the middle of the road. No more than a couple of months old.

Esther, she tried to ignore the dog, not wanting the responsibility but Rooster would have no part of that. He walked right on up and made himself at home. So, Esther, she fed him and took care of him. But something was lacking in their relationship, so Rooster started wandering, and Esther prayed he would wander away for good and one day he did. But he didn't go

far, really not much more than across the street, and just West a tad. This is where he found the cornfield, this was where he found a permanent home.

He tramped around, Rooster did, from house to house, and everyone he met seemed to take a liking to him. "A free-range-doggy," was what they called him. And they fed him when he came around. They gave him water, and he would visit awhile, maybe stay the night outside, guarding the place. It was the least he could do ... Then he would move on, always returning at some point.

But Donny would have to say, Marvin, was as close to Rooster as anyone was. And as the years passed, it seemed like their bond was growing tighter, and Rooster was spending more time at Marvin's home, and less time tramping. And there was no way Rooster would miss a trip to the woods. This made Donny laugh because Rooster was no stranger to the area. Most likely an expert guide and that's what it seemed like he was doing. The dog would lead the way, walking just in front of them. Like he was taking them on a tour. And perhaps he was?

Suddenly, Rooster let out a howl, and a rabbit took off, leaping from some dead branches that were no doubt its home. Moving through the snow with ease and speed. Rooster, he followed suit, right behind the thing. Marvin, he raised his gun, he aimed, he cocked it, then he fired. The rabbit was running parallel to them, an easy shot. There would only need to be one shell. Donny was certain of this. But then, dirt mixed with snow blew up into the air. Somewhere around Three feet or so from the rabbit. Rooster, still on its trail followed it out of sight. Howling his hound dog howl as they both disappeared.

"Well, suppose the next one's yours," Marvin said, as he broke the barrel, and replaced the spent shell with a good one. He looked at Donny as he closed his gun. The boy was smiling a devious grin. One not seen often, certainly not often enough. Marvin thought it was his hat, the ear muffs that were built into it, or his gloves where he had cut out the fingers. Maybe his OshKosh farmer's overalls. But it was none of that. "What?" he finally asked.

"Of all the times you've brought me out here, Grandpa, you have never hit a thing."

"Oh, ya noticed that did ya?"

"I did."

"Well, truth is, I don't care much for rabbit meat. So I just scare `em some. Ya know, keep `em sharp."

"Okay."

"What, ya don't believe me?"

"Yeah, I mean, I don't care either way."

"Well, next one's yours. Just don't shoot the dog."

"Aaaa—I'm like you Grandpa, I don't like to eat rabbits. Can't we just walk around? Maybe do some target practicing?"

Marvin smiled. "Sounds good to me. I just hope Rooster don't catch that rabbit, `cause then we'll have no choice. It'll be rabbit for supper."

4

Another hour and they were standing in the snow, looking at an old abandoned home. Rooster had returned now, he was smelling around the parameter. Donny and Marvin waited to see if the dog kicked any critters up. Soon, Rooster returned and took a seat next to Marvin's left leg.

"Ya ever been in there?" Marvin asked.

Donny, not sure if he should admit to it or not, decided the truth couldn't hurt. "Only a little ways."

"What's in there?"

"Nothing, not really. A set of stairs, but I didn't climb them. Some walls, and old stone fireplace. But other than that, it's been cleaned out."

"Must have been a nice at some point. Don't ya think?"

"Suppose."

"Wonder what happened? Why no one fixed it up?"

"They say it's haunted," Donny said, his voice was low.

"Is that a fact?"

"That's the rumor."

"Well, I can see at least three bedrooms, two floors, a pile of windows. A porch that runs the whole front of the house. Fancy wood carvings ... Maybe, just maybe somethin` like a ghost or two would do it. Don't believe in that sort a thing myself."

"You don't?"

"Naw, I would think that if it was possible to come back from the dead and cause trouble. We'd see a swell of pissed off chickens."

"Chickens?"

"Chickens! Think about it, we eat em whole except the feathers and bones. We even eat the eggs. Hell, those chicks didn't stand a chance. And the roosters, well, we send them into the ring to fight with other roosters ... No sir, if there was anything to that whole haunting thing, I'm sure we'd see some of them chickens." He was looking straight ahead, at the home.

"You make sense, Grandpa," Donny chuckled. "More than most. Ya know that?"

"I know it."

There was silence for a moment, and then. "Grandpa?"

"Yeah."

"Is all this land ours?"

"It sure is."

"How much is here?"

Grandpa thought for a moment. "Well," he said, "last I checked, a bunch."

"Why'd you buy so much? I mean it isn't like we use it."

Marvin was still looking at the old home. "Back when me and your Grandma were lookin' for a place, there wasn't but two ways to make a living in this area. One was to work at one of the factories, and the other was to farm. So I figured I'd buy a home that came with some land. That way should the factory job not work out we could always farm."

"But this is woods?"

"Nothin' wrong with woods, and there's no sense clearing trees if ya don't need the land flat."

Donny looked around and noticed that most of the trees were oaks, maples, and other hardwoods. They were huge in size, mighty, and Donny knew they didn't grow fast. Some, he guessed to be over three hundred years in age. Yes sir, as he looked around, he could feel there was something special about this moment, and something sad as well. Age meant little to most, he knew this. Oh if these trees could speak, they'd tell some interesting stories. But they can't, they just stand there in the way, and have done so for too long, so they have to go.

Donny cut off this thought. Went on to something more pleasant. "Grandpa," he said. "Why did you move out of our house?" Donny's old farmhouse was Marvin's original home.

"That," he said, "was fulfilling a promise I made to your grandma."

"What was the promise?"

"She didn't want ta buy the farm `cause the home was old, big and drafty." He thought for a moment then continued. "I suppose it was around nineteen forty-nine. We'd been here for some time, and we saved all we could, which really wasn't a lot. So when it came time to start lookin' for our own home. The only thing your Grandma made clear was that she wanted to stay in town, and she wanted a small house."

"She wanted a little house?"

"Yeah, Ya see, she grew up in a two-room wood shack in West Virginia with four siblings. And lord knows when she married me I wasn't able to afford anything that was as nice as what she had just left." He started laughing. "So a small home was where she was comfortable. Which, I suppose I can understand, beings it's easy to keep clean, and it does force the family to stay close together. At least when we were inside."

"Why would she want to stay in town?"

"She wouldn't learn how to drive a car. And in the city, they had buses to take her where she wanted to go." He paused, "I'm surprised your father never told ya any of this. Hell, he practically grew up on those buses.

"I remember there was a time when I could tell him where I wanted to go, and he would write down which bus ta take, where ta switch and the times they`d arrive." He chuckled.

"Really?" Donny said, and then paused a moment. "Ya know—he doesn't talk that much about his childhood."

"Well—anyway, at the time, the region was shifting on account of those who farmed saw those who worked in factories were livin' a fine life. The farmers had to get up early, work outside no matter what the weather. And pray like hell. Ooooh yea they did, that the good Lord would provide the proper sun and rain for a good crop. And God didn't always listen, And even if he did, it meant that everyone else had a good crop too. And when there's plenty of food, the prices drop. And when there's not enough food, there's not much to sell ... No sir, Farmin' is far from an easy life."

"And the factory was better?"

"Are ya kiddin'? In the plant, there was heat when it was cold. A roof when it rained. There was health insurance, vacation pay, and pensions so ya could spend your laters days without a worry. It was all better, includin' the pay. Then, those banks, they started not loanin' the farmer's money. That didn't help."

"Because the farmers didn't know if God was listening?"

"That's right, ya see them banks had spent the better part of fifty years takin' peoples farms `cause the owners couldn't pay what they owed. In the beginning, they were like we were in West Virginia—they worked with horse's and their hands. But then they started usin' tractors and equipment that had a life of sorts, and it was a short life and cost money. Money which the bank had loaned `em.

"Now I know, there's those who look down on the banks for takin' the farms. They'll claim those money-men done took advantage of the farmers. But I don't know how that could be? I really don't, `cause each time a farm was taken, there'd be some poor schmuck talkin' `bout how the land had been in their family for hundreds a years.

"So with that bein' the case, I would think that would make them farmers experts. The bankers aren't experts. They don't know nothin' `bout farmin'. I would think they a known better... Don't ya think?"

"I suppose."

"Anyway," Grandpa said. "Soon, ya couldn't blame the farmer's sons for not wantin' the farm. They wanted a factory job and seein' they was plenty a lookin'. Other companies came ta town ... There was Ball ban And Miles Pharmaceuticals. There was Uniroyal. Hell, there was even one of them companies that made horns, Ya know like they play in them, bands."

"Ya, I know, Selmer it's called. One of my friends father works there."

"Yeah, small world. But as I was sayin', with a new life comes a new home. One in the city where there's other young people that are havin' fun. And I don't blame `em. Sure would beat watchin' corn grow if ya know what I mean."

"So that's why you bought this place?"

"Yeah, ya see your grandma wanted what everyone else wanted. So we could either buy this place here and have some acreage—or we could a paid the same and had nothin' but a little dump in town."

"So you moved her to a place that had everything she didn't want?"

"Sure did, but I promised that as soon as we could, I'd have her a new home built. One that was smaller and closer to what she wanted."

"So you built the home you're in now?"

"Course not, ya see when the farm was sold. It was cut into sections. Our section had the home which no one wanted on account it was built in the late 1800's. As a fact, our division was actually a little cheaper `cause we had the home on it."

"Really..., the one I now live in? It doesn't seem that bad to me."

"Me either, but a deal is a deal. So when your ma was pregnant with you, I decided that it was time to make good on my promise. We would build a new home somewhere close to South Bend."

"But you didn't."

"I know, and the Lord does work in mysterious ways, and I thank `em for it. Ya see the plan was we would move and let your ma and pa keep the old farmhouse. So seein' you was on the way, your grandma decided she didn't want to move to South Bend."

"So you moved around the corner?"

Marvin nodded his head."She saw the place was for sale and seein' it backed up in this property, she found it perfect."

Donny smiled.

"What?" His Grandfather asked.

"Real smooth, grandpa—real smooth."

5

Like when they went out, Rooster led the way back to the house. Donny laughed as he watched the dog jump over the small drifts. His snout was white with snow, and he seemed so damn happy. But then why wouldn't he be? Donny thought. He doesn't have to go to school. He doesn't have to do work. He doesn't get punished. He's free, as free as a domestic animal could be.

He felt something, and it wasn't often he did. Melancholy would be the best word. He was cold, his feet stung, as did his hands. But he didn't want to go home. He didn't want the moment to end. The day, the feeling, none of it.

"Ya gonna clean your gun?" Marvin asked as they walked up to the house.

"I never shot it!" Donny replied.

"Ooh that's right. We still can if ya want to."

"Naw, I'd have to clean it then. We'll do it next time."

"All right—well, you give your brother's a hug for me!"

"I will Grandpa."

Donny was half way to his home when Rooster the dog came running past him. He brushed up against his pant leg as he went by. His way of letting it be known he was with you, or maybe his way of saying hi, Donny wasn't sure. But he smiled as the dog turned and came back to him. He bent over, his knees sunk in the snow. He reached out and gave the dog a pat on the head. "You sure did good today boy," he said, and then hugged him.

Rooster licked his face, and his tail wagged so hard his backend followed along with it. He made little whining sounds as if the beast was trying to speak. Donny held that hug longer than most times. But he did pull away and Rooster went on, leading him home.

6

Once inside the house, Donny stood still a moment while the warmth rolled over him. He could hear his mother speaking in the other room. No doubt to Pauly, his youngest brother who had just turned one. She was talking like she was a baby. Saying something about eating his fingers.

Sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal was Benny, the middle brother who was now three years old. He watched as Donny took off his winter gear. He said nothing, Benny seldom spoke, he seldom cried. Still, between the two, they took all of their mothers time which Donny found beautiful as he was no longer the center of attention, and he liked it that way. He found the age difference was significant enough, he didn't think of them as brothers. Instead, they were like pets. Unlike his friend, Steve Rousch who had an older brother and younger sister.

Steve lived down the road about a mile or so. He had long blonde hair, longer than most and seeing this hair trend was only beginning, Steve wasn't seen as favorable by the other adults. Is that a girl? They would whisper loud enough for him to hear. Hell, loud enough for Donny to hear. Someone needs to speak to his parents! Was a popular one and each time, Donny would tell his friend to ignore them. But Steve wouldn't, he couldn't because it wasn't his idea to have long hair. It was his mothers who was going through some kind of crisis. Who wanted to be cool, like the kids. She looked like a hippy and she wanted her boy to follow suit. The oldest wouldn't, but Steve, he would. If only to make her happy, he would, so he did.

Now—Steve's older brother, two years older to be exact, was known to beat up Steve as older brothers do. And although this wasn't a good thing for Steve, it was for Donny as constantly having to do battle had taught Steve how to fight. Now, they would practice as he swore, one day soon, he was going to beat the hell out of his older brother. That day would come as it usually does, but it wouldn't be as sweet as the young man would have thought. It seldom is.

Donny, now with his hat off, could hear better. He walked to the kitchen counter where there were two-fifths of whiskey sitting. Wild Turkey and one was empty, the other had a fair share relieved, and there was a pen mark. A line and she always drew that line because she swore Donny was sneaking drinks, and there was only enough for her. At least as far as she was concerned. But Donny hadn't developed the taste for whiskey, not yet anyhow, and he told her so. But that bottle was emptying awful fast.

"I'm gooing to biiite ooof yer fingeas!" He heard, much clearer now and he realized his mother wasn't speaking baby talk, she was wasted and talking the best she could. Donny turned and looked at Benny who was ignoring what was going on around him. He just ate, and Donny was thankful for that. The truth was, this was happening more often. She would get drunk during the day when his father was at work. Then, she would sober up and have dinner cooked before he got home.

Donny warmed up the dishwater. He washed the dishes, his hands, still numb began to sting. Pins and needles as the warm water cut through the cold. But he went on, the last thing he needed was for his father to return home and find the housework wasn't done. And he was working, time and a half on a Saturday. No—it wouldn't be good for anyone should that happen.

Chapter V April 17th, 1966 Twelve years old

The Rapture

1 Donny was asleep in his bed, when the sound of a door slamming awoke him. This wasn't uncommon as sound echoed through the home, bouncing off the white-spackled walls. There didn't seem to be a way to stop it, and Donny wondered if those sounds left the home and just kept on going. He would keep his voice down, just in case it did.

He looked around his small bedroom. The white paint on the walls was chipped and flaking. The ceiling showed discoloration from where the roof had leaked. And in the center of

this eight-foot-high ceiling was a rosary that still showed that someone had taken pride in their work. At least at some point in time. In the center of the wood carving, there was an old ceiling fan. One that had never worked, at least not since this room was his.

The fan had thin steel blades that were curved by design. Now they were rusted and loaded with dust. But they showed a certain elegance. They showed a time that had moved on, and that everything had a beginning, middle, and an end. Not even man-made gadgets were immune.

Donny wondered as he lain there, if other people thought about this, or was he different? He wondered if everyone saw the world as a cruel existence. One where everything alive had to kill to remain alive. One that was cold and uncaring? He didn't think they did because the others around him always seemed so happy. But then, they didn't have a decaying fan hanging from the ceiling.

He then went from looking at the blades to the light which hung down from the center. A socket that held one bulb and was supported by its electrical cord. There was no cover over the bulb, wasn't made to have one. Then, hanging from the socket was a yellow string that used to be white. Made from cotton, or at least Donny thought it was. And should he pull it, and unlike the fan, the light would turn on and off.

He then looked at the posters which he used to line his walls. The Beatles, hot-rod cars, anything he could find for free. They covered the lead-based flaking paint, and they helped keep the room warm. Or warmer, and during the winter months, the home was always cold, drafty, and uncomfortable.

There was a window which was located next to his bed. He sat up, put on his jeans and an insulated shirt. He then looked out the plate glass wood framed window, he could see it was raining. The sky was gray, thick with clouds, and the sun couldn't get through. At least not very well. He took his fingers and touched the glass, it was cold, not freezing, but real close.

The old farmhouse windows were actually small glass panes, somewhere around 5"X10". They were separated by strips of wood, glazing putty was used to hold them in. Over time, some of the panels had broken and were replaced with cut pieces of cardboard.

Donny inspected them, made sure the gray, duct tape was holding and sealed. He saw this as a benefit, this cardboard glazing. Not during the winter, but in the summer when cool night air was needed. He could remove them, and since the sash had been painted shut, it was the only air he would get. Once he was satisfied the window was secured, he went over to where there was a small desk. One he used while doing his homework. He took a seat, he pulled out a cigarette from a fresh pack. A Marlboro cigarette. There was a box of "Strike Anywhere," Blue tip matches. He took one and ran it across the desks wood surface. It fired up, the same as a thousand before it had. It left a line on the desks surface, but it blended in with the others. Donny lit his cigarette, he shook the match, putting it out and then he placed it in an ashtray that was already full. He took a long drag and inhaled.

It had been a year since he smoked his first cigarette. He thought about that as he rolled that smoke in his fingers like a pro. And he was a pro, because he liked it, everything about it. The way it made him feel, which was grown up, and cool. And the way it helped pass the time, like eating a meal. Satisfying, and he reached over and picked up the pack, he looked at it. 'You Get A Lot To Like!' it said, and he agreed one hundred percent. You did get a lot to like. He wondered how many he had smoked already? A thousand? Maybe two, or three! He wouldn't be shocked if it were more.

He had begun by taking cigarettes from his mother. Most times when she was laid out drunk. And as time passed he took more and she started to become suspicious. So he began purchasing packs, then cartons. Now he was at the point where he was smoking as much as his parents, and much to his surprise, they didn't mind.

"We have too much going on with your brothers," His father told him. "If you want to smoke have at it! But I swear you had better never steal cigarettes from your mother or me! I won't pay for your habit!" So that was the deal, and as promised, Donny never touched their smokes. Not even when his mother was passed out, and he was left the burden of taking care of his brothers.

He took a long draw and inhaled now as he sat at his desk and looked around his room. It was the cleanest area in the house. The rest of the place was turning to shit, and it was getting worse as each year passed. And Donny knew why, already he could see it, smell it. It was alcohol, it was speed pills to lose weight, it was downers so she could sleep. It was life, and fear. It was getting older, and feeling worthless, unloved. It was feeling cold inside even during the hottest of summer days. It was everything!

"The boys are taking all my time!" She would scream out to his father when something was said."And Donny can't help, he's in school!" And this was new, speaking back to Don Senior, even for her. And he backed down, which was also a shock since Don Senior knew what was really taking her time. Then she insisted that it would help if ole Senior came straight home from work. That he could take care of the boys while she did the cleaning. He came back with 'Donny's home from school then ... he can help you.'

But Donny wasn't home from school, he was working part-time at the Standard gas station down on the corner of US 20, and bittersweet road. He was pumping gas and checking oil. Making sure those tires had the proper pressure, and those wipers were pliable and ready to serve. No—Donny didn't go home after school, he had to work to pay for those cigarettes he smoked. With the rest going to purchase a new window for his room, as per his father's suggestion. "If you want a God Damn window that opens, then get a job and buy one!"

So, and only after Don Senior realized there was no way out. He came to the conclusion that the best thing to do was to not say a word. And this was a defining moment, and Donny knew it. Don Senior had last control. His wife was melting down, and he hadn't a clue what to do about it. And when someone is losing control, they are no longer intimidated by stronger surroundings. Don Senior must have known this much. Because all around them, and that goes for Senior and Junior, there was talk of this new disease, and it was called: 'a Nervous Breakdown,' And few mothers who caught it returned home once they left. Now, Donny wasn't sure where they went, but he was sure it wasn't good. Not for him, nor is brothers.

So life went on, and time passed, although it seemed to slow some. Donny no longer had friends over, at least not in the house. Which he seldom did before as most found the home spooky to some degree. They complained of long nights with little sleep. The sounds of cracking wood. And the echoes from the first floor rising. All these were common in old homes because all old homes housed the dead. That's what they said, what they believed, and only Marvin, his grandfather had said otherwise. He thought they housed chickens.

It was for the better, so Donny said nothing. When they slept over, they stayed outside, in an old school bus that Grandpa Marvin had brought home long ago. "I'm gonna make it a camper," he said, as he parked it in the backyard. And that was the last time it moved.

Donny smiled as he thought of that day, then he laughed. "He doesn't know how to make a camper," he whispered. "The funny part was how mom threw a fit because he parked it in our yard. But he wasn't foolin' anyone. He bought that bus for us kids, and he knew that was the only way it would be allowed to stay."

He was right about that.

2 He finished his cigarette and then headed out into the hall and down to the restroom, which was located all the way at the other end. The wood floor was cool on his bare feet and creaked each time he took a step. Most mornings he would try and be quite but this time, he was the only one home. It was Sunday morning, the Lords day and like every Sunday before this one. His mom and dad went to church, and they took Pauly and Benny with them, and on the way, they would pick up Grandpa and Grandma. And they would sit together like God's most loyal creatures. They would then daydream as the Priest stood before them and rambled on. No doubt preaching about what the Bible said and what the hell it was supposed to mean.

Donny laughed now as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror. I'm no Christian, he thought. I know what I am, and it's not one of them. I'm not going to heaven, and that's all right. I have my doubts the place even exists.

Truth was, he had always thought this way, and wondered if others did. Life wasn't pleasant for him, it wasn't fun, it was heartbreaking and sad. So he shied away from Church, like most who are miserable by nature have a tendency to do. He thought if there was a hell, he was already in it, and perhaps he was. He often thought of death, it was all around him as the Vietnam war was gaining speed. Men, young men, were leaving, straight out of high school, and they went to Church, and they were told of the commandments, and what the price was for breaking them.

How has that changed? He wondered as he brushed his teeth. All of a sudden, a gun is forced into your hands, and you're told to forget about what's been burned into your brain since birth. Go out and KILL-KILL-KILL! And what happens to your soul then? He wondered if that Priest could say. He was sure he could, but did his words hold any truth?

"I would bet," he whispered as he spits out the toothpaste. "When he's all alone, he wonders about that."

'Ten percent of your earnins',' His grandpa preached. 'Ten percent will show our Lord savior that you're worthy of walkin' right alongside `em!'

But Donny wasn't fooled, he found the whole idea of buying his way into heaven nothing less than ridiculous. Why would God want a bunch of sinners up there turning the place into exactly what it was down here? A shithole.

And he had gone to Church plenty of times in the past. Mainly because he was forced to. But it was getting harder as time passed. And it wasn't because he was bored. It was because he was scared. And it's crazy to fear the Church, he knew this, so he didn't speak of it, not to anyone, but it was there, and it was growing.

3 He sat there, close to the front, and his family always had to get as close to the altar as possible. So he could see the Priest very well, and he could see the stained glass that rose all the way to the cathedral ceiling. Ending in a point. There was an angel formed in the glass, this angel stood tall, with his wings stretched out. He was landing because one foot was raised while the other was straight. Like a paratrooper.

This angel was massive in size, maybe fifteen feet tall, with a wingspan of eight feet. And the eyes, they were the type that seemed to stare at each person in the pews. So there was no getting away from this thing. And he didn't look friendly, or pure. At least not to Donny.

He looked pissed and ready to kill, and the fact that Jesus was just below this angel. Carved from wood and shown dead on the cross, that didn't help much. Donny had stared at this thing for hours. He thought of every possible scenario that could have taken place. And It was on this one Sunday, not that long ago, he put it together, and it went like this:

4

The angel, the one made from glass, he came down from heaven. And it's not known why he came down, but he did. And he isn't a mortal man, that's the reason he's in the glass, he's a spirit, so the light can shine through him.

Upon his arrival, he finds the son of God, torture+d as well. His hands and feet have spikes driven through them. They are holding him in place, and he's hanging from them. And this angel can feel his pain, and it's beyond anything he has ever felt. His eyes close tight and water as he fights to keep from screaming out. To beg for some mercy!

But there's no point in screaming because sound won't take the pain away, and he knows this. It will only show weakness, and this isn't the time for that.

So he circles, this angel does, flying well above the crowd below. And Jesus, the son of God, he dies, right then ... The angel—he can feel this, and is thankful because now—the pain fades away and he breathes along with the holy man and joins him in taking his last breath, and then he sees Jesus fall limp.

He circles again, like an eagle that sails high while searching for food. His wings are steady as the winds above are kind to him. His eyes, they dry, and he now takes a good look. And there he is, The gift of God, his only son. Hanging dead, wearing nothing more than a piece of cloth around his groin. And as if those spikes they hammered through the bones in his hands and feet weren't enough. They had to go ahead and add a braided, thorn covered bandana that pierced and drew blood from his forehead.

He circles one more time, and now, he looks down at the crowd of people who stand tall and witness this killing. And he doesn't see them crying, perhaps because they no longer are. And he doesn't see good guys and bad. No—what he sees is a crowd of one. He sees Satan's followers. He sees the damned, the cursed, the enemy. And his soul fills with rage that's so strong, it consumes him. It drives him insane, or at least to the brink of insanity. And it's now, he lets out a war cry. An ear-piercing, high-pitched squeal that can mean nothing good is about to happen. And this call sounds like it's coming from a dragon, one of massive size.

The crowd, they fall into two categories now. All will raise their hands and cover their ears. But half will drop to their knees, the other half will look up, into the sky and they will see. Oh Yes, they will see that God isn't the only one who is vengeful. And it is now, the angel comes in for his landing. And it is right before he touches the ground, that's when this moment that is now encased in stain glass was captured and memorized.

But they would have hidden the truth, wouldn't they? They wouldn't want the faithful followers to know what actually happened. So they made up something more innocent. More Godlike. But this artist, this man who made the window, and the other who made the wood statue. They know the truth, and the truth is always trying to surface. Even after all this time, it's still showing itself.

And there it is, in plain sight and made perfect sense ... This angel upon his landing used his wings, not to slow his momentum. He wasn't concerned with that. He had positioned himself so his body was in line with the man on the cross. That way, the wind from those wings would pass around the holy man leaving him unscathed. The energy, unseen in strength was that of an atom bomb. It picked up sand from the desert ground, and it blasted those in attendance. Taking away first their skin, then their flesh, in the end, turning their bones into dust.

He looked around, this angel did, and his eyes were sharp, and he could see far, and there were others out there, other humans. Plenty of them, but he thought little of that. "Let them be," He called out, in an unfathomable voice, and for no other reason than for them to hear. "They deserve what's to come!"

And then—Donny saw it, it was a vision from his mind but was real and transparent. The Angel wrapped his arms around the holy man and pulled that cross from the sand. He took the Son of God and disappeared up past the clouds. And it was only then did those who still lived realize the mistake they made.

Donny had a sick feeling, he knew what he was seeing, and it was the rapture. And the only man worthy of heaven was taken. The rest were left behind because what the Angel thought was right—we are Satan's followers. And as expected, we're turning our world into a wasteland. What could be closer to hell than that! Oh—God—we'll be all that's left, soon, and then he'll rise. He will have won ...

Don Senior, who sat beside Donny smelled urine in the air. The people who sat in front of them were looking around and speaking low. He knew they caught the scent as well. He looked at Donny, then down to see his pants were wet. He looked back up, to his face and it was the color of pale gray. And against his black hair, he looked dead. A corpse that lie in the coffin. "Donny," he whispered, but Donny said nothing, acknowledge nothing, he looked straight ahead. Meanwhile, the Preist was going on, talking loud about forgiveness and how easy it was to do.

Donny, he turned slowly now and looked at his father. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. He could swear his father had a cigarette hanging from his lip. It was lit, and then he noticed all the people were smoking, and there was no smoking in Church. But there was a cloud that rose up from the pews. There was caughing, and the sound of lighters, Zippo lighters, and the sound was that of the wheel dragging across the flint. Donny could see his father was saying something. He could see his lips moving, the cigarette dancing around in his mouth. He looked away, back up to Jesus who wasn't dead. Not any longer, now his chin was raised from his chest, now his eyes were open and he, like that Angel behind him stared at Donny. Stared at everyone. And Donny knew he was seeing what others couldn't. He was seeing proof that Jesus does watch us, but he isn't offering help. He's watching us suffer, and the prophecy had been fulfilled. "They deserve what's to come!" he heard in that God-like voice. That voice of the Angel that hung in the glass.

"NOOOOO!" Donny yelled, and the Priest fell silent. The people turned to see what was going on. "NO!" he said again, still loud but lower than before. "No," he mumbled for a third time and then slumped in his seat and weeped.

5

The following day, Monday, Donny was taken to see the doctor. The family Doctor who went by the name: William Shophorse. William tapped Donny's knees with a rubber hammer. He took his temperature and listened to his heart. "He seems fine, Mrs. Maer," he said. "He is coming on puberty, my guess would be it has something to do with that. If he has more problems in the future, I would suggest a half a valium and if you don't see an improvement, give him the other half." He paused. "You do have valium around the house—don't you?"

"Yes," Donny's mother said. "Of course."

On the way home, she said nothing to her son. He sat in the passenger seat and looked out the window. He watched the corn stalks that had already come out of the ground. Miles and miles of farmland, rows, and rows of corn. It was hypnotic, it was beautiful, it was life. But he still couldn't shake that feeling he had in the Church. That sense of hopelessness, despair, and suffering. Of the ending that was to come, and that end will be painful. He now knew this. But he said nothing, there was no reason to, nothing could be done.

They never asked him about what had happened the day before. They took him home. He went up and took a bath and put on clean clothes, then spent the remainder of the day looking out his window. He could hear them, though. His mother and father. They spoke in low voices in their room down the hall. They were scared, he could tell. But they weren't scared of his health, but rather his sanity. Or even worse, his spirit and his relationship with God, or Satan, and they weren't sure which one it was, not any longer.

"He's always been different."

"Maybe this is why?"

"Don't be silly. He just had an episode."

"What if it gets worse?"

"It won't."

"How can you be sure?"

"What do you want to do, take him to see a fucking shrink? No kid sees a shrink, it's not normal!"

"I'll take him to see Doctor Shophorse."

"Whatever, at least I have insurance to pay for that!"

6

That Monday, after the doctor's visit, Donny was at the service station waiting for customers. He stood outside by the fuel pumps, next to the rack that held cardboard oil cans. The door to the station was propped open, the afternoon was pleasant.

There was a rubber hose that ran perpendicular to the drive, one end was crimped shut, the other went to a bell. When a vehicle ran over the hose, the air rang the bell. Donny wished the bell would ring, he wished for something, anything to keep his mind busy. But the day was slow. And although there were plenty of cars racing back and forth down US twenty, none seemed to need fuel.

Larry Jenkins, the station's owner, he was standing at a bay door. One of two at the station. In his hand was a red shop rag. He was wiping off the grease.

There was an old Plymouth Dart on the rack, raised up on the lift, and Larry was putting on a new muffler. The Indiana winters were tough on steel. The salted roadways were a station owners friend. Larry would agree, but he was as far as he could go now, that is until the new muffler arrived from the auto parts store.

He was watching Donny as he stood there, although his young assistant hadn't noticed. Larry thought the lad had been off since he arrived at work. Not that he was ever very pleasant. But on this day, he seemed depressed, or worried and that was different. Most days he was just angry acting. But he was a good worker, always there, always on time, and eager to

learn. The best I've had in a long time, Larry thought, and then he stuffed the rag in the back pocket of his coveralls and walked over to where he was standing.

"Slow huh?" he said as he reached out and picked up the oil piercing dispenser. He touched the point that cut into the cans lid. He then put it back onto its perch. He wasn't sure why he did that, maybe so it would look as though he had wondered over for other, more important reasons.

"Sure is," Donny replied, but his eyes remained on the highway, on the cars that passed. He was trying, in that one instant to see those inside. Those who understood the reason for the world spinning. And those who thought it spun just for them.

"You got something on your mind?" Larry asked.

"Nothing important."

Larry slowly shook his head. "You want to go home?"

"Hell no! Please, I need the hours, and that's the last place I want to be--"

"All right, calm down, just asking ... Ya look a little distant is all. Thought maybe you were getting sick."

Donny shook his head as he pulled two cigarettes out from the pack in his front pocket. He handed one to Larry, the other he shoved in his mouth. Larry, he brought out the lighter, and although they say smoking by the fuel pumps is a bad idea, Larry and Donny saw no harm in it. They worked around fuel all the time, Donny had put out fires that were burning on Larry's clothes. Had done it more than once. It was part of the job, and this work was in no way safe. Maybe that was the reason Donny liked it. He wasn't sure and rarely thought about it. But those coveralls felt good. The deep pockets, the smell of oil and gasoline. Diesel, kerosene. It was all made for burning, breathing, inhaling and huffing. It was the stench of power and freedom and every man and woman needed it. So Donny and Larry were their dealers in a way. They were standing there patiently waiting to give those fine folks their fix. And they would be more than glad to:

'Fill her up—mam?' 'Check the oil?' 'how's those wipers?'

But they were heroes in a way, they took these chances so those with cleans hands didn't have to. So they could remain in their cars where it was safe and dry. Where it was cool, or warm, out of the rain or sun. They were brave men and brave men smoke when they feel they can. Safety gives way to confidence, no different than when that soldier on the front line draws a match at night. Sure, there may be a sniper out there waiting for just such a chance. But the warrior is pretty sure there isn't.

"You a Christian?" Donny asked, and although he was young in years, he wasn't young at heart. Larry treated him the way he acted, the way he saw him.

"No—can't say I am. I mean I believe in God, but I don't care for Church."

Donny was still looking straight off. "My folks go to Church, but they damn sure ain't no Christians."

"There's a lot of those."

"Why do ya suppose they do it?" Donny asked. "I mean, why go if you aren't going to follow the rules?"

"You're not speaking to the right fella," Larry said, as he drew from his cigarette. "But I'll tell ya this, if you don't want to go to Church, ya can work here on Sunday mornings ... I mean if your folks don't mind."

"After yesterday, I'm thinking they won't allow me back in Church."

Larry laughed. "What'd ya do?"

"Just as soon not say."

"Never heard of bein' banned from Church."

"Well—suppose ya have now."

"So you're not scared of Hell?"

"Larry—if there's any truth to this religion shit, then there ain't one of us who stands a chance of going anywhere but hell!" Donny pulled his cigarette up to his mouth. He didn't look at Larry, but Larry was looking at him. And if he didn't know better, he would say that cigarette weighed a ton. Donny's hands shook, and this grew worse as his fingers approached his mouth, and he moved slow, methodic, and he was terrified, Larry could see it. He wasn't trying to be humorous, nor informative. He was making a statement, nothing more.

7

Donny thought about that day, as he looked into his bathroom mirror. He found he always did on Sunday mornings when he woke up to an empty home. To silence, eerie silence,

and there were no smells. Not of bacon frying in a cast iron pan. No hotcakes on the griddle, not even the smell of fresh Marlboro tobacco, burning inside the finest paper available. That would change soon enough.

But as he looked into his own eyes in that mirror in the bathroom, he wondered if anyone asked about him at Church. The Priest, the mothers of friends, the fathers of old girlfriends, the others, anyone?

His grandfather was distant now, his grandmother wouldn't say much more than hello. His mother and father choose their words carefully, and he felt like a stranger. Like he wasn't known, trusted, or liked. He felt eyes on him, whenever they were around. And he was sure they did watch him carefully, after all, he was possessed. He had seen the truth, but it wasn't their truth, or what they wanted it to be.

He reached up and ran his fingers around the mirror. There was black along the edges where the silver nitrate had rotted away. The mirror was old, real old, and it was dying, just like the home it was in.

He opened the mirror which was also a door and behind this door was a once white, but now rusted, medicine cabinet. Three trays, the top two were full with glass, Rexall, bottles that ranged from Iodine to aspirin. But Donny went on by those, he didn't have a headache. So he went straight to the bottom shelf where the bottles weren't made from glass. He went for his mother's pills. And unlike the others, these actually worked.

He pulled out the valium, he had already been given these thanks to the good doctor. And although Donny found them pleasant, they weren't good for working, they made him tired. So he went on to the next one and these warned of rapid heartbeats, and jitters. Of excessive thirst and loss of appetite. Amphetamines, they were called, and they were just what a long day desired.

He shook a couple out into his hands. He put the bottle back exactly the way it was and closed the door. While looking in the mirror, he swallowed one and stuck the other in his front pocket for later. No water was needed, he was getting good at taking pills.

He picked up a comb that sat along the side of the small white porcelain sink. He started for his hair and then he stopped. He looked at his nose. That nose, that long, broad, flat nose.

Nancy Dally—a girl from school, had named him "Caveman!"' She told him he had a nose that was square and his forehead was broad. Said he looked like a damn neanderthal! His hair was dark, almost black, so were his thick, bushy eye brows. And he was much shorter than most, and he walked bent over, like a caveman. So the others caught on, they made the connection, they began to call him the same thing.

He saw a caveman now as he looked at his reflection. Cavemen don't comb their hair, he thought, and he put the comb down. They don't brush their teeth, they don't bathe. If that's what I am, then so be it! He walked out of the bathroom and down the wood stairs that led to the living room. He looked at the clock and saw he had twenty minutes before Larry came to pick him up for work. He went out into the backyard where he saw Rooster running in the field. He called to him and the dog, unlike the others came as always. He didn't care if Donny went to Church. Rooster knew the truth and accepted it. Why not? He was the only one among them who had a shot at heaven.

Donny smiled as he bent down and petted the beast. He then handed him a ham bone, one he had saved the night before. "You just may be my only friend," he said, and Rooster cocked his head as though he was confused. Donny felt tears well up in his eyes, he knew Rooster didn't worry about something as familiar as friends. He wouldn't worry because the dog had nothing but friends. He wouldn't understand being alone, or lonely, he lived in the moment and the moments were good for Rooster. God, at that moment, Donny wished he was a dog. A dog with a ham bone.

He went back inside the home and walked down the hallway to where a door that led to the cellar stood on the left. He opened it and on the wall, was an electrical light switch. A rotary switch with two, separate, fabric, braided wires running into it. There was a click and on came a light bulb that hung from its cord. The passage lit up showing what appeared to be thousands of wood slats making the walls, and there was spackle pushed through the cracks. Making a hard shell on the interior of the home, but not the cellar. This was where the sins were seen. The unfinished product, the forgotten tunnel, and that's what it looked like. A shaft made for the less worthy. There was little difference what it was, perhaps canned goods, or boxes of things that were one step from the refuge. This was where the rats lived, the roaches, and even, sometimes, humans.

The stairs treads were made from old wood. Wood that had turned gray from years of death. And Donny knew the trees were alive, and they aged, no different than any living thing. And he knew that man would cut them down and use their carcasses to suit their needs. No different than wearing the skin of an animal. A leather coat, a mink stroll, a fox that still has the head attached. Hanging around the neck of some rich-bitch. Looking down now, with eyes made of marbles.

This thought bothered him, but he walked down the steps all the same. Until he touched the dirt floor. It was here, he stalled a moment and looked around. The cellar was

made for him, and he had always felt that way. The walls were red bricks, and he liked bricks. They were never alive, not the sand, or pebbles that make them, nor the mortar that holds them together. Donny saw the Earth itself as something dead but needed the living to exist. Perhaps hell, and the Earth didn't care about what grew, or walked, or ran on its surface. It only cared about itself, its existence. So he looked at those bricks as a revenge of sorts. A kick in the teeth to something so superior. Something that held all the cards.

But inside those walls he saw massive beams all made from wood, they rose up from the earth and held up the floor of the two-story home, also made from wood. In the corner, there was a bottle rack, pine perhaps and in the rack sat three bottles still full. Still aging.

He walked over to where a rag hung on this rack. He took the rag and dusted the bottles. Carefully making sure not to disturb them. These bottles were sacred, his grandfather had told him so, and Donny believed it. He could feel it, everyone could, it was the only reason they still remained.

8

"There's somethin' down there that's not for children," Marvin said as he chewed on a summer weed. "Probably shouldn't be tellin' Ya this, but seein' ya asked, I will, but don't say notin' to yer parents."

"I won't Grandpa," Donny replied.

"All right then. Ya see, back when that there home was built, this area was sparce with little in the way a pleasures. The farms—they was spread out with miles of land in-between. So what would happen is after the fall harvest, late fall would set in," he scratched his chin as he thought. "Suppose that would be around November. And you know that that meant."

"No—not really."

"It meant rain, cold and not much sun, that's that it meant! So most of the men—well, they would use this time for restin' `cause spring was around the corner, and work would need doin'. So for the next two months, they'd sit around and watch the rain fall.

"Then—just when ya thought it couldn't get no better, here'd come winter. And those men would spend their days huntin'. And ya know a man likes ta hunt. It's in the blood. But for the woman, their time was spent schoolin' the children, cookin', cleanin' . They was locked inside and them was long days indeed. Then came the spring and April's another month of watchin' the rain fall, and even if the men could get out in the fields, well— it's just a miserable time to be out there and they'd be in a God awful mood when they come home.

"So a farmer's life was hardest on the women. They's the ones who spent time couped up inside. And those homes get small, no matter how big they start out ta be."

"Cabin fever?" Donny asked.

"Suppose that's the proper name for it. Now there was some medicine for this fever, it's called corn whiskey, but once again, the men benefited as they went and got drunk. It wasn't long, they took to beaten' on the wife and children. So it was decided that a bottle of wine was a good compromise.

"Turns out a woman can drink it and take a break from life. And the men can drink it and stay nice and mellow. This prevented a lot of deaths."

"You saying the men were killing their wives?"

"Na, it was the women killin' the men. And it gets worse. You see that fever is a powerful thing, so the women weren't in their right frame of mind. Shoot—after they'd kill the ole-man, they'd realize there was no one to run the farm, or gather food. Seems they didn't think that far ahead, so they panicked and wound up killin' the whole damn clan, includin' themselves."

"Wow," Donny said, "And wine put a stop to that?"

"Well, not sure a that, but it had to help."

Donny thought a moment, "But if she shot the husband, wouldn't the children hear and make a run for it?"

"Most times they didn't want to wake the children, so no gun was used."

"You mean a knife?"

"Not just a knife, A butcher knife, and seein' back then the woman would butcher the hogs. They had a real good idea a what they was doin'"

"So why are the bottles in the cellar so special?"

"That's a proper question. Ya, see when me and your grandma purchased the place. The farmer who sold it to us said those three bottles were there when they bought the home. And those who sold it ta them made it known they was put there by their grandfather sometime in the mid-eighteen hundreds."

"Wow..., they're that old?"

"There's no markin's on `em so it's hard ta say. But as the story goes, it was at the end of winter, one of the worst they' ever seen. Said snow started fallin' in October and didn't stop until the end a March.

"At the time, eight people was living in the home total, the man, woman and six kids of all different ages, and as time passed, the wine started ta get low. So each time the ma would go to the cellar she come back more stressed. I suppose she feared they was gonna run out. But this went on until they was down ta the last three bottles. Those you have down in the cellar."

"And?"

"Well, the father got real worried on account a she was actin` strange. So they made a pact. One that stated: if she started to show signs of the fever, he was to lock her down in the cellar where she would remain `til the weather cleared."

"And?"

"As soon as they shook hands on it, the ole-man drug her ass straight to the cellar and locked the door."

"No way!"

"Yes way, and when the weather cleared, and they let her out. Them three bottles were still in the rack and as full as the day they's corked."

"I don't understand ... So everyone kept them for that reason?"

"Hell yea, You's too young ta understand, but someday ya will. Anyone who can sit down there for a month without drinkin' the wine? Well, that's a sign from God, that's what that is!"

9

He smiled and grabbed the fuel stained coveralls he wore at the station. The cellar was the only warm place his mother would allow them to hang. He went back up the stairs, closed the door. The tow truck was pulling down the gravel driveway, so he went out the back door. He saw Rooster sitting under an oak tree, chewing on his bone. He opened the passenger side door and climbed in.

"Morning," Larry said.

"Morning," Donny said the windshield wipers were on, the rain had begun to drop. "Another beautiful day!"

Chapter VI January seventh, 1968 Fourteen years old Benny seven, Pauly five.

1 A Taste Of The Christmas Blues

Donny sat at the kitchen table inside the old farmhouse, his pants were wet, he had been outside and walked the woods with Rooster. This was something that was becoming a Saturday morning tradition, one he never grew tired of.

The weather was foul, the sky was gray and spitting droplets of rain. As he sat there, he thought the walk with the dog would be the last time he would go outside. At least not until it was time to go to work, which wasn't until the afternoon.

The truth was, he was disgusted as the wet, fall had never turned to winter. He guessed the temperature at just a little above freezing and the cloud cover was so thick it looked as though the sun was setting and the clock hadn't yet read nine in the morning.

He looked out the window at the dead brown grass that was wet and laying flat on the ground. Smashed into the mud, the muck. He looked at his boots, and they were covered in what looked like potters clay. His mother sat across from him, and they shared an ashtray. Both were smoking one cigarette after another. Neither said a word and the only difference between them was she was drinking a cup of coffee. Coffee that was laced with Whiskey, and she would put the whiskey in the water before it brewed. That way it all warmed to the same temperature and the hotter, the better. That's what she said on many occasions. But Donny just thought perhaps she didn't like to share.

Don Senior was working as Christmas had just passed and he was concerned they would need some extra cash to pay off those credit cards. He had made this clear the night before when he went into a drunken rant about the money they had spent. Money they didn't have. As Donny sat there looking at his mother, he began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" she asked him, a smile crept on her face.

"I was thinking of how dad is working on Saturday, and he says it's because he spent too much on Christmas."

"And you think that's funny?"

"Hell yeah, I mean when he told me that, he acted as though it was all my fault like he spent all his money on me!"

"He bought you some gifts!"

"He bought me a pair of work shoes and coveralls."

"Well, you're getting older and harder to buy for."

"Yeah, I hear you, and I understand. But on Christmas morning when we all came down to see the tree was loaded with wrapped presents. It didn't take long to see ole Santa had me on the naughty list!"

His mother let out a chuckle. "I remember little Benny said that very thing,'Ya got coals, Donny!' That's what he said, then held up those work boots ... That smile he had, I swear it went from ear to ear."

Donny laughed as he did when it happened. Then all went silent.

"Your brothers," she said, and Donny knew she felt she should explain, "they're at that magical age where what they want costs a fraction of what you would want. So although you see a lot of under the tree, the money totals add up to close to the same amount."

"I understand, and I'm not complaining. All I'm asking is why Dad acts as though it's all my doings. I mean, I didn't even ask for anything."

She smiled, but her eyes showed pain. "Leave it to your father to give you a gift and then complain about the cost," she paused. "You know that's just how he is, and people can't just change."

Donny smiled as well, then stood and walked out of the room. Once he was out of sight, he shook his head and looked down. Some things weren't said, sharp observations that only a fool would miss. Like the fact that he bought his mother a bottle of #5 Chanel perfume, and he did this because he knew his father wouldn't. It was too expensive.

Or that he bought his father a new Carhart winter coat that cost twice what was paid for the K-Mart vinyl boots and cloth coveralls that he was given. No—all those things were ignored or forgotten shortly after they put down the wrapping paper. Perhaps it was the shame that blinded them.

No matter, it wasn't right to have to listen to his father complain about working on the weekend. And it was all Donny could do to keep from reminding him of who bought whom what. Or who took care of the boys when Mom was sleeping off a drunk, or who held a job and

did the dishes, cleaned the floors, washed the clothes. Who mowed the lawn, shoveled the snow, fixed the cars, did all a man should do! It wasn't his father, fuck no! Nor his mother. Couldn't get Pauly or Benny away from the television so they were little help. No sir—at the end of the day it was Donny and only Donny. So he felt needed, there was no doubt about that, but he wasn't appreciated, not at all. No—it was all about Pauly and Benny. They were the special ones and although he thought that would change as they grew older, it wasn't. It was still Donny who made dad's life miserable, and there didn't seem to be a thing he could do about it.

So although he wanted to speak out, he didn't. Not because he feared Don Senior, but rather he knew, like the gifts, his words would be forgotten shortly after he was violently put in his place. There was no point so he did all he could do. He decided that from that day on, he wouldn't buy them anything of worth, and he would leave that house and family as soon as possible.

Disgusted, he went upstairs and to his room. He laid on his bed. He looked up at the ceiling at that fan, that old fan that never moved, couldn't move. His mind began to wonder, and it returned to the wine bottles in the cellar. To the fable, that made them special. He wondered how much truth was left in tales that were told over time. Over a hundred years. How accurate could they be?

He got out of bed and walked over to his closet where he opened the door and pulled on the string that turned on the lightbulb. There was a wooden dowel that ran the length of the little room where at one time clothes would hang. Donny had no clothes that needed a hanger. Not since he stopped going to church.

And skipping out on Sunday services had helped him make good on his promise to become what Nancy Dally had said he was. He was a caveman. His hair was long and greasy, his teeth were yellow and stained, already showing black rot, decay. He wasn't shaving, had never had a blade to his face. So why would he need clothing that needed a hanger? Cavemen don't hang up clothes!

So this wooden doll, that hung empty in his closet, he lifted it from its perch and set it off to the side. On the ceiling was an access hatch, one that led to the attic which was off limits and there was no reason given for why this was. To Donny's knowledge, nothing was ever stored up there.

There was a latch on the hatch, a key lock secured it closed. The lock was old and a dark, bronze colored. The slot where the key would enter was simple, a skeleton key. Donny had looked at it a million times and it intrigued him. It seemed to call out to him, as it was one of the two mysteries this old house held. How old is that lock? When was it put there? Why can't anyone go up there?

It was a boring day, a rainy day, and what better day to solve a mystery. He went to the desk where he did his homework. Or was supposed to do it. The truth was, he had little time for school, and since his mother was passed out drunk when the principle called, not going wasn't an issue.

But that wasn't right, he was going, only he didn't enter. He showed his face long enough to buy drugs, socialize, and create the illusion of being a good boy. Beyond that, there was little point. He wasn't going to college, he was going to Vietnam, they all went to 'nam,' boys like him. He would be dead before he was able to legally drink. There was no reason to worry about a future, there would be none.

"You'd do good to stay clear a 'Nam!" His grandpa had told him. "My war, the big number two, we fought side by side. Rich folk, poor folk, blacks and whites. Hell, even injins were with us. The reason for that was it was win or else. But that ain't the way it is with this here war. This one's only fought by the poor. Those who can't afford college and such. This war's more of a cleansin' than anythin'. Mark my words—someday this'll be known. Don't let um fool ya!"

But there was no 'staying clear,' because there was no college, not in his future. And for a reason not known to him at this time, he didn't really care.

So he didn't bring home report cards, and his mother thought nothing of it. She never wanted to know, denial is a beautiful thing. An alcoholic's best friend. Donny didn't go shopping for school clothes in the fall. He paid for his own supplies, his books. So don't ask, and I won't tell. You won't want to hear it—I promise you that!

But all the same, the desk sat where it should, and in a little drawer, off to one side, there was a paper clip that according to the television, should be perfect for picking such an easy lock.

He straightened it and then bent a little hook on the end. Then he looked at it and smiled, it was just like what he had seen in the past. He took the chair that sat under the desk and carried it across the room and into the closet where he stood on it so he could reach the lock.

He worked it, over and over again. He jiggled the clip, but nothing was happening. It wasn't as easy as it looked on TV. Soon, his arms were tired from holding them up, and his neck was beginning to stiffen. He stopped and climbed back down and sat on the chair.

"Where would they put the key?" he whispered. "They'd never need it, so they wouldn't carry it, so it's around here somewhere."

He cleared his mind, allowed it to wonder. In their room? Maybe, but it would be hidden. But where? He frowned. What's it matter ... I'm not going in there. The place smells like piss. Besides, they'd kill me if they found out.

He looked back at the lock and then smiled. He went downstairs out of the house and into the old wooden shed that housed what few tools his father had. He grabbed a pry bar that was hanging on an old steel nail. He headed back to his room, making sure his mother didn't see him. Success—he made it to the stairs, up them, now he only had to make it down the hall.

"What are you doing?" he heard and came to a stop. He looked into his brother's room where Benny lain in his bed. He was raised up on his elbows looking at Donny. That pry bar felt like it weighed a thousand pounds hanging by his side.

"Nothing," he said, "go back to sleep!" He went on knowing Benny most likely wouldn't go to back to bed.

"Damn it!" He said once he was inside his room. Knowing his little brother would soon be at his door. That he would have know what was going on, and if he saw the broken lock or opened hatch, he would tell their parents. He may not mean to, he may promise not to, but he would all the same. Keeping secrets seemed to be something he had little control over.

He went back to his bed, took a seat. He looked out the old, broken window he had never replaced. He put the crowbar in the corner, out in plain sight. Should anyone ask, he used it to try and pry open the window. Why he would want to open the window on such a nasty day, he hadn't a clue. But it was already after ten so his mother wouldn't be too curious.

2

Donny thought about that crowbar three days later as he walked up to the entrance of his middle school. It remained in the corner where he had placed it, as expected, no questions were asked. He even made sure his mother saw it. Still—no interest.

He let that go now as he walked through the bus staging area. He watched the kids who were exiting their big yellow taxis. Single lines, most looking bored as hell. Zombies really. They walked down the wet concrete up the steps and into the old red brick building. But those bricks were no longer red, they had faded to a dull brown color, the same as dried blood. Donny took it in, he saw it as aging, and this old building would fall at some point, just like everything around it. He smiled as this was a relief. Nothing was safe.

Fuck you mortar,

fuck you brick,

you will turn to dust you prick!

He laughed.

On the front, engraved in concrete, was the word, "Kennedy," and under was a date which read, "1829". She was showing her age, Donny thought.

In each classroom, there was a large fireplace. In the auditorium and cafeteria, there were three. Windows lined the parameter of the building, at least most of it. Thick glass, made from old bottles. Melted down and distorted. They sat in frames made from wood, and most, like his at home, wouldn't open. This school wasn't wide nor deep, but it was high, boasting four floors. A grand wood staircase spiraled up straight inside the double glass entrance doors, which was the center of the building.

But most of the students thought the place smelled, and it did. Smelled of age and most of the teachers looked like they were old enough to have cut the ribbon during the opening ceremonies. The stench of moth balls and ammonia rose up through the grained wood floors and filled the room. This haze couldn't be seen, but it could be felt. It was there and represented all who had passed throughout time. 1829, how many kids have grown old and died during those years? How many ghosts wander those halls, sit in those old chairs and run their hands across those attached desks? Donny shuttered at the thought.

The fireplaces no longer burnt wood, there was a boiler room now. Radiators were installed, and they creaked and moaned all day long. Like they were attempting to give birth or perhaps it was another call from the great beyond. No one was sure, but it was eerie, and the girls would scream out on occasions, and they weren't scolded for doing so.

Donny felt as though he had done his time inside those doors, and in the end, it would be proven correct. He would never step foot inside them again. Fourteen years old, eight grade would be as far as he would go.

"Live now, for tomorrow we die!" Something like that was said by someone. Donny wasn't sure who said it, but he wasn't the only one who heard it or understood it. Many young men who had older brothers had already watched them, graduate, then leave home, only to return in a box. How much education is needed to carry a rifle through the jungle? To shoot people? To get shot? Killed? Not much, only a high-school diploma or less.

So fuck the law, let's do drugs, let's shoot up, what ya got? Pass it around. `Cause there's no tomorrow. Not for us, not in the land of the free, or the home of the wealthy. They say slavery was abolished long ago, it damn sure don't feel that way. The only thing that changed are the masters. They're now the government, and the slaves—well they're us poor fucks! Grandpa was right, it's a cleansing. A cleansing of young men who aren't going to add up to much. And

there's a hell of a lot of us. More born every second. So pass that joint, hand me that needle, heat that spoon, what the hell are you waiting for!

Donny didn't realize it, but he was biting his lip, the blood began to flow into his mouth, the metallic copper taste, unmistakable. He walked past the busses and those who rode them. He didn't take the bus, although he could, one ran past his home, but he was close enough, within a mile and he liked the freedom, so he walked. This way he could smoke while on his journey, and he didn't plan on staying long.

The clouds were gray, full of moisture. The temperature was below freezing and it looked as if it would snow at any moment. But so far, there was nothing but a frigid wind that blew from the South. This wind made Donny's eyes water, his ear lobes sting, he pulled his stocking cap down a little farther.

On the South end of the school, there was a concrete slab that was the basketball court. On this side, there were no windows, and rightfully so, the glass wouldn't last long. But that didn't matter now, there was no one taking shots with a ball. Now, the court belonged to the smokers, the druggies, those who needed to remain unseen. And this was the time to take care of those urges, those addictions, because once inside, there was no smoking. So they gathered and they got high, they got right, because this was the place to go to get the goods to make all that happen. So if you weren't interested in joining in, don't walk to the South end before the bell rang.

Donny was interested and as he turned the corner and walked onto the old court, he saw his friend Steve Rousch standing with his arms wrapped around his mid-section. He was apparently freezing while smoking a cigarette. Donny smiled, Steve wouldn't wear a hat, his long blonde locks were his strong point, Suzy Deantor had told him so and her words held more weight than promise. All the same, Steve refused to do anything that would flatten it, or cover it, that couldn't happen. He wouldn't even pull up the hood that was attached to his coat.

Standing next to Steve, was a kid named, Tony Witchner. It was rumored, Tony had an older brother who had connections up in Chicago which wasn't that far away. Donny thought these rumors to be true because Tony always had the best stuff around. Marijuana—no problem, sold by the joint, unless prior arrangements were made. Speed—sure. Downers—certainly. Herione—sometimes, and this went on and on, although the stronger drugs, would come and go. Still, it was worth it to ask: "what's the drug of the day?"

"Acid!" Tony said, and Donny thought a moment.

Tony stood tall, patient and he was a dealer, true and trained. He didn't look like a hippie, and that was smart. No—he looked like a track star, a gymnast, something athletic that required body strength but not bulk. He was clean cut, he didn't smoke, didn't do drugs. Not even grass. No—Tony was the last person you would suspect, and that made him perfect for the job.

"How much?" Donny asked.

"Three-a-hit."

"Pricey!"

"This is good, make ya see the stars up close."

"How close?"

"Touch `em if you like."

"How long will the trip take?"

"Couple a hits, maybe eight hours, give or take."

Donny pulled out six bucks, handed it to Tony. Tony reached into one of his many pockets and pulled out a gum wrapper. One folded like an American flag. "Have fun," he said. Then walked away, just like a pro, just like his older brother had taught him.

"He's going to go far," Steve said and smiled. "What you gonna do with those?" he asked, speaking of the wrapper.

"Not sure. Guess I'll go on a vacation."

"Well, If I know you, you could do them in a damn police station, and they wouldn't know."

"That's what I'm counting on." Donny was no stranger to LSD.

3

But he wasn't truthful when he said he didn't know what he would do with the acid. He knew and scoring the drug couldn't have come at a better time. On this day, he would return home and go up into the attic. He had pushed off the exploration on Saturday, as expected, little Benny was standing in his doorway not long after Donny had passed his room. Now, he was safe because his brothers would be in school.

It was decided this to be the day after he realized his mother was already drinking when he got up in the morning. That meant by the time she dropped Pauly off at school, she would be feeling good. She'd go home and finish what she started, knowing well that she wouldn't have to be somewhat sober until afternoon. That meant by ten o'clock, she would be hammered and hopefully passed out. Either way, he was sure he could sneak in without her knowing.

She had continued her daily routine, drinking whiskey with her coffee. When she thought there was no one around, she added two valiums. Then, with a fifth in her right hand, she stumbled to the couch and patiently waited for the pills to hit. And they did, they always hit, you could count on it, Donny counted on it. Because it was cold out, and he wasn't in school. Because he could only wonder the streets for so long, and work wasn't until the afternoon.

So he returned home, and there she'd be, either passed out, or looking straight ahead with eyes that saw nothing. Didn't matter, either way she hadn't a clue what was really going on. She didn't know that Grandma Gladys had stopped by on many occasions and would no longer do so ... The reason? She feared she would find her dead.

As for Grandpa Marvin, he tried to warn Don Senior but that was a waste. It seemed as long as she stayed off his ass, she could do what she pleased.

So if everything went as planned, he would have hours of alone time. He looked at his watch. Seven-fifty. I'll head home around nine-thirty.

"What do you make of that?" Steve asked. Donny lit another cigarette then looked to where his friend was pointing.

There was a backhoe along with a bulldozer sitting still. Walking around looking lost, were some workers. It was obvious they were going to break ground.

"Must be where the new schools going," Donny said.

"I know that, but it's winter," Steve replied, "why would they start now? They have to know, soon the ground will be frozen!"

Donny took a long draw then looked over at him. "I guess they're looking to get an early start. Why? What do you care?"

"`cause one of them assholes was over here and gave us a bunch of shit for smoking. Said soon there was going to be an elementary school over there and the playground would end close to where we're standing."

"So what?"

"So what ...? He said their mothers won't like their children playing so close to a bunch of greasy-haired hippies!"

"And you don't think you're a greasy haired hippy?" Donny asked and took another drag off his smoke. He looked over and saw Nancy Dally watching him. He frowned and replied, "when they call you a caveman, then you can complain."

"I hear ya. Hey, probably stupid to ask, but are you going to class?"

"No," Donny replied, "I've got some things to do."

Steve took the last hit off from his cigarette and then stamped what was left out on the ground. "I have to go," he said, "don't want to be late."

"You need to pick up that butt," Donny yelled out. "You don't want the children to find that thing!"

Steve raised his hands, signaling, 'whatever...' and continued on.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Donny saw Nancy Dally walking towards him. He turned to face her, surprised more than anything. She looked good, her tight curly brown hair flowed out from under her cap. Her deep blue eyes showed well against her dark eyebrows and lashes. Her smile was sweet, sexy. She was a little heavy now, he would admit that, but she could do better than a caveman so all he could think of was the hell did she want with him?

She came up close, danced around a little on her feet, then asked: "Are you going to the dance this Friday?"

"I don't dance," he replied as he brought the cigarette up to his lips.

"Don't `cause you don't want to, or `cause you can't."

"Is there a difference?"

"No, not really, I mean, but you don't have to dance, you could come and hang out ... It'd be fun."

Donny laughed, "Fun for who?"

She smiled and walked away, then turned and looked at him. "Maybe another time." She said and disappeared around the corner.

Donny shook his head, disgusted. Sure she was messing with him, and he wasn't a child any longer. He could imagine her now, speaking with her friends, laughing.

"Did the caveman get excited?" they'd ask.
"What do you think!" Would be her answer, but that would be a lie, because Donny didn't give her a chance, or the satisfaction of fooling him, of leading him on or letting him down.

He shook it off, convinced himself that he could care less what she thought, that she was nothing special. I mean true—she did have some nice breasts, but I don't see no football star asking her to the prom. "So fuck you!" he said in a low voice and then threw his smoke on the ground and walked away.

4

He went down US twenty about half a mile to where there was a little café off to the right. The place always had a heavy breakfast crowd so Donny thought he would give it a try. After all, he did have some time to kill.

The place was small, perfectly square with a flat roof. Outside there was a sign which just read: 'Café' written sideways. And in the center was a big arrow that dropped down from the sky and then bent to a point which showed the entrance.

All along the side of the sign were empty sockets where round light bulbs of various colors were supposed to be. Now, nothing was remaining but the rusted holes empty of their counterparts. He stopped momentarily as the memory of the man-beast returned to him. That caged animal at the carnival so long ago. Those lights, they flashed, and where different colors. He wondered if that freak show was still on the road. God, he hoped it wasn't. He hoped the man-beast found peace. But he knew that wasn't likely, and the memory of that night still haunted him. Those eyes, that fear, that feeling of hopelessness. Perhaps because he could relate. Maybe he was becoming a man-beast. Why not, he was already a caveman. How much farther would he have to go?

The Café was named: 'The coffee pot,' and the words were painted on the glass that ran the entire front of the building. He could see the people sitting inside and some watched him. Most likely wondered why he wasn't in school. But Donny didn't care, as no one asked the caveman why he did what he did. The caveman was like the man-beast, and the man-beast didn't go to school. But the truth was, Donny already looked older than his actual age. Puberty had come early, and he already had a spotty beard and thin mustache. No—those people weren't looking at him because they feared for his education—they were looking at him because they feared him.

Along the front was a gravel parking lot, and cars were lined up, side by side. Not a vacant spot left. But Donny didn't need to park. He walked past those cars and to the door. Then he entered and stopped, and he stood until the door closed. Those inside thought he was waiting to be seated, but that wasn't the case. He looked around and then with a voice that was loud and came from somewhere desperate, he said: "Before you ask, I have money, and the reason I'm not in school is because they caught me smoking and expelled me!"

The place instantly went silent. Everyone turned and looked at him. This seemed to go on for hours but then the waitress, a lovely young woman spoke out: "Sit where ever you like--honey!"

Donny chose a booth, one that was far from the other patrons. He knew this would make both thee and he more comfortable. This feeling of inferiority was growing stronger with age. Stronger as the sixties generation pursued such drastic change. Both in politics, and appearance. To see this Juvenile rendition of a Western hippy right here in the heartland was disturbing. A social outcast, that's what he is? Where's his parents? What's this world coming too? And the ever more popular: Nam will straighten him out!

The West was changing, Donny knew this. Peace and love were beginning to take to the streets. And seeing Elkhart Indiana was close to Gary Indiana and Chicago. The region was getting it's fair share of illegal drugs (thank you Tony Witchner and your brother). So the locals were sensitive to the subject. And Donny knew at age fourteen, he already looked a lot like the flower children that were showcased on the nightly news. And why not, the Vietnam war was in full swing, and retaliation was in the air. The news preached of overdoses and deaths in the states. And it was all around them. In the schools, the streets. They could smell it on the children when they stepped off the bus. When they sat at the dinner table.

No—Donny and his kind were a threat to the American way of life. They were an embarrassment to those who had served in the past. Those who gave their lives. "White nigger!" That's what he was called, and he had heard it before. He could hear it whispered now, and those who hated the black man, found a new breed to loathe. He knew this, but what does a caveman care. Or a man-beast for that matter.

"Coffee?" he heard and lowered his menu to see the young waitress standing there with a pot in her hand.

"Please," he said and pulled a cigarette from his pack.

5

After breakfast, Donny walked through the field behind his home. He was staying inside the tree-line just in case there was someone he knew who was out and about. Grandpa or maybe Grandma.

Snow was spitting down on him now, the ground was hard, frozen. The sound of glass crystals being smashed underfoot was heard, and it echoed inside his head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the gum wrapper that held the two hits of acid. It was empty, the wrapper was unfolded.

He let it go and watch it as it floated to the ground like a feather in the wind. Waving back and forth, twirling side to side ... He smiled, it was so beautiful, and so were the flakes of snow, and the brown grass, the dirt, and frozen mud. It was all stunning and the trees, they rose up into the sky and blew through the gray clouds. They went up to where the sun burned and Donny was sure it was pleasing up there.

Squirrels were stuck to the sides of these trees. Their claws dug into the bark like spikes into a telephone pole. That's what they were, linemen. They looked at Donny, their eyes were wide, black and bright. Shining with life and love, and they did love Donny, and Donny loved them. They scooted on up the tree in a flash, through the clouds and out of sight. God, he wanted to join them, and he swore they wanted him too. But he wasn't a lineman. He was a walker and walkers are forced to remain on the ground.

This smile he wore, it seemed painted on his face. He went on, looking around, taking in each fragment of light, each flake of snow. Each sound was studied inside his head, they were identified, then placed in their proper folder, stored in his memory bank. He could feel this, and it was euphoric.

Tony Withner was right, he could touch the stars if he wanted to.

He found he was wondering now, walking in circles. Only changing his area of travel mildly. He came to a stop when was in front of the old, abandoned house that stood in the forest. The house he and his grandfather visited long ago. And it seemed an eternity since they were here. It was the day he was given his gun.

He laughed as he thought about the chickens who would haunt them. That is if such a thing were possible. His Grandpa had a point. Besides a pig, chickens really did get a bad deal. And he liked chickens, they seemed to be all right.

He walked up onto the front porch, the door was busted down, fragments of glass were everywhere. The door framing was leaning now, moving back and forth like a boat on rough seas. Donny knew it wasn't. Not really, so he entered the home. He stood beyond the entryway and looked around, nothing had changed since his last visit.

The walls were exposed with chunks of spackle lying on the floor. The rooms were bare, the doors were missing. But Donny didn't see it that way. He saw a home, warm and comfortable. He saw a family, a beautiful young mother who wore clothes that showed no skin. A dress that went from chin to floor. Her hair was up in a bun, she was plain, but he could see she was stunning.

Her eyes, he thought, it's her eyes, they're the brightest green I've ever seen. He laughed at the rhyme. He thought they would hear, but he wasn't there, or they weren't there. He wasn't sure which, but he knew it wasn't real. He was a spectator, nothing more.

"Don't worry," she told a little girl, one of three who sat at the table, "it will return."

Donny wondered what that meant. The mother then poured soup, or porridge into the little girl's bowl. Then she went around the table, one by one feeding her young. Like good mothers do.

In the background, was the kitchen, and the stove caught Donny's eye. It was a wood-burning stove. A real one and it was only now did he realize he was back in time. There was a fire burning in the hearth. Oil lanterns hung on steel hangers, patiently waiting. Rough paintings hung on the wall, but they looked to be drawn by the children. The furniture, was wood, covered in cloth, nothing more. No padding, no leather, only the simplest of materials.

This family was modest, Donny thought, even by olden day standards.

He left them now, the mother, she took her place at the table, and it was time to eat. Leaving seemed to be the proper thing to do.

He walked up the stairs, to the second floor. He looked around and noticed the home closely resembled his own.

Why wouldn't it? He thought. They were made close to the same time. Most likely by the same carpenter. Why wouldn't the layout be similar? But I've been in here before, why wouldn't I have noticed this in the past? You weren't tripping in the past! This made him laugh. The sound of his voice reverberated down the hall like through a canyon.

He went on, and for reasons not known to him, he walked past all the rooms and went straight to his. Is it mine? He wondered. Was I here in the past? Was this my room?

Once inside, he headed straight to the closet, he looked up, and there was the hatch, the same hatch he had at home. And that hatch had the same lock, old, black bronze, opened by a skeleton key. He smiled, it was the same all right.

He went to the wall which had the window, and there was a pry bar leaning in the corner. A rusty bar, he picked it up and went back to the closet. Now, a chair sat just inside the doorway. He wondered where it came from, but only for a second. There were more important things to be concerned with. He climbed up on it, he shoved the curved end of the bar through the clasp and yanked. It only took once ... The lock and clasp came free. Four screws showed, and the whole thing swung loose on the male portion of the rig.

Donny pushed the hatch up, then off to the side. He pulled himself through the opening, and he was strong, damn strong, gymnast strong. He was in the attic now, there was light coming in from two vents, each located on both peaks of the home. He waited a moment, allowed his eyes to adjust.

It was dark, but not black. He could see there was no floor laid. The only thing showing were the rafters then under them were the slats and then the spackle. The same as the basement tunnel. He would choose his footing wisely, he would stay on top of the rafters.

He made his way around the edges first. Then moved inward, a little more with each pass. Cobwebs now covered him, he could taste the dust in his mouth, and there was nothing up there. Certainly, nothing that would constitute a lock. Still, he went on, and the closer he came to the middle, the less light he had to see with.

He was about to giving up, but he had to be sure. There wouldn't be another attempt, the cobwebs would see to that. But he was out of room, one more pass was all that was left, and then something up ahead caught his attention.

It wasn't easy to see, sticks really. But they were nailed to the center support of a rafter, and this rafter was positioned dead center of the home. East and West, North and South. Donny stood in front of it now. It was nailed at eye length, he ran his hands over it, pushing away the dust. It was a cross, a crucifix made of what looked like chair legs. But old ones, square cut, and simple.

He could see there was writing on the wood, but it had faded, and he couldn't make out what it said. "Figures," he whispered. "All that and it's nothing more than a religious plea for protection."

He turned, headed for the light that came up through the hatch. But as he walked across the rafters, the light faded, first turning yellow, then gray, then black. The hatch was gone, and for the first time on this trip, Donny felt fear, and that's not good. Fear leads to paranoia, paranoia leads to panic, and there is a name for this, Donny knows it—it's called: "a bad trip!"

But there's no stopping it, so he moves faster and loses his footing on one of the rafters. He's falling now, certain his knees will go through the spackle and slats. His body would surely follow, and he will fall to the hardwood floor, or the stairs, he's not sure where he is. He braces himself, but upon impact, he doesn't feel rafters or slats. He feels dirt, and he slides across it and stops.

Now, he's lying on his side in the black. He smells something familiar, the stench of fuel and oil. His coveralls, that's what it is, but that would mean he's in the basement, his basement. How can that be? He wonders and even though it's cold and damp, he's sweating, he scared and close to panic.

Then, in the darkness, and it is coal black, he hears something, a voice, a woman's voice. He knows it. It's the mother he left down below. The angel who fed her children. She was singing something, over and over again. A rhyme.

"Tick tock, said the clock, your world is passing by,

blue red it's all in the head as time is but a lie.

For months are days and in a haze, the truth can still be seen,

open your eyes before the scream, as life is but a dream."

This calms him, and he's not sure why? Maybe it's the sound of her voice, it's smooth, low and sweet. She's at ease, and he can sense this. He reaches into his pocket, searching for his matches. All the while that voice continues to call out into the darkness.

"Tick tock, said the clock, your world is passing by,

blue red it's all in the head as time is but a lie.

For months are days and in a haze, the truth can still be seen,

open your eyes before the scream, as life is but a dream."

He finds them, the matches and they're in his hands now, he opens the flap and pulls two out from the pack. He concentrates, his hands, they're shaking, violently as his heart is beating hard and fast. He can feel it, swears he can. He stricks them but misses the flint strip, there's no spark. He's attempting a second try when he hears something new, and he knows this sound. It's wood hitting wood. Then there's a dull thump, followed by squeaking. Back and forth like a child on a swing.

The matches lit this time. The flame lights up the cellar for a second, but that was enough.

She was there, the mother, she was hanging from a rafter. A chair now rested sideways against the wood stairs. She swung back and forth, the rope moaned as it rubbed against the wood. In that second, he saw her hair was down, her face was dirty, the bottom of her feet were black. Her dress was soiled.

The flame burnt his fingers so he threw the matches on the dirt floor. He shuffled backward, using his hands and feet. Crabwalking, then he hit the brick wall with the back of his head and instantly—his trip was over.

6

He bolted upright, out from something that resembled a deep sleep. He looked around, he was in his room, in his bed. He was wet and realized he had urinated in his clothes. He was scared, still shaking, and he hadn't a clue what in the dream was real and what wasn't. But his answer would come soon enough.

He was covered in dust and cobwebs, he was dirty, and that dirt didn't come from the attic, it was from the cellar.

He got out of bed and went to the closet where he saw the hatch was open, the lock and clasp hung from their hinge, just like in the dream. The chair was placed in position under the opening.

He went to his desk, open one of the drawers and pulled out some Elmer's glue and tape. He returned to the closet, climbed on the chair and put the hatch back in its place. He then put glue on each of the four screws that stuck through the clasp. He positioned them back in the wood using the same holes. Then, he taped it in place. He would remove the tape after the glue had dried.

He returned the chair back under the desk. The glue and tape back in the drawer. He closed his closet door then looked around. Everything looked to be in its place.

He went out into the hall. The sound of the television could be heard. That meant his mother was home, but that wasn't a surprise, he knew the sun was setting which meant it was close to five in the afternoon. It also meant he was late for work.

He went into the bathroom where he took a shower, the first shower in what seemed like years, but was closer to weeks. He washed the cobwebs from his face, hands and hair. He looked at the drain and watched as the black water rolled in circles before it disappeared. He then dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist. He looked in the mirror, and he was pale, gray pale, but that wasn't bad as he was going to tell his mother he was sick. That it was illness that had made him late.

He hadn't a clue what she knew, or how much. If she had caught him or if she even cared. Then, there were his brothers, who were no doubt running around. But they would stay out of his room, so as long as he was sleeping when they came home, he would be all right. He brushed his hair put on some deodorant, then went to his room where he put on some clothes.

He pulled the sheets from the bed and threw them in his dirty clothes hamper. He was clean now so he could smell them. The strong stench of urine, sweat and body oil. Then he tried to relax, to calm down and think about what had happened.

He was ashamed but wasn't sure why. It wasn't because he took the acid, that was nothing new. He hadn't let anyone down, or did I? he wondered. Who the hell knows what I did? Was I even at the diner? Did I really talk to Nancy Dally? Did I go into that vacant home? My attic? My cellar? Did I really see that woman, those kids? If so, where the hell was I? In someone's home?

He placed his head into his hands, his mind hummed, it spun, he felt nauseous. He could see her, the woman, he could hear the rope rubbing the beam, and all he could wonder was what role did he play in it? He wept, keeping the sound down.

"It was so real," he whispered, shaking his head. He stood and paced back and forth. The movement helped. He stopped when he came to his desk. He took a close look at it and wondered when it was made.

"The eighteen hundred's?" he whispered, and he thought of the dress the woman was wearing. It did look like something seen in a western. He looked at his closet door, he wished the hatch was still open. But that wasn't true, he wanted to verify the cross was nailed up there, but he wouldn't have looked, even if he could. Not for a long time, maybe never.

He thought about the school, the machinery that may or may not have been real. What was it Steve had said? Something about the ground being frozen? They would have a hard time digging in the frozen soil. Solid as the moisture in the dirt would freeze the sand together. It would be like concrete then.

Lastly, he thought about the woman hanging in the basement, and it all came to him in a wave of emotion that was so strong, he could see it. He may have still been tripping, maybe a little, but he could feel it as though he was there. And he knew he wasn't wrong, he knew now he was never in the abandoned home, he was in his attic, his cellar.

"Holy shit," he whispered, "The story of the wine bottles in the cellar! That was her, the woman who was locked down there! She didn't drink the wine because she killed herself, and it was a hard winter, harder than they'd ever seen. That's what Grandpa said, so the ground

would have been frozen. So when they came down to find her dead ... where would they have buried her? The only place they could, the only place the ground wasn't solid—the cellar! They would have buried her in the cellar!" He stood and began to pace again. "She's still down there! There is a fucking woman buried directly under where we sleep! And she's come back from the dead!" The sound of her voice returned to him.

""Tick tock, said the clock, your world is passing by,

blue red it's all in the head as time is but a lie.

For months are days and in a haze, the truth can still be seen,

open your eyes before the scream, as life is but a dream."

7

Three days had passed since Donny had taken his trip. He had gotten off easy as no one had a clue what he had done. He had left before his father came home from work. His mother thought he was sick, his brother's could care less, and Larry at the station just docked his pay. No problem, life seemed to be going on.

But emotionally, Donny was taking a beating. He couldn't sleep, he had lost his appetite and was smoking twice what he had in the past. He was pale, and even Larry had voiced concern.

Donny told him it was only the flu, and it was going around, but Donny didn't have the flu. He was living in hell, and nightmares would overtake him should he close his eyes. And those dreams were more than harmless plays performed by the mind. They were real, she was real, and she was there, buried not too far under the surface of his cellar floor. And that acid had fucked him up and wasn't about to let him go. But was that it? He wondered. I mean, there was the scene in the church, wasn't that real? It sure seemed so!

He had spoken to his Grandpa, hinted around about what he knew, but the bait wasn't taken, and why would it be? Grandpa didn't look at Donny as his first grandson. No—his grandson would be clean cut, would go to Church and praise God. He wouldn't come around smelling of skunk weed, with long, greasy hair. He would be like Benny and Pauly, they were grandson material. So little was said, and only Rooster and Grandma showed love to Donny now. Grandpa showed nothing more than tolerance, and only because he felt a good Christian had too.

After that conversation, Donny decided he couldn't speak to no one about this. They would think he was insane, and perhaps he was, or at least close. Either way, he kept it bottled up and self-medicated increasing his downer intake, while lowering his speed pills. He smoked

more dope, and kept things calm, real easy like. This seemed to be working, and it would for awhile. It always does, like the cheese in the mousetrap, it's real good until the trap snaps.

So here he was—standing behind a Buick Riviera. This was the first he had seen of this model, and it was slick in design. Streamlined with the rear windshield tapering into the trunk, which followed the same angle to the rear bumper. It was clean, even with the wet, salted roads it looked new, and Donny wondered how that could be?

Through the rear windshield, he could see there was a wood dowel that ran from one side to the other. Dress shirts, suit coats, and slacks hung on hangers, they were so thick, the driver couldn't be seen.

Donny held the gas pump in his right hand, his left reached out to pull down the spring-loaded license plate. "Georgia," it read, a southern car driven by a southern gentleman. And the driver was a gentleman, he could tell it right off.

"If you would be so kind," he said with a southern drawl, "I would prefer the ethyl over the regul`are."

Donny thought this amusing, the man sounded like Yosemite Sam from the Looney Tunes cartoons. And he looked a lot like Foghorn Leghorn. With a long pointed nose, lily-white skin. He was bald with a fire red hair patch that still hung off the center of his forehead. About the size of a half dollar.

He couldn't see him now, not through the clothes, but he could see the cigar smoke that rolled out from his slightly opened side window. Donny pulled down the plate, removed the gas cap and shoved the nozzle in. He set the flow to medium then walked to the front of the car and washed the windshield.

"Would you like me to check the oil?" He asked as he put the squidgy back in the water bucket. The man had his window farther down now.

"If you would be so kind," he said. "I have been on this road for some time, and I fear my journey is far from over. With that said, one would do well to take care of his carriage ... If ya know what I mean."

Donny did, he went to the front, pulled the latch. He checked the oil. "A quart low, would you like me to add some?"

"Please, kind sir!"

As he was adding the oil, Donny heard the gas nozzle snap. The tank was full. He dropped the hood, he went back and removed the nozzle, placed the cap back on. He put the nozzle back in the holder and wiped his hands with a red, shop rag he kept in his pocket. He walked to the driver's side window where now, the gentleman had the window all the way down.

"That'll be ten dollars even," Donny said. He could see the man was going through his cash. Loose bills he held in his hand. He pulled out a fifty and handed out the window.

"Could you, by chance, provide change for this?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Ooh wait," he pulled the bill away, his right hand went into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a couple of single bills. "No, suppose a fifty will have to do."

Donny took the bill, made change and wished the man a good day. He watched as the Buick drove out of the parking lot. Down U.S. twenty, past the street lights and out of sight.

He wondered what the man did for a living? A traveling salesman, no doubt. He slept in hotels at night, and drove the highways by day. He was free, or a slave, it all depended on whether he made the sale, but that would be up to him.

Donny thought him lucky, and the fact he had loose bills in every pocket meant he was doing fine. Fine enough he didn't trip over quarters to pick up dimes (as they say). That was something not often seen in Northern Indiana.

Donny knew he would see no such offer. The Hoosier State had hands that held onto their locals, or so it seemed. People left, but they always returned, and it didn't take long. Alive or dead, one way or the other, they always came back.

He walked back inside then to the doorway that led out to the bays were Larry was giving a car a tuneup. The hood was open, a light hung from a cord that was clipped to the hood and shined down into the engine compartment. The bays were always cold and drafty, always dark and smelled of engine fluids. The floor was slick, wet, and like ice. Donny wondered if this was where he was destined to remain, if he had found his career, his lively hood? He would like to think it wasn't. He would like to believe he would follow close behind the salesman, but one look in the mirror would show him that wasn't going to happen.

He turned and went back to the desk where he sat in a chair and waited for the next customer. His shifts now went from four in the afternoon until eight at night. In the past, time went by fast, but the fatigue and stress seemed to be slowing it considerably. Was that it?

He looked at the clock on the wall, a clock which was in the center of a Uniroyal tire. A clock which was given to Larry for having high tire sales back in the year of nineteen hundred and sixty-one. And that year was a good one, at least for some. But all Donny could think of was that year was when he went to the carnival. When he saw the manbeast, and he had never forgotten the fear, the smells, the freaks. He looked now at his arm where a scare remained. The scars he received from his father's cigarette. He remembered not moaning, or crying, but staying silent. He remembered the smoky tent, the toothless carny, and how bad he wanted to leave. But there it was, in print, on a plaque, on the bottom of that tire-clock. "Great Year!" It said and then "1961!" But for whom? The manbeast? Bearded lady? Donny? Or was that year made just for Larry and Uniroyal?

He stood, the heat was already overtaking him. Under his coveralls, he had on insulated underwear, then a Carhart jacket over the top, and he always wore his stocking cap. So he went back outside where the cold weather was a relief. He walked around the fuel island, he looked up at the lights that illuminated the pumps. He went to the pale where the salt and sand mixture sat waiting. He pulled out a tin can full and walked around, spreading it like chicken feed. No slippage on his watch. Not for him, nor those people who needed to use the restrooms. But no cars came, and he noticed the highway looked deserted. It was slow, much slower than usual.

He looked around. It was quite, no air was blowing. It was still, and the temperature felt as though it was just below freezing. He exhaled, looked at the steam his breath made. He reached in, pulled out a cigarette and then lit it.

He could hear the ice cracking under his feet. With each step and he felt like a giant stomping a village into the ground. Godzilla, prancing through New York City, or Tokyo. He smiled, but something was going on, and he could feel it. Deep down, he felt anxious, antsy.

He was at the center of US twenty now, the street lights lit up the highway, and he stood looking East and then West. His cigarette hung from his lips, he drew a breath and then inhaled ... It was as though he was the last man on earth.

He could see the bay lights were on in the station, they glowed through the glass panes that were inserted in the doors. But Larry was nowhere in sight. And the intersection, it was lit up the same as it always was. But nothing or no one was around.

He began to walk down the road, in the direction the salesmen had gone. He walked until he was away from the lights, to where the stars could be seen. He looked up and thought them to be much dimmer, farther away, and the moon, it was crescent. And some clouds moved past it, but they were sparse, and Donny thought this night would be perfect for Halloween. The cold, it was spooky, the clear skies would easily show a witch on her broom, flying past the moon. The lack of cars on the street, the drivers were all home, hiding inside and safe. The children had already bagged their candy, now the night belonged to those who hate the light. The predators, the bloodthirsty, the killers.

He took another drag and inhaled. This time, he pulled the cigarette from his mouth and rested it in between his fingers. He started back towards the station, towards the lights. He was tired, so exhausted, and he feared there would be no sleep, he wanted it too badly.

Once back at the station, he remained outside. He was dizzy, fuzzy and felt he was in a dream, but this wasn't a dream, this was real. But dreams do seem real, so who's to say? But he felt so alone, and still no cars were seen. No sounds came from inside the station, nor down the roads, not even the air compressor called out. No—the world had come to a stop, and only Donny remained in motion.

He shook this off, calming himself, and walked to the pumps and pulled out a notebook and pen. On each pump, there was a small gauge that showed the total gallons used. At the beginning of his shift, Larry and he would walk around and write down the numbers. At the end of his shift, they would do the same. Most times, Larry wouldn't bother verifying the accuracy of what was written, but Donny never knew when he would. This was how Larry kept him honest, and this was how Donny eased his bosses mind.

He would then tally the gallons sold, check it with the money Donny had in his pockets, and would subtract what was in the kitty at the start. Then, it was simple math really, total gallons sold, times price per gallon and with any luck, that number and the cash on the desk would match. If it were less, Donny would have to kick in to make it so, it were more, the extra would be saved for when it was less. This again was meant to keep Donny honest. There was nothing to gain by overcharging the customer. At least not for Donny.

8

"What'd you say?" Donny asked he was sitting in the extra chair. Larry was in the seat that went to the desk, and on the desk was the cash he had made that night. Donny's head was turned to the right like a man who's heard wrong, so he put's his good ear out and ask for the words to be repeated.

"You're forty-five dollars short!" Larry said, he wasn't joking.

"That's impossible!" Donny replied. "I-I-I-I- mean there weren't even that many customers, how could I lose forty-five fucking dollars!" He stood now.

"Take it easy!" Larry said. "I'm sure there's an explanation!"

Donny was pacing, "You know me, I'm rarely short! This is bullshit!" he turned and went back to the desk, he looked at the money laid out. "Where's the fifty?"

"Fifty?"

"Yeah, that sales guy only had a fifty!" Donny was pushing the bills around. There was no fifty dollar bill.

Larry said nothing, Donny checked his pockets, then took off his coat and checked the pockets in his coveralls. He did this three times, and then, frustrated and lost, he flopped back down on his chair.

"He gave you a fifty dollar bill?" Larry asked knowing the answer.

"Yeah—I don't know what happened," He stood up. "I'll bet I dropped it out there somewhere."

Donny went outside. He combed the drive, then went down US twenty and back where he took another look in the lot. Then, he came back in the station. He was pale now, more so than usual, he removed his jacket and took his seat again.

"Nothing?" Larry asked.

"Nothing," Donny replied.

"Can't say I'm surprised."

"Why? What ya trying to say?"

"You were scammed!"

"What?"

"Let me tell you what I think happened, and you tell me if I'm close," Larry said. "This guy shows up, most likely he's not from around here, so he knows he won't be seeing ya anytime soon."

"Yeah, he had Georgia plates."

"Yep, now, they're normally real smooth talkers, as a matter of fact, they believe it's their gift. So they speak and will blab away any chance they get. Which means, this guy's talking while doing business, which means he's forcing you to think about multiple things at once ... Close?"

"Yeah."

"He does this to keep you off guard ... Now, for this to work, he has to use bills that have at least one of the numbers in it. You know, like a one would be used with a ten, or a hundred. But a hundred is hard to cash, most attendants wouldn't have that much change on them. And the last thing this jerk wants is for you to go into the station. Ya see he can't keep gabbing at ya then."

"He gave me a five!"

"That's right. Ya see, he'll show the fifty, as a matter of fact, he'll make sure you see it real clear. Then, for some reason, he hesitates, maybe drops it on the floor board, something like that. Then, when he hands it the second time. It's crumpled up or folded, and even though the number can be seen, and that number is only partially correct, your mind lets it go because it believes it's already seen it. It's a fifty, and that's the change you will hand back."

"That son of a bitch. And here I thought he was a nice fucking guy!"

"He may be, but that don't mean dick when it comes to eating. You'd do well to keep that in mind."

"Rotten piece of shit, and if I would have caught it—"

"—then he would have apologized and handed you the fifty dollar bill. You see, he can't lose, can't be arrested and would plead he simply made a mistake. And seeing he has the cash on him, who's to say he didn't?"

"So what does this mean?"

"It means you owe me forty-five dollars, what ya think it means?"

9

That night, before Donny realized the old man had scammed him. When he was out on the street, when he felt something was wrong; he hadn't a clue what it was. Later, he would believe it was the shortage, the universe was trying to warn him. But he would soon learn that was only the beginning, because bad things come in three's, and although no one knows the reason they do, they do. The lack of cash was only number one, number two would surface when he entered his home to find his mother and father sitting in the kitchen.

They were at the table, facing each other, both had a glass that rested in their hands, and a bottle of Jack Daniel whiskey sat in between them. The cap to the bottle was off and thrown out of reach. It was on the floor. Donny knew they were out to get drunk, they wouldn't stop until the bottle was empty. They looked to be halfway there.

Next to the bottle, there was an ashtray, and this tray was already way too full. All the same, they both had a cigarette in between their fingers. Donny braced himself, he looked at his mother. Her eyes were puffy and red, she had been crying. His father, he looked straight ahead, neither said a word.

There were no sounds in the home. Benny and Pauly must have already been in bed. The television was off, the radio was silent. "What's going on?" he asked.

"It's your grandpa," Don Senior replied. "He's passed away." He took a drink, and Donny knew he did this so he couldn't speak. But he didn't need to, no further questions would be asked. At least not for awhile. The reason? The words didn't seem real, not at first. It was a dream, and his ears had misled him. Maybe it was the pills or weed he was smoking too much of. Maybe he was so high he no longer knew what reality was. Or maybe he was insane, or having one of them 'nervous breakdowns.' Something, anything, there had to be an explanation or mistake.

Numb, Donny walked away, took off his coveralls and went down to the cellar, the same as he did each evening. He hung them on a hanger. He took off his boots, he left them down there as well. He went back upstairs, up to his room. He grabbed some clean underwear, he pulled the sheets off his bed, threw them in the hamper. He remade the bed, then went to the bathroom where he took a shower. And he scrubbed with lye soap. He scrubbed his hands, his feet, his hair, his face. He lathered up and let the soap sit, it had to, it had to remove the black residue that had settled over him. He would have used acid if it were there, it that's what it took.

He could feel it, this gloom, he could smell it. It was ugly and cared nothing of the pain it inflicted. No, life isn't easy, everyone said that. But what is death then? Some kind of fucking holiday? There was no answer, and he began to weep.

Death, that's what had come, and it consumed him. It was so close, so cold, and he could see the salesman's face, that Riviera, the clothes on the hanger. He was the one who started this cycle, he brought on the black clouds. He was Satan, and although Donny had his

doubts about God, he damn sure didn't about Satan. That son of a bitch was real, he was from Georgia and drove a fucking Buick Riviera!

Chapter VIII Bury The Dead

1

Donny sat in his room looking out one of the few glass panes that remained in his window. A week had passed since the death of his grandfather and time spent at home wasn't getting easier. He heard them talking, his parents, the walls were thin, and they spoke of how Grandma wasn't handling it well. They said she was ill, and wouldn't eat. They thought she may soon follow.

Donny didn't want to hear any of this, but the walls didn't care.

He looked down at the snow-covered ground. He wondered if it had frozen, if they could dig the dirt out for the coffin. He thought they could. The snow had only just dropped and was already melting. Patches of dead grass were seen, and the temperature hovered just above freezing.

There were rain droplets on the glass, the sky was gray, and the clouds were thick and moving slowly. A perfect day to chunk a man in the grave, he thought. But he didn't smile, this wasn't a joke, it was nothing more than fact.

He watched ole Rooster as he walked around. The dog smelled the air, and Donny knew he sensed something was wrong. He was lost, the dog knew the man he loved was no longer here. He would receive no pleasure from his best mate. Not any longer. He was left behind and hadn't a clue why. So he walked in circles, he would stop and look across the field to where Grandpa's home was. But he wouldn't go over there. Instead, he would wait, his ears up, but it was for nothing. Soon, he would tuck his tail, look down and began circling again.

"God Damn this day is as ugly as this life is and that sight is sad!" Donny mumbled, and tears began to well up in his eyes. But he was done crying, there was no point. He was older now, and unlike his brothers, he was due his own private lessons in misery. He reached over and took two of the valiums that sat on his end table. He swallowed them, no water was needed.

He lit a cigarette and looked at the shotgun that was a present from the deceased. It was now leaning in the corner. This was the first time it had been in his room, and as he looked at it, he thought of the only day he and his grandfather went out hunting with it. He remembered the feeling he had the first time he ran his hand over the smooth wood stock. And felt the blue

steel of the barrel, the way it cocked open. It was precision meant for killing and should the truth be told, and it wouldn't, but if it were—the gun scared the hell out of him.

But Donny kept that quiet—Don senior belonged to the National Rifle Association, and was damn proud of it. A lifetime member who boasted stickers on all the vehicles, and one on the front door that said: "Warning—the dog ain't shit compared to this!" Then there was a gun barrel shown pointing at the reader.

Yes—sir—he let it be known that every man had the duty to pay their dues `cause our rights and liberties were in jeopardy!

Donny wasn't sure why that was only that it was, and Don Senior had no shotguns—no sir--`cause they was for huntin' and he hated huntin'. He only kept hold of pistols ranging from twenty-two's all the way up to 357 magnums. And they were loaded and waitin', according to him.

"Waitin for what?" Donny heard Benny ask.

"Well—waitin for strangers ta come in and take what's ours, what ya think?"

Donny smiled, for the life of him, he couldn't think of a thing anyone would want. Now—as he sat there looking out the window he realized what it was. "They want the guns," He whispered, "that's what they want." He started laughing as he thought of his father waiting all those years to unleash his firepower. To throw down like he was in some kind of western movie. Clint Eastwood, only the bad guys, don't want the gold `cause there ain't none, or the woman `cause she's ugly and a drunk. No sir, they want them guns he's a thrashing around, and they won't get `em `less they can shoot the eye out a fly!

Or even better, the government will show up, the Army, the Soldiers. The same kids that are on their way to Nam will make a stop. And Ole Senior, he's gonna start a shootin out the front door, `cause it's his right to do so. And those men they'll hear them, those words of great wisdom: "You can take my gun when you pry it from my cold dead hands!" And they won't think much of it because it won't be a problem at all.

"You just go on and start shooting, pops, we'll take it from there!"

He shook his head. "What an idiot," he mumbled, still staring at the four ten. He had told his Grandmother he would just a soon keep it over at her home. But she insisted that Marvin would want him to have it. That it would come in handy someday, but he hadn't a clue when a day like that would come.

He took another look out the window, Rooster was still there, still circling, still lost. He got up, took the gun and buried it in between his mattresses. Benny and Pauly wouldn't think of looking there. Not that there were shells for it anyway.

The valiums were taking effect now, the warm, relaxing feeling felt good because the barriers going up around him were cold, lonely, and he was a loner, and the drugs only helped that wall grow faster. He wouldn't speak to many, most times only answering questions that were asked. This included his parents.

Donny was only fourteen years old, too young to know that mistakes can't be taken back, and although they may be forgiven, they will never be forgotten. Too young to know that it doesn't matter how much cash you put in the tithing plate, or how big the priest's smile is upon seeing it, only God matters, and he doesn't give a shit about money. Too young to know a man has to look in the mirror and like what he saw, because if he lived long enough, that reflection would begin to turn into something unrecognizable. And that would happen, because one has to be a killer to survive, it's the only way, and that's a sin.

So he was now in a pair of dress slacks and a buttoned up shirt. He had taken a shower and combed his hair. He trimmed his beard and brushed his teeth. He looked better than he had in years but his eyes told the truth. They were tired and bloodshot. And the skin around them was white and sagging from lack of sleep.

He brushed it off and went downstairs where the rest of the family was waiting. Don Senior was on the couch wearing a suit that was made long ago. His mother was standing up while brushing Pauly's hair with her hand, trying to make it stay down. She was wearing a dark brown dress. And Benny was wearing the same thing as Pauly, their Sunday best.

They went to the Church the one Donny was sure he would never be in again. He stopped in the aisle and stared at the man on the cross, the angel in stain glass behind him. They didn't look so scary now, they didn't look real. Donny noticed his father looking at him.

"I'm fine," he said and took a seat alone in the pew behind his family.

On this special occasions, there was a casket which was on a pedestal and was sitting beside the Pulpit. The casket was large and looked sealed. A tan color with brass handles placed around so men could carry it to the final resting spot. There was a picture on the top surface, one of Marvin, the one where he was about to be shipped off to war. He was young then, happy.

Sitting in the front, was Gladys, his grandmother, and around her were people Donny didn't know. He didn't ask who they were, they were there to give comfort, and he could see his

grandmother was already weeping. Her head was low, a handkerchief was held to her nose. Those around her held her tight, but there would be no comfort, no warm feeling, not even with drugs ... not on this day.

The priest came walking out from the front, he wore his Holy attire, no different than on any Sunday Service. In his hand was his Bible, and there were markers to speed up the process. No needless page flipping for him.

He sat it on the pulpit and opened to the first marker and began to read the scripture. His voice blew out over the room, and it was loud, it echoed and was obnoxious. It made Donny's stomach turn. He stood and rushed out, down the aisle, through the entry doors, and once he was outside he bent over vomited. Then he fell to his knees, and the cold, wet rainwater soaked in through his pants, it didn't matter, he couldn't stop.

He went on until there was nothing left in his stomach. Then he spits, and there were drops of blood in that spittle. He held his stomach, he was in pain, and it was getting worse, and when he thought he couldn't take anymore, it tapered off slowly, and then it was gone.

Now he looked at the concrete. The reality of where he was, and why he was there mixed with the rain and covered over him like a summer storm. He wept, as all the feelings he had bottled up were suddenly released and there was no going back. Not to the past, nor the church, so he stood, looked around then went home.

It was a two-hour walk, but he didn't mind, he thought long and hard, he cried out, he grieved, but went on. His feet, they were cold, then numb and now pins and needles had taken over. Still, it was better than sitting in that Church. Better than looking at that box, listening to that holy man that lived in his make believe world.

He was close to his driveway when Rooster met him, and the dog moved slow, his ears were pulled back. He wagged his tail, but only a little. He followed Donny up to the house, and Donny bent down and hugged the dog. He could feel the grief, he could see it, and those who claim dogs are dumb are wrong. Rooster knew what was going on and Donny wondered if it was in the air. The smell of death, or departure, something. He gave him the dog some pets and told him he was loved. Then he went inside to get some warmth. A couple hours later, he pulled some leftover meat off from a pork chop and went back outside but Rooster was nowhere around. He called to him, many times, but there was no dog, and Donny felt that knot return to his stomach. He bent over in pain; the sharp stabs like a knife was being pushed through his torso. He moaned as tears returned to his eyes. He looked up, out into the empty field. The gray clouds loomed overhead, stalled and stubborn. It was a look Donny knew too well, as did most who lived in the region, but on this day, he would always think it was much worse than it had ever been.

He knew Rooster wasn't coming back. That the dog had waited for Donny and his time in the driveway was the dog's way of saying goodbye. As he stood there, he imagined Rooster was heading South. To where the sun shined, and life wasn't so sad. He wondered if there was such a place, and once again, the feeling of hopelessness overwhelmed him.

Some said the dog went off to die as they sometimes do when their master passes away. Donny would never know, so to make it easier, he decided the dog had abandoned him. No different than his grandfather had, or his Father, or Mother, everyone.

But now, outside and looking out over that field, he felt the wind cut through him so he returned to his home. He went to the table where his mother had a pad of paper and a pencil. On the pad, there was a list of groceries, he pulled off the page and placed it off to the side and then, with the pencil in his hand, he thought of what he was going to write.

There's nothing left that's good any longer ... nowhere to run, or hide. My visions are only making things worse. I saw Rooster run up to me, and I could swear I petted him, but did I? Did I even see him today? Or yesterday? Or since Grandfather's passing? Or was that nothing more than what I wanted to see? Are the drugs messing with my mind? Do I really care? Would I change anything if I thought it would help?

The answer was no.

2

"Can we get another dog?" Pauly asked, and Donny was sitting at the table next to him, and the question hit him hard enough, he stopped chewing his bacon.

It had been a week since the funeral, and there was no sign of Rooster, but he was never their dog, he was Grandfather's dog. Rooster cared little for Pauly or Benny. They were mean to Rooster housing some kind of primeval instinct where they took pleasure in giving Rooster pain. More than once, Donny caught them beating the dog with a belt. Rooster had bitten Benny on one occasion. Donny had scolded them, but that did little because they did no wrong. Don Senior threatened to shoot Rooster, that is until Donny told him the reason for the bite mark. And now—they want a dog of their own, and Donny waited for the answer, fearing it would be yes.

"We'll see son," Don senior said, "we'll see." Donny started chewing again. 'We'll see,' actually meant 'hell no!'

Don no sooner got that out of his mouth, when June came walking into the kitchen, in her hands was a piece of paper. "Listen to this," she said in a low voice:

""Tick tock, said the clock, your world is passing by,

blue red it's all in the head as time is but a lie.

For months are days and in a haze, the truth can still be seen,

open your eyes before the scream as life is but a dream.""

"Who wrote that?" Don Senior asked. Donny sunk low in his chair.

"I think Donny did, it looks like his handwriting." Donny could feel his face turn red.

"Did you write that, Donny?" Senior asked. Benny started laughing, Pauly joined in.

"I did, but it was when I came home from Grandpa's funeral—I was sad."

"So—you some kind of poet now?"

"No, it's not mine, I heard it somewhere."

"It's disturbing," June replied, "It sounds depressing."

"It's meant to be—ma."

"Sounds girly to me," Benny said.

"You turnin' into some kind of fag?" Don Senior asked. He wasn't joking.

"No dad, like I said, I was sad is all."

"Good,`cause that'll be the day when my son's a dick sucker!"

"Don!" June called out. "Not in front of the boys!" She handed Donny the paper and the moment it touched his fingers he could feel those words burn into his brain: 'Tick tock, said the clock!'

Chapter XIV July fourth, 1969. Donny is fifteen years old, Benny eight, Pauly six.

1

June Maer sat in the hall of the Mishawaka Memorial Hospital. She was pale, sickly looking and her eyes—they darted around like those of a raven. Her pupils were wide, so much

so, there was no color, only black, and around them, her skin sagged and held the shade of her eyes ... black.

A puke-pale sat alongside her, the pale remained empty, there was nothing left in her stomach. She lifted her hand to put her cigarette in her mouth, and it was shaking so bad Donny thought he would have to do if for her. She looked to be convulsing, but Donny thought that wasn't it because she remained in the hall. Unattended.

Looking around, Donny found the place to be your typical healing compound. One that was complete with whitewashed block walls, and thick plastic tiles on the floor. All polished and clean, but in no way fancy, or luxurious.

Pictures hung on the wall, although not many. They showed landscapes mainly, the ocean, the trees, the sky, some mountains. All meant to ease the worried mind. And his mother was worried, she was scared, and even though Donny didn't think there would ever be a time when he felt sorry for her, he found as he sat next to her ... now he did.

The doors were aluminum extruded with glass inserts that ran the length of the door. However, they were only around six inches wide. The glass was tempered and laminate with steel wire in between the two panes. And the door had a handle, one that would automatically lock. One that always needed a key. Donny wondered why anyone would be so hell bent to keep the crazies locked inside with them. But he didn't ask.

June, she was looking through the glass and into the room where she would soon be taken. She could feel the panic setting in. Don Senior reached over, he clamped his hand around her leg, just above the knee, she calmed a little. Donny wondered why that was, then he wondered why he was there? Did his father fear she would bolt and he would need help restraining her? The strength of a madman, or woman?

Above the door and wrote on an aluminum plate where the words, "Mental Ward" which in no way was helping with her anxiety, so she was now begging for something to take the edge off, but that wasn't going to happen. Even Donny knew that. You see, June wasn't there because she was losing her mind, she was there because she was no longer in control of her habits and there is a big difference. Mainly, one they pump you full of drugs while the other you get none at all. She was the other.

She started pleading now. Saying something about another chance. That she hadn't agreed on taking treatment, and she wouldn't sign anything. But those who wore the white clothes cared little for what she said she would, or wouldn't do. They smiled and told her to take a seat, that they would be with her soon. But they weren't and a fair amount of time had passed, and June was thinking about all she had heard about the mental ward. About the lobotomies, the electrical shock treatments. 'They can do as they like once the doors are closed, there's no one to stop them, you're family won't be the wiser!'

Donny handed her another lit cigarette.

'Getting her here is the hardest part, ' The doctors had told Senior, so here they were, and here they waited, with the sounds of the patients screaming out echoing through the open halls. June quivered, she sweated, and she jumped with each crazies cry. She wanted to join them, like wolves that see the moon, she wanted to call out for help but knew the only thing that could render assistance was the poison that now made her shake. She took a hit off her Marlboro.

They were on the eighth floor, the highest floor, and the ward was nothing like the lower floors where the sick was healed. They were modern, and clean. This place was old, smelled of bleach. Donny thought of it as going into the attic of some mansion. Not much money goes to the attic. No—this place was for those who cared little about germs. Hell, most would welcome some bacteria, they would seek relief in any form, even death.

So when he entered the floor, the first thing Donny noticed was a guard who sat by the elevator door. He was there with a key, and the key was the only way to get off the eight floor. Then, there were the doors that led to the stairwell, they were locked down with a large chain that wrapped around the handles, secured with a padlock which made sure escape wasn't an option. Better hope the guards at his post when the fire gets out of hand, Donny thought. But he found no comfort in this, he didn't smile or laugh.

The truth was, he found them gracious, this group of medical marvels. They did place a bench seat out in the hall. Although they could have added some padding and perhaps a back. The Damn Church pews were more comfortable. And they could have waited on a lower floor where there wasn't so much screaming. Perhaps across the street at Barb Dunes Ice Cream Parlor. But no sense wanting things that aren't protocol. Not when you have yourself an elegant bench to sit on.

2

It was a couple of months earlier, Donny came home from scoring dope from good ole Tony Witchner, the school dealer. Tony had some good weed as always, had some more acid too, but Donny passed on that.

As he walked up to his door, he only thought of Tony. His favorite dealer had become paranoid, and that wasn't like him. Donny knew that meant one of two things, the first being he was using what he was selling, the second ... he had some reason to believe he was being watched. Donny didn't like either of them, he had grown used to the man's products, its quality, and that could change. With one bust, it would all go away. Sure, there were others who would rise to the occasion? But where would they be? How long would it take for them to start offering? Could Donny wait that long? He shuttered to think.

Actually, Donny thought of dealing himself but pushed it aside as it was so easy to get caught. He knew Tony had lasted this long because he was feared, and then there was his brother to deal with. Let's face it, Tony was a charismatic guy. He was all that Donny wasn't and all it took was one kid to get busted, and they would roll over like a dead, damn fish. No—Donny didn't like the odds, and now that he had seen Tony all shaken and nervous, he thought he made the smart move.

He went in through the back door, certain his mother was already gone or sleeping. He walked into the living room where he stopped and froze in place. He could see her, lying on the floor, there was a pool of vomit by her mouth, in her hair, on her cheek. She was pale, her face, a gray color and he could see no movement in her chest. She was dead, and as he stood there in shock, he could only wonder why he was surprised, but he was, and there's nothing that can prepare one for this moment.

He slowly walked over and then bent down, he took her wrist and just like he was taught in school, he found her pulse. It was weak, and then he saw her shirt move, she was breathing, but the breaths were shallow.

He jumped up and ran to the phone, he called emergency services and in what seemed like an eternity, they finally arrived. They took her to the hospital and pumped her stomach. They gave her some fluids and a golden ticket that would give her access to the eight floor.

But she didn't go right away. Instead, she went home where she sobered up some. Enough to where and for the first time in a long time, she looked in the mirror and saw her reflection. She saw what she had become. Donny was with her during this epitome, he was in charge of keeping her alive. It wasn't pleasant.

"It was all so easy," she said as she looked into that mirror. Her face was drawn, she was close to whispering, and Donny wasn't sure if she was speaking to him, or herself. He listened all the same. "It was as simple as a trip to the doctor's office ... 'you need to lose some weight,' he said, and that sounded about right, and he gave me some pills that would help me do it. So what did I have to lose? Weight is all, nothing more. At least that's what I thought.

"But then, I couldn't sleep at night so I told him so, and he gave me some pills that would put me to sleep. So I took them. Then I was nervous all the time, so he gave me some pills that

would calm me, so I took them. And then I used whiskey to wash them down, and the whole time, I had convinced myself that I was following doctor's orders. That I wasn't like those junkies you see off the sides of the road. But I was, I know because I'm looking at one now, and she's me.

"So here I am, stuck in this reality and it sucks. I swear I could have lived the rest of my life in that fantasy world. I could because this life isn't anything like what I had planned. I was going to be so much more than this. I had dreams of falling in love, being swept off my feet, and living happily ever after. Isn't that the way it's supposed to be? Isn't that what we were all told as children? Wish, and it will come true?

"But ugliness wasn't mentioned in those stories, there were no homely princesses or princes. They all looked like cheerleaders and football stars, and there's few of them. So what happens to the rest of us? Are we nothing more than background dancers filling the hall, making the occasion special for others who the world finds so fucking pretty?" Donny could see tears welling up in her eyes. She didn't meet his gaze, she looked only at her reflection.

"So what was I supposed to do, waste my time on some fantasy to come true? Hell no, I did the same thing we all did. I married a man who had a good job, a secure future. That way I could stay at home and raise his children. That's how God wants it—right?"

Donny said nothing, no words were needed. She could see it, and it wasn't long, they were sitting in the hallway on floor number eight.

3

"June Maer," she heard. She turned to see the aluminum door was open and a nurse was standing tall wearing a white uniform, the white nurse's hat, the unmistakable shoes. She was looking at a clipboard, interested in only her job. Donny took her in, he found her attractive, well built with long blonde curly hair. She wore no makeup, but then, why would she?

She hates her job, Donny thought, but she makes good money and can't go elsewhere. She's trapped in her own design, no different than mom. The housewife, stay at home mother. I'd be willing to bet that in all her dreams as a young women, she never saw this coming. Had she—things would be different now. But she couldn't see the future and the future isn't self-made like some believe; it's destiny, preplanned with guides that lead us along unknowingly. To think otherwise is as stupid as believing God gives a shit about ya.

Time slowed down now, his father sat almost frozen, his head turned towards his wife. She stood there looking back, her eyes pleaded for something, anything. They were filled with

tears and she shook so bad, she dropped her cigarette. No problem, there were so many burns in the flooring, it now looked like an intended pattern. Donny watched the cigarette roll up to the wall where it came to a stop. It burned on and would until there was nothing left, and there would be nothing because June didn't smoke filtered cigarettes, she tore off that part. Swore it only made her want more, and perhaps she was right.

The nurse, she looked up, and her eyes were blue, deep seawater blue, clear water blue, and Donny watched as she forced a smile. He suddenly realized he was smiling along with her, he wiped it from his face. It was far from appropriate.

The nurse, she held open the door, no doubt spring loaded. Donny thought she was going to speak, but she said nothing. Only waited and looked on, but at who? June? Don senior? No, she was looking at Donny, and he could feel her gaze cut through him. Speak to him, and she was saying, "Hello, I find you interesting. I'm so bored here. I wish it were you who was entering through this door. We'd have fun, you and me. All alone. I'd make you a man!"

For a moment, Donny could feel his member burn, his excitement grow, but then June turned and walked towards the nurse, and took her attention away. Just like that, it was over. That is if it was ever beginning. Donny blinked his eye, and when his lids opened, he was no longer sure. Was that real? Or my imagination?

Senior, he sat there like a hardened piece of shit, and Donny thought there was little difference. He was helpless, so much so, he had to bring his oldest son to help lead his wife to rehab. But he was hurting, in some way, Donny could sense that. It was the pain that weakened him, as it would any man. No—Don Senior loved June, Donny knew it, even if it wasn't the same going the other way. He thought perhaps his father wasn't so bad. Maybe he was human after all.

June walked past the nurse, and as soon as it was possible, the door closed behind her. They were gone now, both of them. Locked behind bars like criminals. Donny, he was the first to stand. Senior, he followed suit, and as they walked back to the elevator, Donny could see his father was shaken. His tough exterior was crumbling. He said nothing, only followed close behind.

4

Donny was pacing back and forth In his room. He was wearing socks so his brothers wouldn't hear him, and they would because he felt like he was about to blow to pieces.

It had been a week since June was checked into the hospital. Senior, upon arriving home, went through the house and gathered all the speed, sleepers, and downers. The lifeline had been severed and Donny was scared. Real scared. He was beginning to feel it, withdrawals and it wasn't pleasant.

His nerves were screaming out now. His energy levels at an all time high; so the first thing he did was estimate just how bad this was going to be.

I'm not like mother, he thought, I'm not an alcoholic, so I have that going for me.

But sweat was building on his forehead, under his arms, on his arms. His stomach was turning and not the usual pain, this was more like food poisoning. His skin, it tingled and felt like it was crawling around his flesh. He was in trouble with no way of knowing just how much.

He opened his door and looked down the hall. Good, he thought, coast clear.

He went to the bathroom where he splashed cold water on his face. He then rinsed his hands and arms. He pulled a towel from the rack and dried off, then threw the towel over his shoulder. He looked in the mirror and frowned. His eyes were drawn back in his head. Black rings circled them, giving him a look that comes from a lack of sleep. He was pale, like his mother and he feared he couldn't keep his father from knowing what was going on. My God! He had just seen it!

Six months earlier, the principle from his school had made a call. It appeared the State was coming down on underage kids skipping classes. So they decided to start asking questions and much to Donny's surprise, Principle Tallond called after eight P.M.when someone was home.

Shocked, June hung up the phone, and for the first time in years, she took a long look at her son. Dazed and confused, with eyes, she could hardly keep open, she decided an education was overrated. Don Senior concurred, and just like that, Donny had become part housemaid, babysitter, and gas pumper.

Now, as he looked in the mirror, he saw this as a blessing. He was there instead of wandering the streets. Benny and Pauly were home from school, but Senior wasn't and wouldn't be for hours. So using the towel to control the sweat, he went downstairs and called Larry at the station. He told him he wouldn't be able to work for awhile. That with his mother not home, his brothers were getting into trouble. So he was asked to hang around and keep an eye on them.

"You do what you have too," Larry said. And as Donny hung up the phone, he knew Larry didn't buy it. And why would he? Donny had made it known on many occasions that he wanted to be at work when his father was home. That hadn't changed, so why wouldn't Senior watch the boys?

But Larry knew Donny well. He knew about the drugs, the weed. He knew about the school or lack of. He knew about it all and had tried to warn him. Tried to help him, but Donny wanted no part of that. He was using prescription medication, the way it was prescribed by a trained physician. Just like his mother, and it wasn't until he heard her speaking while looking into that mirror on that fateful day, did he began to think maybe ole Larry had a point.

But that didn't matter, not now. Larry would hold his job, hopefully, but if not, there was nothing to be done about it. Donny was in no shape to deal with other humans.

He went into the kitchen and pulled a pitcher out of the cupboard. He filled it with water and went back to his room. Once his door was closed, he went to where his chair was sitting at his desk. He took the seat and propped it under the door knob. Locking it from outside intrusions. He then went over to his bed and laid down.

He looked up at the ceiling and an icy chill ran over his body. But he was sweating like it was a hundred degrees. Using the towel, he wiped his eyes, and his hands were trembling, shaking violently. He wanted a smoke, but couldn't get one, couldn't light it. He wasn't sure he'd be able to keep it in his mouth.

He turned to his side and began to pray to a God he no longer believed in; for no other reason than pure desperation. But he knew, there would be no compassion, not when he had this coming.

He reached over and grabbed a bucket he had placed beside his bed. He vomited until there was nothing left, then he bent into the fetal position. He closed his eyes and began rocking back and forth. He reached for the bucket again. "Oh God help me—" he whispered over and over again. And then, after what seemed to be days, he fell into a deep sleep.

5

He dreamed now, and in this vision, he was standing off in the distance, looking at Kenndy Junior High School. He was on the windowed side, the right side, and he had a strong feeling of déjà vu. He had already done this, or lived it. He sensed he wasn't there in form, only spirit. But he was cold, he could feel the winter air cut through his Carhart jacket. His breath showed steam.

Still—he felt alone, like he could see but not be seen. He walked, past the buses that were parked in their designated spots. Each engine was on, idling, but there were no students to be seen. No drivers sat behind the steering wheel. Donny thought it strange as the doors were open and it was so cold outside. He went on, until he was at the left side of the building, the basketball court, or Hippie hangout during this early hour.

Now, he could see people, students, the same kids who were always there. He smiled, reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it, took a long draw and inhaled.

It was now he realized that only his friend, Steve Rousch was in focus. All the others were background paintings, graffiti and not well-done graffiti. They looked deformed and unreal.

Donny walked up to his friend who turned and looked at him. "Damn!" Steve said. "You look like hell!"

"Where's Tony?" Donny asked.

"Tony? He's probably inside—hiding!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You didn't hear?"

"No, apparently not."

"Ole Tony's brother, Clancy—he got into some trouble. Seems he owed the Chicago clan a fair chunk of change, and Clancy didn't have it, so he went to the cops."

"No way."

"Seeking protection, that's what he did. They was gonna kill him, Donny. Sure as shit, they was gonna blow his fucking head off."

"So what happened?"

"They worked a deal, one of them 'turn `em in and testify' deals. In exchange, they would keep him safe until the trial was over. Then—they were gonna send him to a real nice area where he wouldn't have to worry about no Chicago spicks."

"Nam?"

"Would be my guess."

"Well, I suppose it was bound to happen anyhow. But listen, can ya get him? I'm in desperate need of some medication."

"You don't want ta see him. He ain't got nothing, not even a joint. He's scared `cause he knows, those men can't get to Clancy, but they can damn sure get to him."

"Shit! I knew something like this was going to happen!"

"So you're out of downers?"

"I'm out of everything!"

"Sorry brother, nothing can be done. No one's stepped up if ya—oh shit, here comes Principle Tallond!" Steve threw down his cigarette and walked away. Donny, he turned and faced the man, his Marlboro hanging from his lips.

"Donny!" Talland said as he stopped in front of him. "I hope you're here to attend class."

Donny took a drag, inhaled and turned his head and blew out the smoke. He wouldn't blow it in the Principle's face. "You called my parents—didn't you?"

"I did—yes. Just doing my job. You understand."

"That was a while ago, and this is the first you've seen of me. So why do you think I'm here? And be honest, I've always wondered just how smart you are. How much you know but ignore."

Talland smiled a Devil's grin. He was a tall man, an ex-pro-football player. Defensive something as a fact. And was said to be real good at breaking bones. Some claim so good, he was asked to leave the sport and not return. That isn't an easy thing to do, but then, those were only rumors.

All the same, one would think twice before blowing smoke in the man's face. "Well let see," he said. "Could be to suck down your fags on school property which is against the rules. But who cares about rules, surely not you. No—you're a fucking caveman aren't ya. So that leads me to believe you're either buying or selling drugs and by the looks of ya, you ain't selling, you're on the other end ... Yeah—you're buying, and you'd better score fast, or you'll melt away like a chocolate bar on hot blacktop. And you're still here, not hiding off out of sight, shooting up or whatever it is you do, so you haven't got dick, and you're desperate, so much so you're sweating, and it's freezing cold out here ... So tell me, how much do I know?"

Donny turned and walked away, but Talland followed him, close behind. Now he was heckling him: "That's right, go on, it's warm inside that building, but we trap rats, so should you enter, it would be a short visit. Although one I would enjoy.

"You see, I get a kick out of smart ass punks who think they're cool. Above the rules, or law. Yes sir, and I'm not the only one, you see, there's a place for guys like you. A cleansing if you will, and God Bless those who are the senders, those who pull the numbers, `cause society has no use for ya."

Donny was running now, but he could hear him back there. "Go on!" he screamed. "And don't come back. Not ever, if you do, I will send you to hell myse---"

Bam—bam! Donny opened his eyes, but he couldn't see well.

"Are you going to get up?" His father asked.

Donny was drenched in sweat.

"Why can't I open the door?" he heard, that and the sound of the door hitting the chair. Repeatedly.

"I'm sick," Donny called out. "And the chair is keeping the boys out! I don't want to give this to them!" He then grabbed the bucket and vomited. This time, there was blood that came out, and although the sight should have alarmed him, it didn't.

"Do you need to go to the doctor?" Senior asked.

"No, It's only the flu."

"All right then," Senior said. Donny could hear him walking down the hall. He was Laying on his back now, looking up at the fan. He lifted his trembling hand and placed his forearm over his eyes. Instantly, he slept, or passed out, it could be either one, and it felt good.

He was in the dream world. So deep in rem sleep, one reverie flowed into the other with no interruptions, and it was peaceful. There was no sickness in this world, no sweat-drenched clothing. There was no pain, and his senses were heightened to the point, he felt like a child again. Euphoric and happy, like the first time his eyes saw color. A flower, he could see his hands go down and touch it. He reached out and picked an apple that was hanging from a tree. He brought it to his nose and smelled it.

Then he was walking through the woods, and next to him was Marvin, his grandfather, and ahead was Rooster, and he was leading the way. The snow was high, and Rooster had to jump over it to make headway. But he was happy to do so.

Donny looked at his Grandfather, and he was young now, and he was smiling, he was happy, and Donny thinks he may be dead. Perhaps that's the reason he's here, and he hopes he is. He doesn't want to return, he prays he has done what was needed of him because he knows if not, he will be called back to duty. But he isn't sure what that task entails, he doesn't remember the station or caring for his brothers. That's all a fog now, but he knows what's back there isn't pleasant.

Then, he's at school, Kennedy Junior High School, and he's talking to Tina Bell, and she's head of the cheerleading squad, and he's comfortable speaking to her. He feels it's natural and she's listening, interested in what he's saying. But he doesn't know what the words are, he hears only mumbling.

And then he awoke.

6

It was day two now, and he was able to pull himself out of bed. He stood on shaky feet, he held onto his bedpost and waited until his head stopped spinning. Then, he turned to see the blood-stained sheets, and he knew that was his blood, and there was a lot of it, and then in the pail—there was more.

He could taste copper in his mouth, metallic, and there was a sour smell, one of ammonia; he had pissed himself. His underwear—hung low, shit stained and stunk of diarrhea.

He stumbled around, he was so weak and thirsty. He reached for the water that was beside his bed. He drank as much as he could straight out of the pitcher. He then pulled off his clothes, and that was all he could do ... He fell back into bed, and once again—he returned to the dream world.

It would be another day before his eyes would open again. This time, his mother was sitting beside his bed. In her hand was a cold, damp rag and she was wiping his forehead. And as he focused in on her, he could see she was healthy with normal skin color. She was thin and young and as she looked down at him and smiled, he saw something in her eyes that he hadn't seen in a long time.

There was love.

"Are you feeling better?" She asked, but Donny didn't answer. Instead, he just looked at her. Then she reached over and picked him up and held him in her arms. She sang a song, one he recognized and he could feel his mouth form into a smile, and this felt natural, and this made her happy. She gently brought him up close to her lips and kissed him on the cheek. Then he opened his eyes to find he was back in his stinking bed.

Once again, his stomach knotted, so he grabbed his bucket and threw up. Like before there was nothing expelled but blood. "I'm going to die," He whispered. "It's all right, it'll all be all right." Then he rolled over on his back. He looked up at the old fan, this time, it was spinning around and round. But there was no air coming off from it. Then he realized the whole room was spinning. He closed his eyes and heard the distant echo of shattering wood.

"My God!!!," soon followed and he felt hands lift him, and he could swear it was the hands of Jesus.

"Thank you," he mumbled, but he wasn't there, not entirely.

7

Don Senior sat in Donny's hospital room staring at the walls that rose up around him. The little room wasn't much bigger than the one he had pulled his son out of, and that sight haunted him, as did this room.

He was dead, Senior thought. As God is my witness, he was gone. Tears formed in his eyes. He could still see him lying there; gray, loose skin, sunken cheeks, and the blood, so much blood. He was lifeless, he was as light as a feather, and he would have died had Benny not told him that Donny hadn't been out of that room for close to a week.

Now—he was punishing himself for not being more observant. I work all day, he thought. And then I have to see June in the afternoon. Then I have to get home and take care of the boys. Jesus! Donny was the last person I would have believed needed me! He's so damn independent! Never taking anything from anyone! So damn stubborn he would lie in his bed and die before he would ask for help! He raised his hands and covered his face.

All this, he had already said over and over again. Now—he had it almost memorized. First, he told the doctors, then the nurses. Then there were Benny and Pauly, his mother, and of course June.

"Your son is severely dehydrated," The doctors said. "He's lost a lot of blood, which I would guess was from a bleeding ulcer. At his age, an ulcer is rare. And as I understand, you weren't aware of any of this?"

"No," Don replied, but he could see the look on the doctor's face. And he knew what he was thinking. "ABUSE!!!"

It didn't take long, a uniformed County Sheriff showed up. A dapper cop who called himself: Officer James Stanton and ole James had a few questions. Mostly routine, he said, but it sure didn't feel that way. Not to Senior, he knew he was being watched, scrutinized. He was guilty as hell, and they knew it. Whether he really was made little difference. It never does, once the minds made up, it's hell to change it.

"Would you please follow me, Mr. Maer."But the question wasn't asked, it was a demand, and so he followed the suited officer to a private room where the door was closed as soon it was able. Senior thought it strange that such a room would be in a hospital. There was a small table in the center with chairs about. Not comfortable chairs, but steel fold out chairs. The walls were whitewashed block, and Senior thought the place looked like the halls on the eighth floor. Nothing fancy, nothing comforting. No—this room was for people like him. This room was for the scum that did wrong. This room was the one you go to right before they haul your sorry ass downtown to the station where it gets real serious. Don took one of those chairs knowing he

was going to be there awhile. That what he had to say would take time. And it was a tale that was so hard to believe. "Do I need a lawyer?" he asked.

"Why would you, have you committed a crime?" the officer asked as he took a seat across from Senior.

"No, but you think I did."

"I wouldn't go that far," he said, "but your son is still a minor."

"He's fifteen years old!"

"I know how old he is." The officer was looking down at some papers he had placed on the desk. He then pulled a tape recorder from a case he was carrying and put it on the table. "May I?" he asked as his finger touched the record button.

"I have nothing to hide," Don said and then he watched as the button was pushed. He could see the wheels turn. And and the tape roll from one side to the other. He found it strange how something so simple could do so much damage. That what was said could be reheard forever. Played over and over again, each time, pounding the speaker a little farther into the ground, a little closer to hell. "I think I want a lawyer," he blurted out and he was scared, he could hear that fear in his own voice.

The officer smiled, but it wasn't friendly by any means. "I thought you would," He replied and then hit the off button. He wasted no time placing the recorder back in the case. He then stood and looked down on Senior. "I would get that lawyer," he said. "`cause I will see you again... Real soon!" He walked out of the room leaving Don sitting at the table. Senior, in shock, placed his head in his hands and for the first time in a long time, he wept.

Officer James Stanton walked down the hall to where a doctor was standing in front of a door. He was reading a file, one that belonged to the patient who was inside the room. As the officer walked up, the doctor looked at him, and Stanton shook his head.

"What'd he say?" the doctor asked.

"He wants a lawyer," Stanton replied.

The doctor chuckled, "There's nothing that screams 'I'm guilty' like insisting on speaking to a lawyer!"

"No there isn't," James replied. "Is there some way I could get a copy of the boy's file?"

"Between you and me, I could care less if there was. I'll talk to one of the nurses. There's nothing they like more than seeing trash like that get what's coming!"

"Thanks," Stanton said and turned. It was then he saw Don Senior standing outside the door. They locked eyes for a moment, then Stanton walked over to the elevator. Once he was in his squad car, he sat in the parking garage and let the engine idle. He then did what he always did, he pondered on how the world was turning to shit.

It was the good Doctor who called the Sheriff's department; it was his job, it was protocol. All the same, James hated these cases. The way, they were handled, was simple. And the thing that had to be remembered was that no one wanted troubled children. Not even babies let alone teenage, toothless, hippies. And that's what Donny was. The boy didn't have to say a word for Stanton to come to that conclusion. So in the end, he would go back home so no sense in making that reunion more unpleasant than it needed to be.

Guilt! That was really all he had to work with. He had to break the old man; beat his pride so far into the ground he's close to sporting the noose. And that process has already begun. It started when that FUCK—was forced to take his boy to the Emergency Room. Now he knows his dirty little secret is out, and he's fooling no one. We all know what you did! What happened!

So on with phase two, which is I get involved, and I'm gonna start asking questions. I'll speak to the neighbors, the teachers, the grandparents. That's right, let everyone know just what ya did! And you won't forget, oh no—I'll see to that, because this has to be branded on the surface of your brain ... This has to become your worst fucking nightmare!

And then—and only if I've done my job right, and I will ... It'll make no difference if you are innocent or guilty. The accused will be shunned by those around them, and that never goes away. You will show your guilt for the rest of your miserable days. And why? Because that's what they pay me to do!

He frowned, "That doesn't mean I like doing it," he whispered. He then pulled out his notes and started to read what he had:

1—the child is a teenager, small, long hair, rotted teeth. Looks to be troubled, hippie type.

2—Mother is currently locked up on the eight floor, (Mental Ward). She's seeking treatment for drug and alcohol abuse. The doctor believes the victim is also going through withdrawals. It looks as though he was partaking in his mother's regimen. This means while the father sought treatment for the mother, it appears he locked his son in his room to fair for himself.

3—Spoke to the principle, it appears the victim hasn't attended school for some time. Years. The parents were notified of his absence but it made no difference. Have to find out the reason for this. Maybe he was a caregiver for his drugged mother and two brothers.

4—Check on siblings.

8

Don was sitting beside his son when the doctor walked into the room. Senior knew he was working with the police. He knew the asshole was most likely the one who called them. But he didn't care, not at this point.

"How's he doing?" he asked.

The doctor was looking into Donny's eyes with a small flashlight. "He's a lucky boy," he said, "Had you waited much longer he wouldn't be around."

"So he will be alright?"

"Well, we need to treat the ulcer, but he should be fine."

"How does a person get an ulcer at his age?" Don asked.

"Stress, bad eating, the same lifestyle choices that gives adults an ulcer."

"What about the illness, what did he have?"

The doctor stopped what he was doing now, he turned and looked at Senior. For the first time, he saw some grief in the father's eyes. "He could have had the flu, which aggravated his ulcer. But to be honest, I think your son was going through drug withdrawals."

"What?"

"It's common in cases where one, or both of the parents are on prescription medication. If they became addicted and began increasing the dosage on their own, they will seek out multiple doctors. That way they can get multiple prescriptions for the same medication. After awhile, they can become unaware of how much they have, or worse, where it's all going ...

"Mr. Maer, I don't have to tell you, these days drugs and their effects are well known in our schools. I've treated children as young as ten for an overdose."

Donny shook his head as he stood, "I have to get home and check on the boys," he mumbled.

"We'll take good care of him," the doctor said.

9

Later that afternoon, Donny slowly returned to the living. At first, he couldn't focus, the lights above his head burned his eyes. He turned to see an IV bag hanging on a rack, dripping fluids into a tube. He pulled up his arm to see there was a needle in his vein. He dropped the arm back down.

He looked to the other side and much to his surprise, Nancy Dally, the girl who branded him the "Caveman"was sitting in the visitor's chair, and she was smiling while watching him. "Where am I?" he asked his voice low and crackling.

"You're in the hospital," she replied, and then took his hand into hers. "We thought we were going to lose you." She said.

Donny thought a moment, it was all so hazy. "Why would you think that?"

"Well, you wouldn't ask if I had a mirror," Nancy replied.

"I look that bad?"

"You're coming around."

"So—why are you here?" he asked.

"Thanks," she said, offended.

"I just mean, I didn't expect to see you."

"Steve told me what had happened and I wanted to come and make sure you were all right. He left not too long ago."

Donny grinned, "I feel pretty good actually. I mean compared to the last time I was awake."

Nancy could see he was having a difficult time keeping his eyes open. "Well, you get your rest," she said. "I'll come back later, probably tomorrow after school."

Donny closed his eyes he could still feel her hand on his arm, and he could smell her perfume. I can't believe she came to see the Caveman, he thought as he drifted back to sleep.

10

Don senior sat in a chair which was located at the front of a rather large desk. The man he was speaking to was a lawyer who was named: Richard Olson, or "Dick" to those who were going to pay him for his services. Dick had just heard the story of how Don's oldest son had ended up in the hospital.

Now that he was finished speaking, and the room was quiet, Dick leaned back in his spring-loaded leather chair. He was pondering on what would be the best course of action to take. "Kids these days," he said and then looked up at the ceiling.

Don had known Dick for some time because the lawyer did a lot of work for the Union that represented the employees at Steelpress (where senior worked). He was known as "one of the boys," and when he wasn't in the courtroom, that's what he was.

"If what you're telling me is accurate," he finally said. "Then you have nothing to worry about."

"Are you sure?"

"What are they gonna do? I mean being a bad parent isn't a good thing. But it isn't breaking the law. Besides, you have a lot on your plate right now. They're bound to be a few things that slip through the cracks."

"Should I talk to the police?"

"Not unless I'm around. The best thing, for you to do, is keep your mouth shut and let them try and prove their case. I know you're thinking you could save some face by answering their questions, but believe me, you can't. They'll do what their gonna do, no matter what answers you give them. So let them sniff the trail, make them work. They'll give up in time."

"The cop didn't act like that was going to be the case."

"They never do, but from what you're telling me, I don't see a problem ... But again, you didn't leave anything out—right?"

Donny thought for a moment, "No," he said. "I don't think I did."

"Then go about your business and be patient, don't act guilty and call if you need me. But remember, don't talk to anyone about this."

11

Detective James Stanton walked into Donny's hospital room, and the first person he saw was a lovely young woman who needed to lose a few pounds. He smiled and was surprised at how easy this gesture had become, but then he had rubbed a film of vaseline on his front teeth. A trick he'd learned from his daughter who was hell bent to be some kind of beauty queen. It seemed the slick film helped raise the lips into a smile, and in his line of work, smiling was becoming so difficult. "Hello," he said, "I'm Detective Stanton." He reached out his hand to shake. Which Nancy obliged but didn't offer her name. She saw the badge hanging from his belt, and she hated cops, all kids hated cops. They stunk of cigarette smoke and coffee, with a hint of stale beer, and puke. A smell associated with spending time in a tavern, waking up late with a hangover and skipping a shower. They rooted in other's business and only harassed the poor or weak. Hence their new name—PIGS!

No—her father had warned her of these monsters. "There're a few things you'll never see," he said. "You won't see them busting down a door over there on Jefferson Ave (the wealthy district). You won't see them walking handcuffed men out from the Notre Dame Country Club. And you won't see a Porshe pulled over on the side of the road getting a speeding ticket ... You see, those pleasures are saved for those who can't defend themselves."

"Bullies, that's what they are." Nancy said.

"Exactly!"

"Their pigs!"

"Worse, I like pork!"

So she watched Stanton as he looked her up and down, pausing at her chest a little too long. Pig, she thought. But Stanton wasn't like most, he didn't have that stink on him. She smelled soap and cologne, and not too much or powerful.

He was a handsome man, clean shaven, hair perfect. He was tall, wearing jeans, a buttoned up shirt and a sports coat. She would put him somewhere in his forties, and he looked comfortable in his shoes, walked light and pulled a strong presence along with him. He seemed like a nice guy.

"Are you a relative?" He asked.

"A friend." She said.

"How long have you known Donny?" He asked.

"Since we started school."

"Then you know he hasn't been going for some time."

She didn't answer the question. There was no point, he already knew the answer. "What do you want?" she asked instead.

"I want to know what happened here."

"I can't help you with that."

"Can't—or won't?"

"I really don't know much about him other than school stuff."

"Then that would mean you can't! See, you can't! It's really an easy answer!"

So much for being nice.

Donny woke up, looked at the two ... "Nancy," he said, "will you leave us alone for a moment?"

She stood, and touched his shoulder. "He's a ..." the rest she silently mouthed out the letters—P—I—G!

"I know," he said. "I've been expecting this."

Nancy, hesitated, but then went for the exit, Stanton followed and closed the door behind her. He then went back and took her seat. He pulled out a notepad and a pen and then flipped through the pages until he came to where his notes were about Donny's case.

"So ... How you feeling?" he asked, but he wasn't looking at him.

"Much better," Donny said.

"You want to tell me what happened?"

"You mean you don't know?"

"Not entirely."

"What would you like to hear?" he asked.

"It's simple," he said. "You're lucky to be alive, are you aware of that?"

"I've been alive for some time now, can't say I ever felt lucky."

"Are you talking about suicide? `cause if you are, we can get you some help."

Donny chuckled, then went into a coughing frenzy.

"You a heavy smoker?" Stanton asked.

"Go to hell," Donny said once he caught his breath.

"Listen, I'm not your enemy, but I do need to know why you were left to die in that room. Ya know, for the file."

"No one knew what was going on, not even me. That is until it was too late."

"No one checked on you?"

"They couldn't, I chaired the door so my brothers wouldn't bother me."

"Your father—he never came and knocked on your door. Never asked how you were. Or if you needed anything?"

"I take care of myself," Donny replied.

"I can see that," the detective replied, sarcastically.

"Look," Donny said. "Have I committed some kind of crime?"

"No, you haven't."

"Then how about you get out of my room."

"So you want this to just go away, is that it? Or are you scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Your father for starters."

"My father is no threat to me."

"So you don't want anyone to pursue this?"

"There's nothing to pursue."

James smiled and stood. "Then I'll consider this case closed," He said and walked to the exit. He stopped at the door and turned. "You stay safe—ya hear!"

Donny pulled his hand up and flipped him the middle finger. Stanton smiled and left the room. Donny, he put that raised hand on his head. God, it was pounding. With each beat of his heart, a spike felt like it was being driven through his temple. He could hear Nancy walking back into the room. He could also feel his stomach was twisting into knots. He hadn't felt that for awhile.

"What did he want?" she asked as she took her seat.

"He wants what they all want ... someone to take the blame."

Chapter XV January Tenth, 1970 Sixteen years old, Benny Nine, Pauly seven.

1 Clean and Sober

It had been six months since Donny left the hospital, and although the first quarter went smooth, fall was pure hell. The summer warmth faded into cold, crisp air. The clear skies glazed over with heavy gray clouds, so the horizon now reminded Donny of looking into a man's eyes that are thick with cataracts.

The holidays season was nothing short of the same day, played over and over again. Daytime it would spit rain, night it would snow. So when he was home, Donny spent a lot of time looking out his bedroom window. He thought of Rooster a lot these days, he wondered where he went. If he was still alive, if he found another home. But deep down, he knew to know for certain would bring on pain he didn't need. The truth was, he hated this sober existence and the only thing keeping him clean was the lack of supply.

Tony Witchner, the local dealer, was pulled out of school shortly after his brother, Clancy, made it on the nightly news. Clancy was shown walking into the Chicago Federal Courthouse. He wasn't shown leaving and no one knew what happened after he testified. Most believed the entire family went under Federal Protection. Everyone hoped that was the case, as it came to light, Clancy was one of many the Fed's had turned on the drug ring, and it ran from Chicago, down through Gary, along the shores of Lake Michigan, ending in Elkhart Indiana.

Most claimed the only thing that stopped it was there were no towns beyond Elkhart. Mostly Amish farms and they don't even use power so what chance do you have of selling them some horse tranq's? None.

So he had doubled his intake of weed to fill the void, and it helped, June, she tripled her intake of "Jack" to ease her woes, but these days ... the weather was so depressing. And that sun, he swore it had burnt clean out, and Donny wondered if it was always this way. If the drugs were good enough to erase the gloom that seemed to have set solid over his world.

But other than the endless ping of something missing in his life, everything seemed to be back to normal. His father left him alone, his mother, she focused on Pauly who you'd swear was the baby Jesus, and Larry at the station, he welcomed Donny back with open arms. Which was good because Donny needed the cash to buy a car, and since Benny was smoking cigarettes now and had no desire to earn money ... well, he had to get them smokes somewhere.

He had permanently pulled out of school. That happened just hours after he blew out the candles on his sixteenth birthday cake. Which meant he legally could. So Larry gave him more hours at the station.

No—there was no doubt ... By the age of sixteen, Donny had played every card perfectly. He had forced himself out into the adult world, and he wanted to live before they shipped him off to war. Two years, that's what they counted on. It was all they could count on, and there were plenty like Donny in that boat. A sinking ship that had the support of those who fought in the big war.

But they didn't know, not really, only his grandfather could see the truth: A cleansing, that's what he had told Donny ... A war to be fought by the poor. A way to get rid of unwanted, unneeded mistakes. And those mistakes weren't the work of God. No! They were the work of the Devil, and he had plagued this land with his hellish music and mind-blowing drugs. His guilt free philandering, Woodstock parties, and hippies. GOD—PLEASE SAVE OUR COUNTRY ... SEND THEM BASTARDS TO THE KILLING FIELDS! CLEANSE OUR LAND AND BRING US BACK INTO YOUR LOVING ARMS—IN JESUS NAME WE PRAY—KILL ALL THEM SON'S A BITCHES!

And those money men, those who made bullets and bombs, they gathered in dark halls and rubbed their hands together, and that smile, they couldn't take off their face. They loved the word of God and how easy it was to manipulate those meanings so they fit their agendas. And they cashed in all right, and they were blessed for it, after all, they were fighting the spread of communism. Only they weren't fighting at all, and neither were their children, or grandchildren, or anyone they knew for that matter.

But God does work in mysterious ways, the priest told the parents who buried their dead. And he assured them there was a better place, but for whom? Killers, murderers? Is that where my boy's going because any way you cut it, that's what he was forced to become.

But that's all right because those bullet and bomb makers, they didn't kill anyone, so there's an extraordinary mansion with all the trimmings waiting empty just for them. Yes, sir, they sat in Church each and every Sunday, and they put more into that passing plate than they paid in taxes, and why? Well to make sure that Mansion's still available once they get there!

PRAISE GOD!

2

Donny was in Steve Rousch's bedroom sitting on a chair and throwing a tennis ball up in the air.The idea was to toss it high enough to hit the ceiling, bounce it back and catch it while counting how many times you can do it without missing ... So far, he was up to twenty-five.

There was a plan, Steve and Donny had, which was they would wait for the sun to set. Load up into Steve's Camero (a Christmas gift), and go into town. Once there, they would meet up with Nancy Dally, who was now Donny's Girl, and some chick named Barb, who had fallen madly in love with Steve. Donny thought perhaps the Camero had something to do with this but kept that notion to himself.

Nancy, she would have to catch a ride with one of her friends, because she wasn't allowed to associate with Donny ... It seemed her parents had learned that Donny was a dropout, a loser, and drug addict. Which did sum it up accurately, but in Nancy's eyes, this made Donny the forbidden fruit, and it's been proven—that's a powerful urge. So she would find that ride, and she would see him, and since love was in the air, why not partake. So that's what they did, and although Donny wouldn't say he loved her, he would say he loved having sex with her, and what's wrong with that?

Steve, he was lying on his bed and watching Donny with his ball. He thought of Nancy and although he wouldn't say it, she was all he could think of lately and he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because she was allowing penetration and Barb wasn't. Maybe it was because while he and Barb sat in the car listening to the radio, he could hear Nancy pleasing her man not far out in the woods. Whatever it was, it was driving him insane.

Donny, he hadn't a clue of any of this, Nancy was what he would consider to be a full figured girl. She was overweight, plain, great personality but who cared about that? She was easy to get into bed which meant it was easy for others to get here there also. And they had no formal title, no girlfriend, boyfriend, letter jacket wearing commitments. She could do as she pleased with whom she pleased. The truth was, Donny was just happy to have her around, anything beyond that would be pushing his luck.

But to see her with Steve ...? That wasn't possible. Steve drove the Camero, he looked like James Dean. He had white teeth and had his pick of women, and there was no way in hell he would pick Nancy Dally. Not when he had someone like 'Barb-the-beauty-queen' sitting shotgun.

Donny saw Barb as every man's dream woman. She was that girl in the magazine you took to the restroom. She was tall, had a model body, long black hair, dark eyes, mysterious as hell. Donny thought of her as a modern-day Cleopatra and anyone who laid eyes on her saw it the same. Oh yeah—it was all over their faces, and there was no way of hiding it. The men loved her, and the women hated her and age meant nothing. Even the pigs would become tongue-tied upon her gaze. Tear up the speeding ticket, and walk away to where they could catch their breath.

"But she won't put out!" Steve had told Donny, after one of his long, frustrating evenings.

"You need to take a couple of blankets with you," Donny told him. "That's what I do. That way you can get out of the car and get comfortable. Well, if the weather permits."

"I don't think that'll help. She's a virgin. She's scared."

"That's a shame," Donny replied smiling.

"You look satisfied," Steve said.

"Yeah, I'm feeling pretty good."

But Donny was wrong about what Steve wanted and throwing his luck into his friend's face wasn't helping.

Steve thought Nancy was sexy, she was large but well proportioned. With blonde tightly curly hair and a lovely face. She had large breasts and had no problem showing them off. Low-cut blouses buttoned down shirts. No, she could catch a man's eye with that cleavage and should they look a little closer, they would see there was a lot more there for the taking. Steve had seen this many times and hadn't pursued it. But she was working on him.

3

So as planned, later, Steve and Donny were cruising back and forth on US twenty which was a tradition since they couldn't get into the bars. Cruising, that's what it's called, and this odd ritual had been acted out all over the States since the first hot-rod was built. It was simple really. Newly licensed kids drove back and forth down a single road. North and South, East and West, it didn't matter. The only stipulation was there had to be parking areas along both sides of the highway. This was so those who were socializing could watch those who drove and vice-versa.

This little strip of pavement was where the kids connected and hung out. It was also where drugs were peddled, booze was traded, drag races were generated, and a lot of times, bad decisions were made. As Steve came to a stop at a red light, he wondered if this was going to be one of those nights.

Donny had scored some smoke that was stronger than usual, unknown at the time, it was laced with something. Steve was having a hard time driving. The lights, they looked more like flares, and the sounds—the street sounds, were so loud they pounded in his head. The horns, the revving engines, the squealing tire, the yelling out ...

He pulled into K-Mart's parking lot. He drove to the closest spot to the entrance and came to a stop. He wasn't in the white lines and Donny, he looked at him and smiled. "You feeling this?" he asked.

" Yeah."

There came a knocking on the passenger side door, Donny rolled down his window, Nancy was standing there, outside the car. "What are you guy's doing?" she asked.

"Having fun," Donny replied.

"I saw you turn into the lot, I'm out there by the road with Tina ... "she paused. "Why are you guys all the way up here?"

"Where's Barb?" Steve asked, but he looked straight ahead.

"You guys are fuuuucked up!" Nancy replied.

"It appears that way," Donny said, as he fumbled around with a cigarette

"I haven't seen her," Nancy replied.

"Figures," Steve said. "I brought a blanket and everything."

Nancy and Donny chuckled. "Steve has a case of the blue balls," Donny said smiling with slitted eyes. "Barb won't give him none."

Nancy laughed, "You poor boy," she said flirtingly.

Before he could filter what he was going to say Steve blurted out, "Would you give me some?"

Donny was chuckling, but it came to a slow stop. Nancy, she laughed, "Sure, let's go," she said. "Why not."

Donny looked at her, "Are you serious?" he asked.

"If he is, I mean, It's not like you care."

Donny looked at Steve, "What about you ... You serious?"

"As a fucking heart attack. I think you're sexy Nancy," he bent down so she could see his face, "always have. I mean, it would only be sex. You couldn't tell Barb or nothing." He looked at Donny, "That is if it's all right with you."

Donny should have said no, he could feel it, even through the fog he was in. He could hear it in her voice. She wanted him to say no. To say she belonged to him. But that didn't come out. Instead, he simply said, "It's up to her."

For a moment, nothing was said. Then, Nancy turned and walked away. She made it maybe ten feet then she stopped and returned. She opened the door, lifted the seat latch and pushed Donny forward with the seat back, slamming his head on the dash. She climbed in the back. "Let's go somewhere quiet," she said.

Steve, he started the car, put the transmission in drive and drove around to the back of the store. He came to a stop by the loading docks. Nancy could see he was in no shape to drive. "This will do," she said.

"Where do you want to do it?" Steve asked Donny said nothing, only looked straight ahead.

"Back here, in the back seat," Nancy said.

Donny didn't make a move when the door opened. Nor did he when Steve climbed into the back. This was for him, he knew it, and it was already too late to stop it. Steve wouldn't allow it. So Donny sat there and listened to the sound of zippers being unzipped. The sound of buttons being torn from her blouse. He could hear the sound of lips meeting, the groans of pleasure and he knew what Steve was feeling, and he knew the moment he penetrated her. That gasp of surprise, that sound of her voice, he knew it well. But he wouldn't turn, not during the moans and screams, he wouldn't do it. Not while the car rocked, not when his seat was hit by some naked limb, and not during the climax.

So it was over now, and all went silent. Steve put on his clothes but Nancy, she lay there naked, smoking a cigarette. Steve, he pushed the driver's seat back up, opened the door and climbed out. He looked at Donny, "Your turn," he said and walked away.

4

It didn't take long for winter to pass. Not after that night in the K-Mart parking lot. Donny, he sat in that Camero for what seemed like an hour after Steve was through with Nancy. She soon followed, hanging around long enough to finish her smoke, then she started getting cold so she got dressed and left, walking in the same direction that Steve did. Donny, he waited until the weed had worn off then jumped behind the steering wheel and took the Camero home.

In the morning, the car was gone, and Donny hadn't seen nor spoken to neither of them since. That was four months ago, and he still couldn't get a handle on what had happened, or how it happened.

Why, he thought, why would Steve do that? He could have any woman he wanted, why did he have to go after the only one that ever wanted me? His answer was: because he wants them all, and he doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself.

Why then did I allow it? The answer: I was stoned as hell and wasn't thinking.

But so was he, so maybe that's why he did it, he wasn't thinking clearly ... Then why is he still with her?

That's only rumors, others claim he's still with Barb ... He's with both of them. He's using Nancy for sex, Barb for show!

And Donny believed this, deep down in the pit of his stomach, he knew it to be true. It was because that's the way life treated him. In that one moment, he lost his only friend and his girl. Just like that, they both walked away and left him sitting in that fucking Camero. And he didn't love Nancy, at least he didn't think so, not until that night, and now—how could he ever love her after that?

So he went to work, then home. He smoked weed, and Marlboro's but that was all, the withdrawals weren't worth the high. And the days, they drifted into each other making one long month that consisted of nothing more than opening and closing his eyes. Time had slipped away and now, on this early June night, he stood in the drive at the station and the temperature was perfect, and everything was so green and alive. The crickets, they chirped, and the fireflies glowed as they spun above the grass ... He almost forgot he was cursed.

But then—and as though God had looked down and noticed Donny wasn't suffering, there came a car down US twenty and this car pulled into the station, and it was a 1969 Camero, and behind the wheel was Steve Rousch. Ding—Ding, the bell rang as he drove over the air tube and came to a stop.

Donny didn't move, and maybe that was because he couldn't. His mind, his brain, he could swear he felt a million voices all telling him what he should do. A million all calling out at one time and he could feel the blood rush to this cheeks, and his heart began to pick up speed. And he could feel the impact of its beats against his rib cage. "Kill that mother fucker!" seemed to come through above all the others. "Kill him while you can!"

So he walked, and it felt like someone else had taken over, it wasn't him. And he went around the back of the Camero, and he pulled the hose from the pump. Holding it, he went to the driver's door, the window was already down, and why wouldn't it be on such a nice evening.

Steve, he looked out at Donny, he could see he was smoking a cigarette. Donny could see Steve was alone in the car.

"You supposed to be smoking while pumping gas?" Steve asked.

Donny didn't think, not really, he would later say it just happened, and he had no control. And there was a lot of truth in that, for whatever good that would do.

He pulled the trigger on that nozzle and gas blew out like water from a hose. Straight through the window, soaking Steve and the interior of his pretty 1969 Chevrolet Camero.

Steve, he screamed out, loud enough to get Larry's attention. Larry—he came out from under a car that was on the rack. He ran out the bay doors as fast as he could because that scream was one of sheer terror.

"Donny!" He shouted, but it was too late. Donny had pulled the cigarette from his mouth and using his finger and thumb, he flicked that fag sending it in inside the car, bouncing it off of Steve's shoulder, causing an eruption of red embers that looked like something from the fourth of July. This hot ash rolled over Steve's fuel soaked face and clothing, resting on the leather interior. Steve, his eyes burned from the gas, his mouth closed from the taste of it. He sat there waiting for the sting the fire would bring, surely, he would soon be dead.

"What the hell are you doing?" Larry screamed as he came to a stop.

"Take it easy," Donny said, "this asshole's a friend of mine."

"I don't give a shit! You don't spray gas on people! What the hell's the matter with you?"

Donny ignored Larry, he leaned into the car close to Steve's closed eyes. "You see," he whispered, "a lit cigarette won't fire up gasoline. At least most times it won't. Suppose it's good you don't run ethyl in this piece of shit ..."

Larry, he stood there with his mouth open. No sounds came out. No change in his expression. He was frozen, the same as the manikins that stand in the store windows. Donny was now looking at him, waiting for something.

"You're crazy!" he finally said, his voice was cracking, his head was shaking, Donny thought he was going to cry, or plead, he wasn't sure which. But he was still holding the nozzle, and it was pointed at Steve. Steve, he opened his eyes and scared shitless, he started the car. With hands that shook violently, he pulled the transmission back into drive and got the hell out of there. He looked in the rear view mirror, he could see Donny standing there in his coveralls holding onto the nozzle. Larry stood off to the side. Donny—he was staring at Steve, and this was something only seen in horror movies, and they never turned out good.

5

Detective James Stanton stood by the coffee machine at the Saint Joseph County police station. He had just put some cream in his cup and was in the process of adding the sugar. Beside him were two officers who shared a desk.

This desk was the same size as any desk in the office, which once split, only allowed each officer around twenty-four inches of room. But they made the best of it, and James saw them doing paperwork, traffic violations, DUI's and other citations they had written the night before. As they typed, the phones rang all around them, which James found very annoying, but these two night-shifters had no problem tuning them out.

They were dressed in blue uniforms, wearing their short hats that looked like berets with a bill. On their sides were their firearm. One 38 special pistol in a holster held closed by snaps that had long since rusted solid. On their backs, were handcuffs, on their right side was their baton. And as James look at them, he thought of the day when he wore that outfit. How proud he was, how good if felt.

But now, he thought they looked childish, and they did scream out "ROOKIE", and that's what these two were ... ticket writers, domestic abuse handlers, accident assessors. And they patrolled the outer limits of the city where crime doesn't happen often.

No ... they weren't like the city police. There were few bars along the outskirts. There were no college kids, no stores to rob. No one standing on the corner peddling drugs. The fact was they patrolled miles and miles of grid roads that separated farms. And there was little to do. Because the State Police took care of the highways and toll roads. The city police—they patrolled the towns, so what was left? Plowing the roads after hard snowfalls? Helping the Amish control their steeds?

It didn't take long for James to figure this out, so when there was an opening for a detective, he threw his hat off to the side and started combing his hair and wearing cheap suits instead of blue uniforms.

But few things end up being better than one expects, and this position was no different. He would quickly learn that his new job was nothing like the old. As when it came to murder or detective work, the county was the one who was called. And it didn't matter where it happened. The city police were understaffed, and the State police couldn't be tied down to one area while the investigation was going on.

So in short time, he felt as though he had seen it all, and his skin, it thickened at a rate he swore he could feel. And there were so many reasons and excuses, but what good were they? True, he had learned that there were two sides to every story. "I didn't mean to shoot him, I just wanted some food for the children!" Oh yes ... death was always an accident once

one was caught. Jame's knew this well and no longer cared to hear them. For him, it was easy, did you do it or not...? If you did, then you need to pay. If you didn't, then I need to keep looking for the one who did. It was that simple.

But as he stood there looking at the two who talked while they typed, he couldn't help but be impressed. They could do two things at once. And then he picked up on something that interested him. It was an incident that occurred the night before. One that involved a young man barely old enough to get a nut; and this kid, was a station worker and he doused a customer with gasoline while he sit in his car ... "Talk about full-service," the officer on the right said.

"Yeah," said the other." And the crazy part is, he then threw in a cigarette. The kid wanted to kill that son's 'a' bitch!"

"Why?"

"Don't know, it was late by the time I got the call, so I couldn't get ahold of the kid. But the one who got gassed, he wasn't much older and said they were friends."

"Some friend."

"Tell me about it."

James found this story captivating as the way it was told, he thought the young man was about to blow them all sky high. There had to be fuel all around him as well.

"So," James interrupted, "you're saying he was pumping gas while smoking?"

"Yeah," said the officer, "that's what started the whole thing. I guess the kid in the car said something about it and all hell broke loose."

"Were you the one who took the call?"

"Yeah..., and tell ya what—I'm looking to get rid of it, you interested?"

"Maybe," James said. "You have the file?"

He laughed, "Sure, I have the file." he handed James his pocket pad where he took the notes. James glanced at it, then ripped out the one page that pertained to the case and handed the rest back to the officer.

"I'll take that as a yes," the officer stated and stuck the pad back in his pocket.

James went to his office which was more of a closet than anything. He found having something others wanted in the police department led to a miserable existence. This wasn't a problem, not with this walled and doored outhouse type area.

He flipped a switch, and a single, fluorescent light came to life above him. The humming sound it gave would bother most, but it helped drown out the ringing phones so he lived with it. He took a seat at his desk and carefully read over the notes the officer had given him. There wasn't much there, all the same he had the same impression as before, and that was the kid was going to kill them all.

He picked up the phone and called this young man who went by the name: Steve Roush. He listened as he was told what had happened, then he hung up the phone and sat back and thought for a moment.

The victim—this Steve Roush kid wants to press charges. Say's the gasser is a madman and he's scared he'll try again. Say's he fears for his life! But why? Because he made a comment about smoking? Maybe, but don't seem likely. No, there's something else going on, not that it matters. Attempted murder, that's what we're dealing with here. Attempted homicide!

6

Later that day, Stanton pulled into the station where the incident had taken place. If he was thinking correctly, a man named Larry was the proprietor ... Stanton remembered speaking to Larry a year ago when he was investigating some punk-ass kids abuse case ... What was his name? Don Maers, he thought, and the connection was made.

Stanton smiled as he put his Ford LTD into park. Yes, sir, his day was looking up all right. The last time he saw Don Maers Junior, he was kicked out of his hospital room and flipped the bird. "Small world indeed," he mumbled as he turned off the ignition.

He could see Larry standing in one of the two bays, he was wiping his hands with a rag while looking at the detective. No doubt, Stanton was expected. James got out from the car and walked over to him.

"I'm Detective Stanton," he said as he showed Larry his credentials.

"What can I do for ya?" Larry asked.

"It's about the incident that happened her last night."

"I already told everything I know ... "

"Yes, I'm aware of that, but what I really wanted to know, was why?"

"I couldn't say—I mean, Donny's a good kid, was always here, hard worker and to be honest, I really hated to let him go."

"So, you did fire him?"

"Are you kidding? I'll be lucky if I don't get sued over this shit!"

"Has he ever done anything like this in the past?"

"No, of course not ... Larry shook his head, "the whole thing makes me sick."

"So—no idea what made him snap?" James asked.

"I'm not sure, I mean, he's had a tough childhood, but he never talked much about it. I mean, there's never been any indication of abuse, and he's private as hell. The only thing I can think of was that time he spent in the hospital."

"You mean when he had the ulcer?"

"Yeah, and I think you were on that case too."

"I was ... Did Donny ever say anything about that after he returned to work?"

"No, just that he had to watch what he ate."

"So you didn't know he was having withdrawals?"

"No, I mean I suspected and all, but never asked. Didn't see it as being my business."

"Larry—was Donny on drugs last night?"

"No—now I can tell you, he's been clean. Would swear to that in a court of law."

"Would you know?"

"I've known Donny a long time, seen him at his worst. So yes, I would know."

Stanton thanked Larry and returned to his car. Once inside, he made some notes on his own pad. He then fired up the Ford and pulled out of the parking lot, heading West on US twenty. He pulled his microphone from its holder and called out for one Donald Lynn Maer to be picked up. The charge—attempted murder! And a caution of danger was thrown in just for safety sake. Stanton thought it best for the family not to see who was leading the case. Not just yet anyway.

7

"Nancy Dally?" Stanton asked as he stood outside the screen door. The day was beautiful—a balmy seventy-two degrees with a light southern breeze. The corn was close to knee high and made a light rustling noise with each puff of wind. And there was corn all around Nancy's home, although Stanton knew the fields were leased. Nancy's family weren't the farmer types, least not corn growers, he knew because he'd done his homework.

"Yes," she said speaking through the screen.

"I'm Detective Stanton, I'm not sure if you remember me—"

She cut him off. "I remember you, at the hospital, in Donny's room."

"May I come in?"

"Times like this, I regret leaving the door open," She said.

"Aaah, but the day is so lovely, surely you wouldn't want to miss out on the breeze."

Nancy hesitated and then said. "Come on in, but make it quick."

Stanton wasted no time entering, he followed Nancy into the living room where she took a seat on a chair. Stanton chooses the couch.

"I'm not offering you anything to drink—if that's what you're waiting for."

"No, I'm fine."

"So what was it you wanted to ask me?"

"I'm sure you've heard about what happened between Donny and his friend."

"Yeah, I think everyone has."

"Why? Why would Donny do something like that?"

"Because he's crazy!" Nancy replied. "He's jealous on account I'm going to have Steve's baby!"

And there it is, Stanton thought. "Steve's baby? You're pregnant?"

"Four months, can't you tell?"

"Well—no, but I haven't seen you for some time ... And Donny knows about this?"

"I assume so, I mean that's why Steve went to see him. He was going to tell him the news."

"So Steve told him you were pregnant, at which point, Donny snaps and tries to burn them all to a crisp? Including himself?"

"Yeah, well that and we're going to get married."

"But Neither Steve nor Donny said anything about a baby? Why wouldn't Steve share that with me?"

"I don't know."

8

Dick Olson, the families favorite lawyer, paced back and forth while glancing out the large, floor to ceiling, plate glass window which was in his office. He was on the third floor of a rather large complex, one that was located in South Bend Indiana and close to the Notre Dame campus.

His place of business was plush with foamed carpet on the floor along with a large desk that was made from Cherry wood. There was a high back chair that sat tucked in under the desk. The chair was made from reddish colored leather and had buttons that secured it and were placed every six inches or so.

Two other chairs sat on the other side of the desk, and they too were made from the same material as the high back chair that he sat on. But they were stationary and didn't lean back, or swivel for that matter.

Behind the desk was a large bookcase one that was loaded with what looked like every law manual that was ever written. All hard covered and close to the same size. And alongside the desk, there was the Indiana State flag and on the other was the United States flag, both hanging from polished aluminum poles.

On the outside of his office door there was another smaller room where his secretary sat, and then there were three other offices were paralegals worked. And as Don Senior walked through the place, he was stunned at how far his old friend had come since the last time he saw him. Which wasn't but a year ago.

"May I help you?" the secretary asked.

"I'm here to see Dick," Don replied.

"You mean Mr. Olson!" she said, and he could tell she was warning him that things had changed and it wasn't only where the office was located.

"I mean Dick...! He stated in an 'I don't give a shit' voice.

With a frown on her face, she picked up the phone and called into his office. "There is a gentleman here to see you." She said. Then she put her hands on the receiver and asked his name. "He is a Don Maer," she echoed and then hung up the phone. "You may go in... He's waiting for you."

Don walked up to the large door that was dark stained and polished. The knob was made of brass, and everything screamed out money. He then opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him. Only then did he look up to see his old friend now sitting behind his desk.

"Please..., " he said as he waved to the extra chairs. "Take a seat."

As Don walked across the office, he could tell Dick wasn't happy to see him. On the contrary, he was disgusted. The reason--Don stunk of oil, and sweat, it was all over his clothes. And his work boots were black and leaving marks on the runner and Dick wasn't sure they would come out, but it was only the runner so what was the problem?

"I'm sorry," Don said as he took a seat, "I didn't realize you had become so ... uptown."

Dick forced a smile. "Well," he said, "Seeing things slowed with the Union, I had to find another avenue to pay the bills, and this is it." He said waving his arms around.

"I don't understand?"

"You see right down the road is the Notre Dame campus and you know who goes to Notre Dame?"

"Kids?"

"Rich kids. I mean the kind of spoiled brats that believe they can do anything and get away with it."

"So what is it that you do?"

"I make sure they're correct in that assumption, and I get paid handsomely for my services."

Don looked around, "I can see that."

"Don't get me wrong," he said, "All this is for show. You see there are a lot of times when their parents come along with them. And when they do, the only way you will gain their trust is if you look as though you're as crooked as they are." He laughed.

Don shook his head, "How old are you now?" he asked.

"Just turned sixty-one."

"And you're only now figuring that out?"
"What can I say, I'm a slow learner." He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel's. "As I recall, you're one to take to some libations." He said and pulled out two glasses. He poured them both a shot and once Don had the glass in his hand they both raised them and made a toast to success. "I hear you're a Shop Steward," Dick said as he poured more in his glass.

"That I am," Don said, "but that's not why I'm here."

Dick poured himself some whiskey as well and then he leaned back. "That I know, my friend ... That I know."

"What do you think?" Don asked.

"I think your son's in a lot of trouble," Dick said, "The prosecutors are calling this a case of 'intention to kill.' They want to try him as an adult."

"What if they do, what happens then?"

"The judge will find him guilty and send him to prison."

"No jury?"

"He admitted his guilt, and won't speak to a shrink ... To insist on a jury trial will do nothing but waste tax payers money and piss off the judge. And even if we did insist on a jury—they will find him guilty, and that pissed off judge will hand down an even stiffer sentence."

"Come on Dick. You just said you handle cases for the wealthy. Are you saying that you don't waste tax payers money then?"

"That's different."

"How so?"

"They're kids with a future, from big money, and to be found guilty could jeopardize that future. Do you have any idea what that's worth? And it's not only me cashing in." He stopped himself, knowing he was saying too much. "I mean—and I hope you don't take this wrong, but your son looks like trouble, he smells like trouble, and now he's in trouble. Trust me—this is the way the judge will see it and so will the jury."

Don looked Dick in the eyes, "You aren't shitting me. Not one bit. You're not taking the case, and it has nothing to do with how my son looks. It has everything to do with the fact that I don't have the cash to bribe the judge or to pay for you new inflated fees. I don't have the pull to get those on the bench fired, and they don't have to worry about receiving a threat from a senator, congressmen, or the fucking governor! Come on Dick! Isn't that what you're really telling me!"

Dick poured another drink, "With the exception of my inflated fee's, you're a hell of a lot closer than you think. And I didn't say I wouldn't take the case. I merely stated that we need to look at our options. And walking away with a slap on the hands isn't going to happen, no matter what we do." He handed Don his glass. "Trust me," he said, "Even the rich would feel the hands of the legal system deep in their pockets with this one." He took a shot and his eyes rolled up into his head. "So deep, they'd get their asses wiped while the judge was down there digging."

9

Donny sat at a long table, one that was continuous and had chairs along both sides. On the other side of him, was Nancy Dally. She was looking down towards the floor. Neither were saying a word. And Donny knew there was nothing to say ... Not really.

They were in the Juvenile Detention Center located in Laporte Indiana, and although Nancy had traveled far to see Donny, he knew this would be the only time she would.

From a distance, the place looked like any other penitentiary with a chain link fence that was twelve foot high surrounding the parameter and razor wire circling around the top. But as you came closer, you would see the lack of security and no armed guards were walking the parameters.

It was located in a desolate area, far enough away from anything that should you try and leave. You would soon turn and head back. Especially during the cold winter months. And it was a common joke that the fence was to keep the animals out `cause those inside had no desire to leave.

And why would they? The food was good, the beds were warm, and the place was as close to a hotel as Donny had ever seen. But to visitors who were on the other side of that long table. They were sitting in prison. No different than the ones they had seen in the movies. And these men, or boys they were speaking too, well, they were criminals in the process of a transformation that would forever change them.

Donny could see this all over Nancy's face. There wasn't the look of caring that she had while he was in the hospital. Nor was there love in her eyes. Now, all that was replaced with shame. And there was no doubt that in that short moment of time behind the K-Marts on US twenty ... he had lost what little he had.

"Why don't you talk to me?" he asked.

She looked up, "The detective came to my house and spoke to me," she said.

"Why?"

"He wanted to know why you did it."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him the truth, that you were a troubled soul."

"That I'm the Caveman?"

"Aren't you?"

"Suppose I am ... I heard you're getting married, is that true?"

"No. Barb and Steve got back together." Donny could see a tear welling up in her eyes. "I was stupid to think there was a happy ending in all this."

"What about the baby?"

"Well, that Detective pig made sure I confessed that there was no way the baby was yours. I guess that may hurt his case, although I don't know how."

"It's not mine ... You know I wouldn't bring a baby into this shithole world."

"I know, but I tried to change my story ... I thought that maybe if the child was yours, they'd go easier on you."

"So what are ya gonna do?"

"Adoption I suppose. That's what my parents want me to do."

Donny slowly shook his head. "He never told me you were pregnant, you know that—right."

Nancy didn't, and it showed. "Then why? Why did you do it?"

"I don't know, maybe it was because he thought he could have it all and no one deserves that. Or because I knew I wouldn't want to hear what he had to say. And I'm sure he wasn't there to confess his love for you. I'm thinking more along the lines, he wanted me to step up and he

thought I would because I'm not going to college, I'm going to Nam. A child wouldn't change that. Maybe prolong it, but not change it."

"I know."

Donny looked at her. "He told you?"

"Pretty much."

"And that's when you reidentified the babies father as me?"

"Not right off, at first I said I wouldn't do that to you. But then, he told me he was seeing Barb so I agreed, but only if you said it was all right. But then, I heard about what you did and panicked."

Donny looked down at the surface of the table, "I don't believe you should come back here." He said his voice was weak and she could tell he didn't really mean it. But all the same, she stood and walked away. Donny looked up just in time to see her exit through the doors. He could feel a tear of his own start to build. But he quickly thought of something else. The last thing, he needed, was to show weakness. Even a hotel needs a well-lit parking lot.

10

On December seventeenth, 1970, Judge Harold Vogt sat at his bench and looked down on all those who were at his mercy. He was much higher than the crowd, on a platform, which was meant to remind those who graced his courtroom that he was the King. And only moments earlier, all raised from their seats as per instructed, and he did prance out from a back room like a performer walking onto a stage.

Donny stood and waited for the applause—there was none.

"You may be seated," the Judge said, and everyone did. Now—he looked down at his desk at parchments that were yellowed from age or at least Donny thought this. It was surreal, this act of handing out justice.

Let there be stonings or beatings ... Off with the head, hang `em on a high tree, or nail his sorry ass to a cross. No—Donny was well aware that Judge Harold Vogt was indeed God, or at least as close as he would come to him. And guilt thickened the air in his courtroom, and Donny wondered if this was all coming from him? Or were their others who sat in attendance radiating guilt as though they were in Church listening to the things they shouldn't do. All the evils that were better left alone. But it was too late, they had already done those things and now wondered if they were doomed to life in hell. For the good grace of God—that could be me!

So this judge, he sported the traditional long black robe and sat in the typical high-backed chair that would be associated with a throne. And his room, oh it was luxurious with wood, all polished with grain that showed no defects. No knots and no blemishes. The floor was linoleum tiles all waxed to the point you could see your reflection in them. And there was no questioning that although everything around him was purchased with taxpayer's money. He saw it as his... all of it. Quiet in my courtroom! Said it all.

And Donny was quiet because this judge was said to be a no nonsense man. One that wouldn't hesitate to throw down the gavel in the name of justice. It was also rumored that he had spent too much time on the bench and had learned to see the guilt in everyone. Even if none was really there.

Now, as Donny looked up at him, he thought the man was angry. His white hair was thin and greased back. His eyebrows were long and hung over the top of his glasses. His lips were thin and although he was doing what he was paid to do. He acted as though he was doing it for free and this ... well, this case was a damn waste of his time!

He pulled his glasses down and looked over the top of them. "Mr. Maer," he said. "It says here that you have waived your right to an attorney. Is that correct?"

"It is your honor," Donny said.

"You will stand while addressing me—SIR!" The judge called out. And Donny did as he was told.

Then the judge looked over at the prosecutor's table where two lawyers were sitting. "And why are there two of you here?" the Judge asked.

"We represent the State," one of them said, confused at what the question was in reference too.

"I know who you represent," the Judge said. "What I'm wondering is why it takes two of you to do it? The man has pled guilty and has no lawyer. I hope, you don't think this to be the case that will make your careers!"

There was no answer. The lawyers looked at each other and then they sat back down. The Judge then looked back at Donny. "Would you mind if I ask why you don't want representation?"

"Well, I'm not sure what a lawyer could do for me?"

"He would have pleaded a deal and we wouldn't be sitting her right now," the judge snapped. "You see young man. the law isn't something to be taken lightly. And as you can see

the two men who are sitting at the table next to you are well aware of that." The judge leaned onto his desk. "They are predators, and you are the prey. Surely you see that."

Donny looked over, and they were both looking at him. Both wore suits, both were clean cut and their cologne filled the room. Donny thought of them as pussies, and should they be actual prey, he wouldn't be worried at all. "Pardon me, sir," he said. "But those men don't look like they could whip their own dicks!" he looked back at the judge, the courtroom erupted in laughter. The judge, he began beating his gavel down, screaming out for silence in his courtroom. HIS COURTROOM. And there was no denying now that he was upset. His face was red as the blood ran into his cheeks. His nose showed those small veins that appear from drinking too much, and all this clashed with his white hair. It wasn't an impressive sight. Judge Harold Vogt was losing it. And then the courtroom went silent, and it was his turn to speak, and so he did.

"I'm saying that you have pled guilty to attempted homicide, and you will spend the next ten years in prison. The first two will be in Juvenile Detention. Then, when you are of age, you will be transferred to the Indiana State Penitentiary where you will learn what it means to serve time." He then hammered down his gavel, stood up and stormed out of the room.

Donny stood there silent, not sure what had just happened. His mother, father, and family were behind him, and they cried out that an injustice had been done. But had it? Donny didn't think so, he knew this was coming, Dick Olson had warned him, and Donny dismissed him. He had dismissed all who tried to help, and that was all right because Lady Justice may be blind, but she can feel those scales, and she knows when they aren't level. She can hear them coins as they're placed on both sides to be weighed, and the more a person fights, the more coins that are lost. And the more coins that are lost equals a better chance of going free, so sight has little to do with anything. No—Lady Justice is for sale, and those scales are really her hands, and they are out for there for a reason. So if you can't fill them, just lie down and let them do as they please. That's what'll happen anyway.

Author: Dick Olson, Personal Attorney and one of the boys.

It wasn't long, maybe a minute or so, a large black man came over and gently took hold of Donny's arm. Donny looked at him and smiled, and the guard saw this as strange. There was no pleading, nor anger, no fear in those eyes and the guard smiled back and said. "You gonna be just fine, ain't ya?" Then he escorted Donny out of the courtroom.

The two lawyers, who worked for the State, didn't say a word, they waited until the courtroom was clear, then they picked up their briefcases. They made their way through the swing gate and out to where the general public was waiting for them. The first person they saw

was June. "You've doomed my son, you son of a bitch!" she screamed. "He wasn't supposed to get more than two years!"

The next was Don Senior, who had the look of a madman. The two lawyers pulled back in fear, Senior wouldn't be so easy to push aside. So the one in the lead stopped and confronted him. "You were sitting right there," he said, "You know we didn't say a damn thing. So if you want to be angry at someone, You need to think of the Judge!"

"All this shit happened because my boy didn't want to waste a lawyer's time, and this is what he gets!" Don said his teeth were gritted.

"Sir, as I said, this has nothing to do with us!"

Donny was taken back to Laporte, once there, he went to his room and laid on his bed. He put his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. He wondered how it was possible that an old man, who was so bitter, could keep his position. How he ran everyone down, even the lawyers who worked for the State, no one was safe, not in HIS courtroom. Not in his castle, not while he looked down from that throne that was purchased with other people's money.

Chapter XVI March 1971

1 A Damned Opportunity

First Sergeant Thomas J. Houp stood inside a room and looked through a two-way mirror. Standing beside him was Detective James Stanton, and their present location was the Juvenile detention center in Laporte Indiana. Stanton said nothing because he was in awe by the Sargent's presence.

He was a tall man, this Houp. As expected he was lean with the traditional lantern jaw. His hair, it wasn't longer than a half inch, and there was none on his chin or under his lip. He was handsome with the exception of the scars that ran along the side of his neck. Three total, no doubt made by bullets as they were deep and indented. A deformity on an otherwise perfect specimen.

But Stanton thought he wore it well, a badge of honor that showed he was much more than just a pencil pusher. No—if this guy were a dog, he would be a pit-bull. A fighter bull with ears that have been clipped back to mere points and this sacrifice would be for no other reason than to hand him an advantage. He would suffer this pain because he knew he would fight, and to the death ... A small price to pay in the end. He wore camaflauge pants and shirt, no different than those on the front line. His pants were tucked inside his boots and they were tied tight and those boot, they shined like black glass. He stood there, his hands joined behind his back and glared through the glass like a warrior. Damn, was Stanton impressed, and he would have given anything to be him. But then, the county did need their protectors also. And it was somewhat safer, and so far, he hadn't been shot at and had a clean, scar free neck. So yes, he would have loved to be him, but not really.

"Your weather is miserable," the Sargent finally said breaking the silence. Outside, it was cloudy spitting rain mixed with slush.

"There're two things Indiana's known for," Stanton said.

"What?"

"Rock stars and serial killers," he replied. "Most believe it `cause of the weather. Ya know, the lack of sun."

"Suppose that would do it." Houp said. "So tell me about this young man."

Inside the next room, Donny sat on a chair, and this chair was the only thing in the room. No windows, no desk, not even another chair. He was staring at the mirror which he knew someone was on the other side doing the same thing to him.

"He's tough as hell," Stanton said. "Like I told ya, he almost died in his bedroom. Laid there going through withdrawals and he wasn't but fourteen years old."

"And that gas station thing? Nothing added for effect?"

"Not a thing, he was going to blow `em all up. Didn't blink an eye. The only weakness I've seen is he had an ulcer. Almost bled to death."

Houp shrugged his shoulders, "Don't care about that," he said. "We all have ulcers. Comes with the job."

"So," Stanton asked. "This finder's fee, it's gonna happen?"

"Well," Houp said, "it's like I told ya over the phone. If we can use him, sure, and you'll know that soon enough."

"How?"

"He won't be around."

"But he's what you're looking for. Right?"

"I'm looking for a combination of insanity, desperation and just don't give a shit."

"Then I'd say you found your man!"

2

Sergeant Houp sat in his LTD outside of Steve Roush's home. It was May now, and he was amazed at the way the fields were growing, and the grass—it was already so thick and green. Totally the opposite of what was there when he arrived in March.

"Back then, it was a fucking wasteland," he whispered.

He was parked on the side of Day Road, and there were corn fields all around him. The black dirt was turning green as the crop had begun to sprout. It was Saturday morning, and he had seen a lot of men mowing their grass. The mowers seemed to bog down under the load. The lawn was dense unlike where he lived which was down South. Florida as a fact and there wasn't a thing but sugar sand covered in sparse clumps of crabgrass.

The women were outside as well, picking weeds, planting flowers, and making use out of such a beautiful day. And it was nice, so much so Houp had his windows down. But he wasn't there for pleasure, and he reminded himself of this.

He watched as Steve Rousch walked out the front screen door. Steve trotted to his car, and Houp knew it was supposed to be a sixty-nine Camero, but that had changed. Now, it looked to be a brand new car, fresh off the showroom floor, Monte Carlo, and that pissed Houp off. A spoiled kid that gets what he wants. Heading for college, avoiding the draft, no better than the cowards that run to Canada. They're all dodgers, the only difference is this type could be the next Congressman, Senator, maybe even President.

He looked at the home, an old three-story farmhouse that had been restored to near mint condition. The Barn wasn't old, no doubt, the original was torn down and a new one built. There were no silos no tractors. These people weren't farmers, they had cash.

Steve pulled out from the driveway, heading East down Day Road, Houp pulled out and followed, keeping his distance.

He had already spoken to Nancy Dally. He knew about the baby she had and gave away. He knew about the K-Mart parking lot, and the reason for Donny's rage and he understood now. All too well, he knew about the anger that remains long after the act is completed. He could see it, the rich, handsome kid that has it all who hangs out with the homely boy who's fucked.

Both help the other feel better about themselves, but only one will be the winner and it's not going to be the 'Caveman,' as Nancy had called Donny.

Steve turned South on Bittersweet Road, headed down to US twenty where he took a left and headed into town. Houp followed, taking a moment to slow and look at the Station where Donny had worked, where he had sealed his fate. Now, there was another young man pumping gas, and Houp, he saw this as history, like driving past the house where Ma Barker had her shoot out. Each place told a story as though remnants of the past remained and haunted the grounds. Houp wondered if he was losing his mind, then decided it didn't matter so he went on.

Steve, he pulled into a driveway, and a lovely young woman came running out the back door. Barb, Houp thought, and he was correct. There was no mistaking her from what he was told. They were right, she did look like a picture of a woman he would take into the restroom.

She got into the car, and they drove away, and Houp followed. He would spend the day behind them, gathering unneeded information. In the end, he would realize he had all there was to get while parked outside Steve's house, and this disappointed him. He now knew there was a reason for what Donny had done. A crime of passion if you will, and that didn't fit into what he was looking for.

So, the next day, he went to the Saint Joseph County Court House where he walked into the courtroom that belonged to one Judge Harold Vogt (Donny's Judge). He took a seat in the back and watched as the decider worked his magic. He wasn't impressed.

So, when the judge left the courtroom to take a lunch break, Houp soon followed.

"Do you have an appointment?" The secretary asked and she was that and nothing more. One secretary minus the frills.

"No Maam, but I'm with the United States Army and would require only a moment of his time."

She shook her head as she looked over the top of her glasses. In some ways, she reminded Houp of the Judge. Gray hair, snotty attitude, and way out of shape. "The Judge is eating now, you'll have to make an appointment."

"I'll wait."

"He won't come back out until it's time to go back to the courtroom. So I'll say this one more time ... You'll have to make an appointment!" She now went from looking aggravated to looking mean. Houp saw this as a threat, and he hated threats even more than he hated spoiled ass kids.

"I'll tell you what," he said. "Apparently you're under the assumption that your Honor in there is more than he really is. So let me correct that for you!" He smiled but it was forced, and she could see that, and it wasn't pretty at all. The soldier took on the look of a mad hatter. "Now," he continued. "I know that your boss has to deal with some scum. Hell, some may even use drugs and rob their mothers. And I'm sure he's had his share of wife beaters stand before him. And there's a chance, a few murderers have been thrown into the mix ... But mark my words lady, he hasn't seen shit, because if he ever looked down at a real killer, he would piss his pants. And he would do this because he would see it, and feel it, and he would have trouble speaking because he would know that if that man wanted to, he could snap his neck like a pencil. And those puff paddies he calls gaurds—well—they'd be helpless to stop it.

"You see, I know this because I'm one of those men, so you get on that phone and tell that piece of shit that I need a few minutes of his time. Tell him it's his duty if ya like. But in a few seconds, I will go through that door."

She turned pale, and Houp knew he had gotten through. Her shaky hands picked up the phone, and she talked low, almost a whisper and then she hung up. "You can go in," she said, and Houp did just that.

Judge Harold Vogt was in no way the same person now that he was in his chambers. He was kind, and helpful, eager to please, respectful. Maybe it was because Houp looked like he was dressed for war. Hard to say and Houp could have cared less.

"Come on in," he said as he waved his hand. "Take a seat, I always have time for those who serve."

Houp did just that, he placed a manila envelope on the desk. He slid it to the Judge who was sitting pretty in his chair. Then he leaned back, all comfortable like. "You remember that fella?" he asked, and the Judge sat there stunned. No hands were shook, no names were given, and no respect. And the judge felt that instant urge to bark out and demand the love he so deserved. But then, he could see this man who sat before him could snap his neck like a fucking pencil and those guards, well, they were nowhere to be seen. So he forced a smile while he leaned his chair up so his stubby arms could reach the folder.

At first, he looked confused, or perhaps he didn't remember. But then, he read parts of the case, and it quickly came back to him. "Yes," he said. "I remember this kid. Sad as it was."

"You handed him ten years."

"Yes, I thought it best to keep him away from the general public."

"You put no clause in there about joining the military upon reaching legal age? That's uncommon."

"I thought the boy would be better suited for the loony farm than serving our country."

"Really? But you sent him to prison? There's nothing in your verdict about getting mental help."

"As I recall, the boy wouldn't take any help, not even from an attorney. And he wasn't crazy per say, perhaps suicidal. And like I said, I didn't think our boys overseas would want someone like that around."

"You have any idea just what it is those boys are doing over there?"

"Well, yes, of course."

"Then you know they'll take whatever they can get, so why don't you tell me the real reason you want him in prison?"

The judge stuttered now, searching for words. Then he calmed and said. "All right ... There's something wrong with that kid. I hope you don't take this wrong, but he's kind of like you."

"How so?"

"He's scary, and there's an aura around him. He seems to have little to no fear, cares about nothing, certainly not his appearance, or even life. He's a danger to society, and it's my duty to protect the public."

"Is that it?"

"Yes—what do you want from me?"

Houp nodded his head towards the manila envelope. "The last page in that file you're holding. There's a form that states that upon turning eighteen years of age, you will release Donald Lynn Jacobs to the United States Army. I want you to sign it. And—I didn't appreciate that comment about not carrying about my looks!"

3

Sergeant Houp was in the Laporte Juvenile Center, he was standing in that room that held the two-way mirror. This time, he was on the bright side, and he was looking at his reflection which showed his age, and he felt so damn old. He could see gray hairs now peppered and rising from his scalp, wrinkles formed around his eyes, and he looked tired, and he was tired. Life had a way of doing that. At least it did if you lived it.

He was leathered, that's what it was. Too much time in the sun had turned his skin into something that resembled a suitcase made from alligator hide. But there wasn't a thing that could be done about that. Not now.

He was waiting for Donny who was supposed to be pulled from the garden where the boys grew their food. He had driven past it on his way in. To him, the garden looked more like damn farmers field. It had to be fifty acres, and there were all different types of vegetables, from beans to lettuce, peppers, to corn. It made Houp think of Nam and the simple farmers he saw while on patrol. The oxen pulling the plow, the men picking and planting by hand.

He smiled, in some crazy way, he missed Nam. The place was tropical and rained all the time, but they had some awesome dope there, and it was everywhere. Could pick the shit while walking through the jungle. Use to chew on it like a fucking weed. But after three tours of duty, a purple heart, and some missing toes, he was pulled from duty. Simple as that.

He turned as the door opened, he looked at Donny, waited for an expression change which there always was. A kid walks into a room and sees a soldier standing there, they assume the worst. Most times, that assumption is correct. But to his surprise, Donny's face never changed and Houp thought he had been told who was waiting, but he hadn't and it was as the Judge had said. Donny just didn't give a shit.

Donny took a moment, he looked at Houp, then closed the door. "I figured you'd be here at some point." He said.

Houp smiled. "Take a seat," he said, pointing to the only chair in the room. Donny did as he was told.

Houp walked around Donny, taking a closer look. The judge was right, he didn't care about his appearance. His hair went down to the middle of his back. It was greasy, and he was trying to grow what looked like a beard and mustache, but there were bare spots that made his chin look like a rats back, one that was ate up with mange. He smelled a combination of sweat and dirt. And those eyebrows, they were thick and ran the length of his forehead. He was the Caveman, but surprisingly, it suited him. Made him look tough as hell.

One of the guards had stated that Donny wasn't bothered by the other boys. At the time, Houp figured the reason for this was they thought he was insane. I mean, Donny wasn't muscular, he wasn't tall. He was the opposite, he was short and thin. But now, as he looked closer, he could see there was more to him than met the eye. And those eyes, they were dark brown, almost black, and there was no doubt in Houp"s mind, that anyone who confronted him would think the same thing he was thinking. Yeah, I could take him, no problem there, but I'll have to sleep sometime. Best leave this one alone.

"You know why I'm here?" He finally asked.

Donny fidgeted around in his chair. "Suppose you want me in Nam," he said.

"No," Houp chuckled, "they don't send me out to choose foot soldiers."

"Why do they send you out?"

"I select those who are special and are willing to do the jobs the foot soldiers won't." he started walking around as he spoke. "Now, to be qualified for these positions ... and listen close because if you answer 'NO' to any of the things you hear then you need to speak up." He stopped in front of Donny. "No sense wasting time."

"I got ya."

"Good ... So to be chosen, one couldn't be a Christian, or be concerned with the afterlife. They couldn't care less about what is right or wrong. You see this is War, and once you follow your first order, you have sealed your fate. You will go to hell, and there's no longer such a thing as right or wrong—there's only live or die. Nothing more.

"You would be loyal, and that's not to say to the United States, the war, or those on the front line. You won't be anywhere close to that. But you will be tested, and you will live in fear, and your life will slow down because each day could very well be your last. So you would have to be brave. You couldn't fear death, and you would be willing to die for the cause itself—whatever that cause may be.

"You would be sworn to secrecy, and there's no excuse here. Should you speak of what you know, who you know, or what you've done—you will be hunted down, along with those you had spoken too. All will be eliminated, and make no mistake, a hell of a lot of accidents had some help. You see, you will be surrounded by animals, who are just like you. You need to always remember that." He looked at Donny.

"No problem so far," he said. "Did you know there was a dead lady buried in my basement?"

"What?"

"Tick tock said the clock." Donny grinned, and Houp knew he had his man.

4

In the weeks that followed, Donny found himself back out in the garden working the fields which weren't bad at all. He liked being outside and the weather was pleasant, and he loved pampering his plants. He had a green thumb, and interest. Some no doubt came from growing dope which they did since none entered into the center by dealers. They were strict on that.

There was a library that had books on botany, Donny had studied up on the craft, and it was a craft because anyone can grow a potato, but only a botanist can grow one that's bug-free, huge, and looks like Elvis.

In the process, he had read up on the plight of the American farmers. He wondered if today's generation took the time to keep the soil free from nutrient sucking weeds. Or were they slaves to the tractors they now drove. He had looked at a million fields since his birth, hell, they were all around him, but he couldn't recall seeing weeds, perhaps because he never cared, not until now.

He read a book called: "The last days of the American Farm," and this book told of the past, the days before tractors, banks, and factories. And back then, one was a farmer or a hunter because that was all there was to be. And the farmers—they lived off from what they grew and not what they had borrowed. This meant they were independent and secure. Something that would soon change.

The book stated that in the mid-1800's, the average farm held around one hundred acres. And was worked with horse and plow.They were close enough to neighbors and towns they stayed connected and fraternized through barn parties and dances. The Farmers along with the hunters were what kept the area alive and healthy. It was where all trading began and ended. So both were held in great regards and respected.

Family members were blessed to be in line to take over when the elders retired. And all the males, their wives, and children were involved and lived on the land they owned. Much like the Amish still do to this day.

Then, around the turn of the century, things began to change and unlike the Amish, the American farmer embraced this change, perhaps that was a mistake. But they started using machinery to tend to the fields, and that cost money, money they didn't have, money they would borrow from those who did. And the agreement was simple: Payback a little at a time and a little more than you took.

This was the web that was being spun and it was clever as it always is. But during hard times when there were droughts and small yields, the banks were sympathetic and helpful. The farmers grew comfortable and took on more acreage, and purchased more equipment ... The fish, they were hooked, and it was time to reel them in, so those with plenty did just that.

"I'll tell you what we'll do," the Farmers were told. "We'll give you the money because you're the experts ... I mean..., we're merely bankers who know little about farming. So—if you're sure you can produce enough to make the payments, then fine. But if you don't, well—we're gonna have to take the farm."

The farmers, they could see a problem here. "There's no way we can guarantee anything. I mean, a lot has to do with mother nature," they replied.

"Well," said the banks, "then why would WE take on such a risk? I mean if the experts are not sure, then we would do well to lend our cash to someone who is."

"Maybe because you like to eat," replied the farmers. "Without the money, we can't grow food."

The Bankers laughed because those farmers were already owned due to past money borrowed and money they no longer had. No—the farmer's were no longer respected, they were slaves to the banks, and so their threats meant nothing. Slaves will do as they're told, and they were told to get their asses back to work, their note was about to be pulled!

Those farmers, they built a monster without knowing it. They had silo's, huge barns, tractors. All these things weren't needed, not really, but the only way to pay off the note was to take the risk, take on more land, borrow more money and pray like hell, the Gods are in a giving mood.

So here came the new age, and the Amish, they sat back and watched. Unamused at what they saw, and they slipped into the shadows where the money men wouldn't go. They became distant, loners, and kept to their own kind. Smart most would later say. And the Native Americans, they watched from a distance, and they shook their heads but felt some relief in knowing that there was no limit to the white man's greed. That not even their own were safe, not any longer.

So this age where farming was no longer stable or secure, became infested with superstitions, and religion. Where prayer once consisted of asking for safety and for good health of family members, now turned to asking God for an early spring, and late fall. More rain and warmth. Please—let that corn be knee-high by the Fourth of July! Because if it's not ... it will freeze before it's ready to eat. God Please!

And some did better than others, and those who prospered were said to have made a deal with the Devil somewhere on the crossroads. Which to this day when it's shown on TV, or paintings, this mysterious place where souls are traded, are nothing more than a desolate road, surrounded by farmland.

It didn't stop there. Don't break a mirror, or walk under a ladder. Stop a chair that rocks itself, kill the black cat before it's in your path. And wives were beaten so were children as stress ate up the minds of the fathers. The unknown, uncontrolled fate that always seemed to look so bad.

Soon they were alone, so far from neighbors, they would go for months without seeing them. There were no barn parties, or get together's. The children were home schooled, the men were the only ones seen in town. And most held Sunday services deep inside their minds at the breakfast table.

Silent prayers, for better days. But God works in mysterious ways. And I guess he thought there were too many farms because they began to disappear. Turned into housing communities. Or parking lots, churches, factories and other pleasantries to amuse the white folk. But who was to blame? And how could those who purchased the land from the banks be looked down upon? There were no shady deals here. As was said, the farmers were the experts, and no experienced Plowman would claim the weather is predictable. And look at the Amish, you don't see them falling on hard times. So where do I sign? Let's pour some concrete!

Donny closed that book, but he would remember this, because it was a lesson, because although it may not have been right, it was life. And those fields where the money men play, they are far from level. So his new philosophy was: the difference between a banker and a loan shark was one would kill ya, the other would fuck ya to the point you killed yourself. One wore a suit an expensive watch and pretty shoes. The other wore whatever the hell he wanted. One you knew was coming for you, the other you never saw coming. And only one of the two could receive bailout cash from the very people they had screwed. Best to stay the hell away from both of them.

5

It was the beginning of August and the days were counting down to his eighteenth birthday. Donny walked to the door that led to the garden. He was thinking about nothing at all, his mind wondered of what was to come, which was some kind of secret. Sargent Houp said little, only that he would be in touch. But he had only been seen that once. The truth was, Donny was beginning to think it was all a dream.

But strange things had been occurring. His mother and father had come to see him, which hadn't happened in well over a year. They seem to think Donny was joining the Army. Seemed to be real proud of the boy. But Donny hadn't said anything to anyone, so that had to come from Houp. But he wasn't joining the Army, the Sargent had made that clear, all the same—Donny said nothing as per his instructions.

So he was in the hallway now and close to the door that led outside, when Sam the guard stopped him, told him he had an appointment. But Donny didn't know anything about no appointment. He led him to the front, through the gates and out the doors where there was a van waiting. A relatively new vehicle with no markings, or bars on the windows. Sam smiled as he

let go of Donny. "Your chariot awaits," he said, and Donny thought this strange because he could have taken off running and he had the feeling Sam the Guard could have cared less, and Donny knew this was it, he was being released and wouldn't return. The deal he had made with Sargent Houp was set in stone. No crossroads were needed, only a soul, and the Devil—like God, works in mysterious ways, and can be so many different things. So why couldn't he come in the form of a Sargent?

As Donny stood there looking at that van, he thought this, and he was scared. The driver, he was an elderly man, not military. Wore a t-shirt, white and had a pack of cigarettes rolled up into his sleeve. One hung from his lip, burning and he looked straight ahead like he was bored.

Donny slowly walked to the front passenger door, the window was down, he reached for the handle when this crusty old man looked at him. "Sit in the back!" he said, and that's what Donny did.

He wanted to speak as he closed the side door, he wanted to ask if the old man could drive because his eyes were milky. Cataracts Donny would guess, but he said nothing and the old man pulled the shifter into drive and off they went. Donny sat on that long Naugahyde bench seat and looked out the side window at his latest home. Just like that, he was gone. No Goodbyes, no witnesses, just disappeared and he knew, there wasn't one of them that a gave a shit.

The old man drove South, down through Indianapolis, into Louisville Kentucky. He pulled off from I65, downtown. Then he took some side streets coming to a stop in front of a whitewashed block building.

Donny, he was in the back sleeping, but he woke up when the engine shut down. "Where are we?" he asked groggily. The outside lights were on now, the sun had set, so it was past nine o'clock at night. The streets looked poor, possibly ghetto, and this building they were in front of, had no signs displayed. There was light inside, he could see that, but heavy shades blocked all but only a trace along the sides.

"Get out," the old man said as he opened his door and exited. He locked it, then walked around to the passenger side. He rolled up the window and did the same. "You make sure the door's locked before you close it," he said, and Donny was still sitting there. "What the hell are you waiting for," the old man shouted. "Get the hell out!" Donny quickly did as he was told, checking the door before latching it. He then followed the old man through the front door and into what looked to be a makeshift lobby ...

There was a desk, but no receptionist, there was a phone and alongside it, was a calender that came from some tool company. On the bottom were the days of the month, the top had some woman spread out wearing nothing but a crescent wrench on a piece of twine. This wrench dropped down between her legs and if this whole thing wasn't terribly intimidating, Donny would have said something like: "that wrench needs some lube or it's gonna rust!" But he said nothing at all ... Most wouldn't.

There was a wall behind the desk, which separated this area from the rear. A door was open, and Donny could see a man walking towards them. This man was wearing a white smock, a doctor's attire.

He came up, stopped and looked at Donny. "This him?" he asked, and the old man said it was. The stranger then waved for Donny to follow him and he did. Back to the rear where the lighting was better, and there was a chair, a dentist's chair. The stranger pointed to it, and Donny hesitated but went on ahead and sat down.

"What's this all about?" he asked.

"You're due for some dental work," the stranger said, and there was no doubt, he had the equipment to do just about anything. Which Donny thought of as odd, considering there was no advertisement, and he was certain this part of town, most wouldn't have the cash for dental work.

The dentist, at least Donny hoped that was what he was, said little. He pulled a gas mask from its perch. Nitros? Donny thought, and of all the drugs he had done, this wasn't one of them. "Breath normally," the dentist said as he secured the mask around his mouth. And there was a feeling euphoria that Donny found quite pleasant, but it quickly turned to black, and that was that.

Donny opened his eyes and looked around. His head was spinning, and he hadn't a clue what had happened to him, only that it wasn't normal. He was in a room, but not a hospital room, no that's not right, not a dentist's office. He remembers that now, and it made sense, his mouth was full of cotton gauze, and he could taste blood. His blood.

He slowly raises his head and looked around. His jaw hurt, teeth were pulled? No doubt about that, but why? He wondered. I wasn't having problems.

"You had a lot of work done," the old man said, he was sitting on a chair in front of a black and white television set. Hotel, Donny thought, that's where I am, a motor-lodge. He could see the curtain that covered the window and below was the heater slash air conditioner. The door off to the far right. It was exactly what he had seen on the television.

"You were in that chair for most the night," he said. "I fell asleep for awhile." Only now did the man look towards Donny and those eyes didn't look any better in the darkened room, and he thought perhaps the light bothered them, but then realized that couldn't be, he had driven the day before, and it was a bright day. He wore no sunglasses. "He said you shouldn't try and talk," he continued. "Said your "smart teeth" are pulled, and you now have more lead in your mouth than teeth." He laughed. "Suppose you should a brushed every now and then."

Donny sat his head back down on the pillow, he tried to swallow, gagged some then tried again.

Chapter XVII May 1, 1972, Donny eighteen, Benny eleven, Pauly nine.

1 Time To Grow Up

Sargent Thomas J. Houp walked into an old, but charming home. I take that back, it was once a home, but had been abandoned and was set to be demolished. Before that could happen, the local preservation society stepped in and saved the day.

Now, it was like new although still original, and was the office for one Doctor William Cantrell, a Psychiatrist, and Mr. Cantrell had made a name for himself with his unusual ability to see inside the minds of mad men.

Mainly, his customers came from the FBI, Serial killers, or people on the run that could be a danger to themselves and all those around them. His last case involved a small child, a young girl, ten years old. Mom lost her in the grocery store, swore she only looked away for a moment. But that little girl was gone, disappeared like in some Vegas magic show. Only she wasn't found sitting at a table located in the back of the room. She wasn't found at all, and this bothered the good doctor because it was a failure, most likely meant death, and they didn't pay him to tell them what they already knew.

Hard to bounce back from something like that, and he was struggling now. The problem was, they had caught the man who took that child. But he was like a vault and Cantrell, try as he did, couldn't break that seal. Didn't even come close. So this man, this cool cat, sat there like a manikin, dull-eyed, and heartless. For three months he did this, long enough for his lawyers to demand his release. So there he was, out and stalking his next victim. And Cantrell, he pocketed his fee of seventy-five thousand dollars. Win or lose, the players get paid. But he wasn't expecting a call from them anytime soon.

So—he was back to being nothing more than a shrink now. All be it a good one, and the military did take notice and was using him on various potential stars. You know, those who show the ability to be so much more than they are. Donny was one of these up and coming superheroes ... He had spent months speaking to the good doctor and as Houp walked up the front steps onto the large porch of that old home. He wondered just what he would hear. He

wondered if the doctor was able to get in where all others had failed. Had Donny allowed another human being into that brain of his? He didn't have high hopes.

The inside of this office was exactly as one would expect. Rich stained wood, everywhere starting off with a hallway and grand staircase showing off to the right. On the left, there was a doorway that led into what once was the living room, now, it belonged to a pretty young brunette who sat at an all glass desk and spoke on a fancy new push button phone.

Sargent Houp walked into this room.

There was a television set sitting on top of a small table, the Price Is Right game show was playing, and there were seats placed around it. Bob Barker was about to allow some lucky contestant to "spin the wheel" But Houp didn't care to see it.

The young lady, she smiled as she placed the phone back on the receiver. "May I help you?" she asked, and Houp could have sworn he heard some flirting in her voice. But then, he hadn't a clue what that would sound like. So and although he wished like hell that was the case, he blew it off.

"Sargent Thomas Houp, here to see the Doctor. I believe he's expecting me."

The young woman blinked her eyes and those oversized black, shiny, fake eyelashes fanned out in slow motion and looked so unnatural. But then, that was the rage these days. Everything artificial, Houp thought. But still, she looked so good wearing a black, leather, miniskirt with long black boots that stopped just below her knees. She had on nylons that made her legs look tan, and it was obvious—she had nothing she wished to hide. And he thought this a strange thing to see in a shrink's office, and he was trained to notice such things. If he were in the field, he would be leery. He would proceed with caution because she was a distraction and that will get you killed faster than drawing slow at a gun fight.

She picked up the phone and with her long fake fingernails, she clicked on three buttons. 6-1-9, Houp watched and took note of this. She then spoke low, and he could have sworn in some other language. Russian, or perhaps German? Houp pulled back, and she hung up the phone.

"Are you all right?" She asked in perfect English. Houp blinked a couple of times, cleared his head, he wondered how far it would go? Because he could have killed that girl, snapped her neck and would have sworn she was a threat. But she wasn't, and that meant he was losing his mind. Maybe I should have a talk with the good Doctor. NO! he thought. Get it together!

"Yes, I'm all right," he said, "would you point me the way?" A trickle of sweat rolled down from his scalp, onto his forehead. He wiped it away but she was watching him, and he could see she also was scared now. That's good, he thought, you should fear men like me.

The receptionist pointed out the door he had just come through. "Up the stairs, the first room on the right," she said. Houp wasted no time leaving.

There was a long couch in this room with a lounge chair sitting next to it. There was a table, stained with round water marks where people had sat down sweating glasses no doubt full of water. Houp knew this trick, keep the mouth moist so the idiot rambles on. Keep them talking and eventually something interesting will appear.

Houp decided he wasn't a patient, so he wouldn't sit down, instead, he walked to the large window and looked out into the bright blue South Florida sky. Miami, that's where he was. Downtown and it was his favorite city. It was almost home, and he loved the South, it made him feel good. If it were legal, he would take a boat and set sail from Key West, head straight to Cuba. But that wasn't going to happen, not since the "bay of pigs" shit.

Just then the door opened, and the Doctor walked in.

"Hello Sargent," he said as he closed the door. In his hand, was a file. Houp didn't turn, he continued staring outside.

"Nice to see you," Houp replied.

The Doctor went to a chair that was tucked in under his desk, he pulled it out and took a seat. He then placed the file on his desk and looked over to where Houp was standing with his back to him.

"Something on your mind?" he asked.

"You know," Houp replied, "many fear the sight of Buzzards in flight. The way they hang in the air, almost floating with their black feathers and blood red marbled heads." He turned and looked at the Doctor. "Do you know there's nothing that hunts them. Not man nor beast. They'll never be plucked and baked, and they won't be captured and caged ... You know why that is?"

The doctor shook his head, "Because they're disgusting, would be my guess."

"Maybe ... but it's more than that. You see, they're the Grim Reaper, and when the first Angel of Death was seen and later discribed, the person painted a perfect picture of that thing." He pointed out the window to where was a buzzard standing in the grass off the side of the road. And as the Doctor stood so he could see it, the large bird pulled up its head and looked straight at them.

The Doctor thought the bird could smell him. "They'll never go hungry," he said. "That's for sure. No matter what happens, they'll do just fine."

Houp tapped on the glass like that would scare the bird, but it remained. "They stick together circling above," he said, "always searching for their next meal. Some think we should eliminate `em, but good would that really do?"

"It would mean there would be nothing to take away the road kill," the doctor replied as he took his seat.

"It would mean Vietnam would smell like the hell we've turned it into," Houp said.

"Why don't you take a seat," the Doctor stated, Houp ignored him.

"One time," he continued, "I was on my knees on the ground—holding onto a soldier that had been hit ... I-I-I mean hit real bad and he was looking at me but through me at the same time." He turned and looked at the Doctor. "You know what I'm talking about?"

"He was dying," the Doctor replied.

"Yeah—suppose he was. But he started whispering something, but I couldn't make out what it was, so I leaned down, placing my ear close to his mouth." Houp looked back out the window.

"What did he say?"

"He said 'an angel had come for him.'"

"That's not uncommon."

"I closed my eyes and waited. I waited for that angel to take that young man from my arms. I hoped like hell they would. But then, I opened my eyes and that soldier, he was dead."

"I'm sorry."

"I let that boy go, turned and looked up into the sky—I didn't see nothing but gray rain clouds. And I decided right then maybe they were on ta something when they marked those birds as Angels. Maybe they knew a buzzard was as close to an Angel as man would ever get." He turned and looked at the Doctor. "Suppose that's all we deserve." He then turned and walked over and took a seat in a chair. "So what did you find?" he asked, and the Doctor knew the soldier was back in his world.

He smiled and opened the folder. "Well," he said. "There is no doubt that he has problems with depression."

"Don't we all."

"Most of us at some point do—yes, but we develop these symptoms after something has happened. Death, or accident, divorce, or as in your case—war. But I really believe he was born with this problem."

"Why would you think that?"

"When you look at his test answers, there isn't anything in there that's awful. No life-changing episodes. Just common hurdles that all kids face. I'd like to have him take an IQ test."

"I don't understand--"

"Let me explain," the doctor said interrupting Houp."You see there's no such thing as a perfect world. So if you were God, the closest you could hope to get, would be a planet that would suit the majority of things that were living on it. With that said, it stands to reason that in every species of life, you would have some euphoric, the majority would be normal, with the third being seldom if ever happy. Each of these groups would share the same range of intelligence."

"Go on."

"Those with average IQ's would have a better chance at living a normal life."

"What happens to those who are on the outside of that range?"

"Those, who are of lesser intelligence will be happier than the average. They will accept things as they are. They're prone to see the good in everything, and never look much farther than the present day. An extreme example would be, how many times have you seen a retarded person who didn't seem happy as hell?"

Houp thought for a moment, "Never," He said.

"Exactly... So that would mean those with higher intelligence are prone to see the bad in all things. They look ahead into the future, and they never see anything positive, even if it is there. They look at a glass of milk and don't see it as half full, or half empty. They see it as calf food, and they wonder why anyone would put that in a glass at all.

"Should they hold a puppy... They will look into its eyes and instead of seeing all the good times they will have. They will begin to mourn because they know just how short a dog's lifespan is, and they see the day it dies, they feel the pain. So they return the puppy and walk away, wishing they had never stopped at all.

"No—they are withdrawn and live in a world that is much darker than any you can imagine. No Psychiatrist will tell you this because there's always hope with treatment, but statistics don't lie. And they all claim there is little chance for success."

"So he is suicidal?"

"I imagine there isn't a day that passes that he doesn't think of death, or wonder if there is hope for escape through it."

"And there's nothing that will change it?"

The Doctor chuckled. "There's people out there who are seen as having it all. Movie stars, Doctors, lawyers, the insanely wealthy, yet, they're found dead every day. Could be too many pills, or they hung themselves, or the always popular, 'killed in a car crash!'"

"You saying James Dean committed suicide?"

"I don't know, but I do know there's a bunch of Hollywood types who are terrible drivers. Especially when they're alone. You see—it has nothing to do with what you have or how happy others would be with it. In their world ... the norm is to be sad and desperate, with only glimpses of hope and happiness. James Dean—that's what he showed on the screen, and it made him a star, but what did fame change?"

"Nothing, he was found dead shortly after he hit the big time."

"Exactly."

"So back to Donny—would he be dependable?"

"I doubt it, not to a mortal human at least. Truth is, he has little time for them."

2

"I thought you'd forgotten about me," Donny said as he looked out the car window.

"It takes time," Sergeant Houp replied as he pulled out from the "The Palms Motor Lodge," parking lot which was the hotel where Donny had been staying.

"Can you tell me where we're going?" Donny asked.

"We're getting out of the States."

"Far out."

Houp ground his teeth. He hated that hippy talk. He hated the lifestyle, and truth be told, he hated Donny because he reeked of it. An unpleasant vibe that started with the drawl in the voice. A sluggish tone that took patience to listen too. Houp had little patience. Then it went on to the hair, long and greasy. The face, covered in thin fields of what looked like pubic hairs, and then ended with the clothing, the bell bottom jeans ... What a disgrace! No—Houp saw this as nothing more than a man trying to look like a bitch, and doing a shit job of it.

But he kept his tongue because there were uses for these types of parasites. Like a leech on a wound. Put it down, let it suck out the poison, then burn it to ash.

"How did Elmer treat you—Good?" Houp blurted out. Elmer was the name of the milky-eyed old man who looked after Donny.

"All right, not much of a talker, though."

Houp chuckled. "No, most who have stories that are worth hearing aren't," he paused. "Suppose it's 'cause they're tired of telling them."

"What, Elmer some kind of hero?" Donny asked.

"You could say that. Ya see ole Elmer fought in WW II, the big one. He was a Sargent in the United States Army, and his platoon killed over a hundred Germans who were held up in a small town called Drebkau." Houp turned and looked at Donny, he wanted to see his reaction.

"Is that a lot?" Donny asked.

"It is—yes, but it's a hell of a lot when those hundred Germans turn out to be women and children with a few daddy's thrown in."

Donny turned and looked at Houp, "No," he said, and he was shocked, and it was all over his face.

"Oh yeah," Houp replied.

"He killed a hundred civilians! Why? Why would anyone do that?"

"He didn't know they were civilian's, and truth be told, it could have gone either way. So he had to make a decision because that's what leaders do. So he did, and it was the wrong one, and it ruined him as it would most men." Houp glanced at Donny. "Only a hard son of a bitch could come out of something like that and take his spot in the parade."

"Then why would you say he was a hero?"

"To his men, he was, because had he ordered them to walk into that town instead of blowing it to hell from a distance, they could have found they were in a trap. They would have been killed, and you can bet, after it was over, his men, although sorry for what had happened, still respected ole Elmer for the decision he had made. A decision that wasn't easy. Hell, anyone can make obvious choices, right or wrong, good or bad. But in times of war, it can become impossible to know which is which. So in the end, even though a hero has the respect of those who survived, he seldom respects himself, as a matter of fact, most don't live a long or happy life ..."

"So what happened ... I mean to Elmer?"

"He came home, distanced himself from his platoon. The war had ended, but he remained in the Army 'cause it was all he knew. That's where I met him, but he retired soon after I joined."

"What was he doing, I mean when you met him?"

"He worked in the kitchen at my basic training camp. He was a fucking potato peeler."

"Don't sound fitting."

"Never does, and there's no happy ending to most of these stories. Maybe for the dead, but not the living. No sir, the truth is, Heroes do die, and before they do, some lose their worth. I wonder which is worse."

"Well—I don't think many see Elmer as a Hero."

"No—suppose they don't. Makes me wonder about you, Donny. Will they believe you 're a hero after this is over?"

Donny looked out the window. "Better shot at being a potato peeler," he mumbled.

3

They pulled into the Miami International Airport, straight to the short term parking lot where Houp pulled into a space and put the car in park. He shut off the engine then looked at Donny. "Grab you things," he said.

"Sure," Donny said and reached for the door. Houp, he did the same, now, Donny was standing there holding his duffle bag, Houp, he was empty handed. "So you're not going with me?" Donny asked.

" 'fraid not," Houp replied.

"Why? Where am I going?"

"I've got a ticket waiting for you at the Pan Am counter. You're going to Canada where you will remain until further notice."

"I don't understand?"

"What's to understand? You were tested, you failed, so we have no use for you. That means you will go to Canada where you will disappear until further notice. It's either that or I could ship you back to Indiana where you'll go to prison ... It's up to you."

Shocked, Donny stood there saying nothing. Houp, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a money packet. "Here, there's five hundred bucks in there. Use it to get settled." He handed it to Donny who took it and placed it in his back pocket.

"But, how will you know where to find me?"

"Don't worry about that, just do as I say and get going before I change my mind!"

Donny slowly walked away, he could hear Houp's car start, he heard it back out, and then drive away. Donny didn't look back, no reason too. He wasn't sure if this was a gift or a curse, but he was really leaning towards a gift, and one shouldn't look that free horse in the mouth.

He had never had so much money, five hundred dollars was half of a thousand. He wasn't going to Vietnam, he wasn't even in the military. He wasn't being sent to prison or the juvie center. He wasn't going to Indiana or the bible belt for that matter. He was free to do as he pleased, or at least it appeared that way for now.

He walked up to the entrance and joined in with what looked to be a million people. All heading into a series of six double glass doors that were propped open. He felt good, there was no stopping him now, even if Houp changed his mind, he would play hell finding him in this crowd. Just have to be careful checking in. And I won't board the plane until the last second. I'll wait behind and watch, make sure no one shows up. If they do, I'm making a run for it.

There was a sign that showed where the check-in counters were, Pan Am was one of the larger ones. Donny wasn't surprised, he had heard that name before. Pan American, he thought it stood for, but wasn't certain. Home of the hot and sexy stewardess's, this he was sure of.

He walked up close and then waited behind, watching as the crowd slowly went through the cattle aisles, back and forth, each time getting a little closer to an assistant. He didn't like this, too much time out in the open. He moved over to the front plate glass windows where he was out of the way. He looked around, searching for Elmer, that sick bastard, or Houp, that military madman. And there were some around who wore camo gear, but they showed no interest, they were young, scared, probably heading home from boot camp, one last time before being shipped off. This was it, and they knew it, and Donny never felt so lucky in his life.

He waited until the line had thinned. He went up, stood between two rather large business men. Soon enough, he was at the counter. "I believe you have a ticket waiting for me," he said.

"Name?" Asked a pretty lady.

"Donny Maer."

4

Six hours later, Donny opened his eyes, he hadn't a clue when he fell asleep, or how that was even possible. The plane was loud and vibrated, and the turbulence was brutal. Stress—was all he could figure. It had been a long day.

It was dark now, black with only the lights from the cockpit glowing back to the rear. A multitude of colors that blended together to give off something similar to what Donny had seen while tripping on acid. He wished he was now, he wished this was all just a mental journey.

His stomach was burning but had stopped now, which was good, but it was turning which seemed worse. Motion sickness was setting in, and no doubt sleeping hadn't helped. He was going to vomit. So he unlatched his seatbelt and stood up, he walked to the front of the plane. He stuck his head into the cockpit only to find the one, and only pilot was a woman, and she was beautiful, just like he remembered her. Before she hung herself in the basement.

She was wearing the same dress, the one she wore while feeding her children. Simple, long and proper. On her head, there was a bonnet now, and it was tied tight so the drafty plane wouldn't blow it off. Donny thought this smart since her hair was long and would be difficult to manage. Even a bun gives way at times.

Unlike the flyboys before her, she wasn't wearing the earphones, and they were dangling on a cord that was still plugged into the radio. He looked down at them but he knew to put them on would be a waste of time. There was no one talking, no human contact where they were. "What are you doing?" he asked her, and she turned and looked at him, and those eyes, those emerald green eyes burnt deep into his soul.

Her face, that face was perfect, with skin that was smooth, and she smiled, and Donny thought of Barb, Steve's girl—only her face could light up like that. "Why..." she said, "I'm doing what you wanted." Then looked back out the front windshield.

"You're flying me to heaven?" Donny asked, but he wasn't sure why.

"Of course," She said then lifted her hands up to the steering wheel, which was now that of an old Buick. Large and round. A steel rim ran the inner circle where she would honk the horn if needed. Donny thought this strange, why would she honk a horn in space?

"Why would you come for me now?" he asked.

"I wanted to take you before it's too late."

Donny felt his stomach burn, but he ignored it. "Are you saying I'm about to cross the line of possible redemption?"

She turned and looked at him once again. "What do you think?"

Donny thought for a moment. "I think I'm where I belong," He said in a low voice.

"Tic Tock," she replied, and he could swear she was going to say the poem, but instead she smiled and said another:

Samantha Curic, that was my name,

given at birth in the pouring rain.

My mother cried out in so much pain,

she knew I'd pass first and that's a shame.

She smiled and asked, "Do you like my poem—Donny Maers?"

"Yes, but it's sad."

"True, but life is sad ... don't you agree?"

"Most of the times, I would."

"And it holds true, this poem. So much pain felt during birth, and some dangers lurk in the shadows. Some real, and some are only real in the mind ... I wonder which is worse? Could you tell me?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't know."

"Well," She paused, "I will pull you into heaven if you wish. It's the only way in. There's no pearly gates, no Saint Peter. Only the hand of someone who loves you, take it, and this will end."

"And what if I don't?"

She smiled but only a little. "Then you will go on, and the longer you live, the more you'll do and the more you do, the more sins you will commit, and more sins means a less chance you'll have of joining me. It's as simple as that."

5

Donny woke before he could answer, he was sitting in an aisle seat, buckled up, his hand stretched out as though he was going to grab hold of something. "Damn," he mumbled.

The jet, a Douglas DC-7C hummed like a sewing machine, the ride was smooth, and the ladies who walked the aisles were every bit as lovely as the advertisements said they were. But the air—it was thick with tobacco smoke. Chain smokers lighting one after the other and Donny hadn't smoked for some time, prison and all. He found it difficult to breathe and wondered how the small children were able to handle it.

He unbuckled his belt, then headed back to the bathroom. He could see them, these children and they were sleeping just fine. Must be me, he thought, and this was a strange thing seeing he was usually the one who chain smoked.

The door was closed, the "Occupied" sign showed, so Donny stood leaning against the wall and waited. Beside him, there was a stewardess who sat in a fold down chair, she was reading a Life magazine. She looked at Donny and smiled, but said nothing. He knew she was doing her job, no more.

Once in the bathroom, he looked in the mirror. He looked tired, worn thin. He splashed some cold water on his face, and this seemed to help. He wiped his hands and returned to his seat. He buckled up then looked at the old man who sat next to him. He could see he was awake, his eyes glowed through the dark, and it was dark--night time. Donny would guess it to be close to midnight. There was an amber glow that came from his right hand, a cigarette, and the small ashtray that was built into his seat handle was already overflowing. Donny had seen a couple of butts laying on his seat when he returned. He watched as he pulled the smoke to his mouth and took a drag.

"You have an extra one of those?" Donny asked.

The old man looked his way. "Not for you," he said, and his voice was gravely, thick with flem.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I have no respect for dodger's."

"Dodgers?"

"Draft dodgers—you know what I'm talking about. Heading to Canada. Makes me sick!"

Donny smiled as those words burned into his brain. Why did I expect any less? He thought. He said nothing for a moment, but soon enough, he turned to the old man and said: "I'm not a draft dodger per say. You see, I was chosen for a secret mission and unfortunately, I wasn't worthy. Now, it could be because I tried to set a man on fire at a gas pump. Or it could be because I was plucked out from a prison cell. Or maybe I'm just a little too crazy for their liking. But whatever the reason, I can assure you, I have no great love for life, and that includes yours. So if you plan on burning my eyes and lungs with another one of those cow-shit-cigarettes, then you would be wise to share!"

The old man groaned, "I don't know about all that," he said and handed Donny a smoke.

He took a light and then thought about his dream. Samantha Curic, he thought, that was her name. But how would I know that? It was a dream. But it warmed him, as though he found love. It comforted him in a strange way. There were some differences, this time, She was much younger, he would guess close to his age, where he was sure she was well into her thirties when she ended her life in his basement.

She saw him, unlike before; she spoke to him, and she was so real, so alive, and he wished he could have taken her hand, and he had offered it to her. But it was a dream, and bad or good, dreams end, and your eyes open where they last closed.

"She wanted me with her," he whispered. "She wanted to save me, but from what?" He Thought of Houp. "From him, She's trying to save me from him."

He took another drag and smiled. No need to worry my dear, he thought. That relationship didn't work out.

6

Samantha Curic walked through the woods along a path that was stomped all the way down to black dirt. It was a narrow lane, looked to be only wide enough for one person at a time. And along both sides were thick brush that held thorns that were so sharp, not even the wildest of animals would stray into it. At least not in the summer time.

She could see deer tracks in the black dirt, she thought of long past, when she would eat venison. She remembered it was very dry, but filling ... All the same, she was happy to give it up, she no longer had to kill them and chose not too.

So these woods where she wondered, it showed old oak trees, cherry, and maple. There were some pines, and she liked the pines because the pine combs burned well and she loved the colors they produced. She could watch them all night. Well—if she could stay awake.

It was summer here as it is most of the year. Samantha loves the changing of the seasons, but not the long days of spring and fall. She decided to shorten them to a more tolerable range. Not to fear, this can be changed as needed. She knows because this is her world and her's alone.

And there are animals in her woods, colleagues if you will. Butterflies, and Bees. Bunnies and birds. All working together to make the place a Heaven, and that's what it is. Her Heaven, or their Heaven. And she's like Snow White, this angel. At least she sees herself that way, and she can see herself any way she pleases. And those animals and insects, they would agree, because they too chose their heaven and they could have gone anywhere, but they joined in with hers. Many would see that as a blessing because few wild animals or insects chose to live in a human's world. It hasn't been pleasant in the past.

In the distance, there's a creek with water that flows strongly all year long. She hasn't a clue where the source is, but the water is clean and cold. And it flows over rocks, and around natural curves as it makes its way to the Saint Joseph River. She loves this stream, and this is where she spends the bulk of those summer days. Just being close to it cools her, and makes her feel alive, and why wouldn't it? Water is the essential to live, and she knows this, everyone in this world knows this.

As she approach's the bank, she stops and picks a flower. Dandelion, the flower that some call a weed, but she doesn't see it like that. She sees it as a gift, and she hates to kill it, but she wants to smell it. So she brings it up to her nose and closes her eyes. Then she inhales drawing the scent deep into her lungs. She smiles as her senses heightened, as she remembers her youth, and when she walked with others. But all the while, she knows she wouldn't return, she can't return, and not because of the way she left it. But rather because nothing has changed and that world wasn't kind to her.

She remembers it all, the good and bad. And she knows how her life ended. She can feel the rope as it tightens around her neck. She can hear the gagging, feel it, the struggle for air, the natural will to survive ... And she knows she should be damned, but her God is a forgiving God. At least that's what she was told, and only he can see the future. She truly believes it held nothing good ... Not for her, her family, not for anyone.

But there are times, mostly like these when she will return, go back to her happiest moments. Relive them, and she is able to, and it's real, every bit as real as the feeling of cold rain as it tickles the skin. She would allow it, and the smell of the dandelion was the catalyst that pulled her away.

So she smiled because she was there now, back there, and back then. She placed the stem of that flower in her long brown hair, and went on her way. Once she was at the creek, she stood along the bank and looked down at the water. It was low as it usually was during the summer months. The soil around it was carved away from erosion, but that didn't matter, it was her sanctuary.

There was a trail not far ahead, one cut by the animals who used the area for drinking. This made access to the stream. She walked to it, then down to the water where she looked at her reflection.

She raised her lips making sure her teeth were beautiful and white. They were. Then she looked to the right and then the left making sure she was as stunning as she was told ... She was. Then she smiled as there was no doubt ... she was the loveliest woman in the area.

Her breasts were firm, and her dress formed around them. She liked that. And her waist was thin, two hands thin, and she wore no corset. She pulled the dress tight to make sure there was no excess weight. There wasn't. Then she lifted the bottom so she could see her legs. They were long and creamy white as they should be. After all, she was a virgin and not even the sun should sneak a peak. Then—she looked up to see a young man standing on the other side of the bank.

Startled she let out a scream and then brought her hands to her mouth.

"I'm sorry," Donny said his hands were raised out waist high. "I mean you no harm!"

"What are you doing here!" she shouted and then quickly put her hands back to her face.

"I used to hunt for Crawdads," Donny said. "Ya know, in the summertime. But the water's cleaner than I remember." She said nothing, so he went on. "I went to the school that's not far from here." He pointed, but she stood silent. "I know you're Samantha Curic," he said.

Her eyes widen in surprise, then she pulled down her hands, "I'm not Samantha Curic yet!" she hissed. "And how would you know what my married name will be?"

This surprised Donny, to the point he was speechless for a moment. He thought she looked the same, at least at first. She had on the long dress that went up from her feet all the way up around her neck. And she was white, lily white like her skin hadn't ever been in the sun. So he scrambled to put it all together with his first thought being she was a Mennonite. But she wore no bonnet, they always wore a bonnet! Then, he took a closer look at her face.

She was even younger now, maybe twelve, maybe thirteen years old. He could see it, the innocence in her eyes, in her expression. They beamed with passion and hope, with dreams, and clarity. She was perfect and as he looked at her, all he could think of, was what the world was about to do to her. And with that knowledge he struggled because he wanted to warn her, to help her, but he didn't, he couldn't, so he stood there almost in tears. And she was so close, standing on the other side of a small creek. But he knew he couldn't cross it. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he did. There was a wall there, one not seen but felt. And she could feel it too, he could sense it.

"Have we met?" she finally asked, and he knew there was the thread of memory trying to come through. But he wasn't sure how that could be.

"We met long ago," he said.

"What's your name?"

"Donny—Donny Maer."

"You look familiar," She paused. "But the way you're dressed; I haven't seen any clothing like that ... Are you Amish?"

Donny couldn't help but laugh, "Have you ever seen the Amish?"

She shook her head back and forth. "No, I've only heard of them."

"Well, they don't look anything like me," Donny replied. "I mean, they have hair and beards."

"They're from Switzerland and talk funny," she said. "That's what I've heard anyway."

"That they do."

He could see she was thinking, "If you're not Amish—then what faith are you?"

"I'm a Buddist," he said, panicked. "But that don't matter, what does is that I'm your friend," he smiled.

"Where did we meet?" She asked.

"I sort of—uh—met you in a dream," he said.

She took on a strange look, "I don't understand?"

"You've always dreamed of a Prince that would take you away from all this," he said. "Think of me as you knight in shining armor."

"Why would you think something like that? That I would want to be carried away?"

"All girls dream of being swept off their feet."

"Maybe, but I'd hardly call you a prince," she said. "Or a knight for that matter."

Donny laughed. "Well I'm all you get," he said, "so if you don't want to see me as your Prince. Then how about a Guardian Angel?"

She smiled, "Should that be true, what are you guarding me against?"

He raised his eyebrows and thought hard on his next words. "That's what I want you to tell me. I mean I'm not told why I'm here. Only that I'm needed. That's the way this stuff works."

The smile slowly left her face. Then she walked over and took a seat on a large rock. "Can you come over to this side?" she asked.

He shook his head no. "I don't think that's wise."

"Why?" she was confused.

"I'm not sure why," he answered, "I just have a feeling, that's all."

She looked down at the water, and then back up at him. "You think that if I were to float along with the current, it would take me out of Indiana?"

"No," he said. "It would take you to the river and then it would take you out of Indiana."

"I sometimes dream of floating in warm water," she said. "I'm traveling weightless, and I'm naked. I'm not hungry, or scared. I have no troubles or worries. And there's no time. I mean no day or night. There's nothing but contentment and a feeling of well-being."

"Where do you think that place is?" He asked knowing the answer.

"I think it's where I was before I was born," she said, and then she paused and asked. "Can you tell me if that's true?"

Once again Donny paused as he believed the same thing. But to say it would make it so much easier for her to step off that ladder at a younger age. "I can't tell you that," he said.

"Why?"

"Because although there's an answer. That's all there is, and knowing will bring nothing but harm."

"I don't understand?"

"You can't change anything," he said. "You have to believe that you were born for a reason. That means you have a job to do and you need to stay around until it's completed ... Now I can't tell you what that job is, but I can say when hard times hit, you'll fight a battle that takes place in your own head and nowhere else ... You need to remember, it's not real. "

"You mean like when I wish I were never born?"

"Yeah, that would be a good example. So you said you were getting married, you want to tell me about that?"

She looked at the ring on her finger. "Well, Momma says he's a good man. His name is Steven Curic," she smiled, "I suppose you already knew that."

"That's all I know."

She looked back up at Donny, and those green eyes were wide and full of life. "His father owns the largest farm in the area. And he has already given us five acres, and they're building a large farmhouse on it as we speak."

"That sounds nice."

"Yeah, and there'll be plenty of room for young 'ns. And I'll work around the house and tend to them while Steven and his brothers work the farm ... That's the plan anyhow."

"Sounds like you've got it all figured out." But Donny could see she didn't. "What's wrong?" He asked, and he could feel his heart aching, and he knew, he was in love with her and was about to lose her. The same as he lost everything good in his life.

"I don't want to have children," she said. "I don't wish to marry a farmer, and I don't want to live in Indiana."

"Where would you like to live?"

"Someplace where it doesn't snow," once again the excitement had returned. "Someplace where the sun shines all the time. And it's warm, and everything's alive all year long. I've heard there are places like that."

He could see she was there. Far away from the bank of a small Northern Indiana Creek.

"I've read books," she said, "they're a paradise, and close to the sea. They say the water is salty, clear, clean and warm. And there's fish that swim and are all kinds of colors." She looked at Donny, and he could see the pain in her eyes. She knew that if such a place existed, she would never see it. "Have you heard of it?" She asked.

Donny nodded, "Yeah, suppose so."

She looked back into the water, he could feel what she was feeling, and there was nothing he wanted more than to walk through the water. To go to her and hold her. Make her feel better, but he was helpless, trapped in another world, another time.

"You don't have to marry anyone," he said, but he knew the words were a wasted effort.

"I don't think I have control of that," she said.

"No one thinks they have control, but in the end, there is death—you can be sure of that. And no matter what decisions you make, good or bad, you'll find the worst thing that can happen to you ... is going to happen no matter what."

"You mean I'll die?"

"You can count it!"

She was thinking, and Donny was sure nothing would change. Hell, it had already happened in some universe or time. All the same, he had to try.

She looked at him and smiled. "I will remember you," she said, then she stood and walked up the bank. Donny watched as she went down the trail and out of sight. He looked at the water and thought of what she asked. That if she was to float away would she leave the State. He didn't have the heart to tell her that she would, but she would be heading north. And would end up floating around in Lake Michigan. A far cry from the warm tropical waters of the Carribean.

So he turned and for the first time, he looked behind him. At where he came from, at his world, and there was nothing but sand, rippled and flat. A wasteland, and in the sky, there were black clouds that were marbled, thick, and deadly. He could see the edge of this weather phenomenon, it looked like a wall rising up to Heaven. A wall so high, one couldn't ascend above it, not even if they climbed the highest of mountains. Donny began to recite a poem he knew, but not from where:

"It was during the time in the woods of shame when the air in the sky blew high. The trees moved little and the ground sizzled as the earth slowly died. There are people around some good some bad, but little that matters now. As the beds been made and there you'll lay as the devil walks through town."

7

"Please raise your seat's to the upright position," Donny awoke to this announcement. "Secure your belongings ... We will be arriving in Montreal shortly."

He raised his seat then rubbed his eyes. The dream, he thought about the dream, especially the end where he was looking at his world. The wasteland, the storm that drew near. He looked over at the old man, he no longer made eye contact. That was good, and he seemed to be slowing down on the smoking, that was better. Donny thought the air was cleaner now, most likely the smokers had been sleeping ... Just then, he heard a lighter, a Zippo lighter snap open, then there was the flame, and this started off a chain reaction as each person followed suit ending with the old man who sat beside him.

Now, the lights in the cabin had been turned on, and a cloud of smoke plumed up from each section, and there was at least one person in each row who smoked, everyone smoked, it was an American tradition. Baseball, apple pie, and cigarettes, that's how it went. So Donny, he looked over to see the old man was offering him one. Donny smiled, he took it and followed suit. No sooner did he get lit up, there were a bell sound and the "no smoking" light came on, but it was ignored. They would finish this session long before the wheels touched the ground.

Upon exiting the plane, Donny remained in the crowd, out into the terminal, down through the duty-free shopping area, ending at luggage pickup. He remained back, out of sight for awhile. He looked around like a stray dog, afraid the dog catcher was waiting. But there was no one suspicious in sight. Before long, no one remained, and the carousel spun with the only luggage left being his duffle bag. He took it and moved on like fog over the water, he went outside into the night air.

He kept going, out from under the lights where people were dropped off and picked up. He looked straight ahead making no eye contact. And it wasn't easy as cabbies were searching for fares, there were cars parked, cars waiting to park. Horns were blaring, and lights flashing. A carnival, Donny thought, and his mind went straight back to the man-beast he had seen the one and only time he had went to one of those horror exhibitions.

Then, the lights were behind him, and finally, he relaxed. He breathed in the crisp, dry air. The Northern air that was cool at night unlike the hot, humid air that hung around Miami. And it was always uncomfortable down there, at least during the summer months. He wouldn't miss it.

He hiked the rest of the night, ending up in the city, and the city would accept him, no different than it did the rats or sewer gators. The homeless, the poor, or the street walkers. Five hundred dollars didn't go far, and there was little sympathy for American's in Canada. Why would there be? You made your beds, they would say, you chose to fight, so get the hell out of our country and fight!

So on he went drifting into the next chapter of his miserable life.

Chapter XVIII January first, 1974 Donny is nineteen, Benny thirteen, Pauly is eleven.

1 Life As An Alien

"Young man?" Donny heard he looked up to see an elderly fella standing before him. In his hand was a coat and it looked as though he was giving it to him. That he had just taken it off and was giving it away? This couldn't be, Donny was certain there was a mistake.

It was cold in Montreal, close to zero, maybe even below it. Donny could no longer tell, he was numb twenty-four hours a day it seemed. And it had been that way since early October. So he looked at this stranger who held the coat, and Donny's eyes were that of a feral cat. Mean, but scared a cornered rat, but not quite ready to fight.

He was sitting on the concrete, huddled in the fetal position. His head was in-between his legs, at least it was before the man walked up. He wore a stocking cap, one he found in the gutter alongside the highway. Most likely blew out from a car window. He had a tired coat that was tattered, all his clothing was worn past usefulness. It had been a year and a half since he walked off that plane, and it didn't take long to learn the ways of the streets.

If you have something of value, you trade it for something you can't live without. For Donny, it started out with food and cigarettes. He stayed at a hotel for awhile, until the cash ran thin, then he went to the homeless shelters, but they were crowded and lacked patience for those who consistently returned.

He traded good clothing for bad, that is if you threw in a pack of smokes, and a sandwich and the sandwich didn't have to be fresh, or clean. The last to go was the duffle bag that held his gear ... There was no longer a need to carry it, and now ... he held nothing of value, so what could this stranger with the coat possibly want?

He was no longer worried about Sargent Houp, or the police dragging him back to prison. Hell, that would be a pleasure at this point. They weren't coming, and he realized he was an ass to ever think they were. Sometimes, late at night, when he's down in the sewers where it's sort of warm, he thinks about that and laughs. He had failed something or other. Some test, some unknown task wasn't up to par, so that was that. Send him to Canada along with the other losers. God—he felt like such a fool!

So he said nothing, only looked at this person who stood above him.

Then the man spoke: "I don't know what you went through," he said. "But you no doubt need some help ... Here, take it."

Donny hesitated, perhaps in shock. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"I work for the Lord, no other," he said. "There's twenty dollars in the pocket so you can get something to eat."

Donny reached up with bare hands that were black and that could have been dirt on those fingers, or frostbite, he wasn't sure, and he could see by the way the stranger looked at them, neither was he.

So he touched the fabric, thick wool, and Donny felt his eyes begin to water and his lower lip quiver. He was looking at Jesus, the holiest of all men and he was right there only this time, he wasn't hanging off a cross. This time he wasn't near death. This time, he wanted to help, just like they all said he would. He was speaking without sound—saying it was going to be all right. That although he was absent in the past, he was here now. And his touch would supply all the strength that was needed.

"She won't be able to see me," Donny mumbled, but his tongue was swollen, and tears now streamed down his cheeks.

"Who won't see you?" the man asked.

"Samantha. You know, the woman I love."

The stranger shook his head back and forth, "I wish there were more that I could do," he said. "Perhaps a good night sleep would be of some assistance. If you are not in a hurry, you can sleep inside the Church." He pointed across the street to a large Catholic cathedral, and Donny wanted to go, but he knew what was in there, he was in there, this man who was so generous, only he wasn't standing. No sir—he was hanging from nails that were driven through his hands and feet. He wore a twisted thorned vine around his skull that drew blood. And he was dead, or close to it.

"I'll wait for Samantha," Donny mumbled and handed the coat back to the gentlemen.

"That's your's my friend," he said. "I wish you the best of luck." Donny watched as he walked away. He then wrapped the coat around him, draping it over his shoulders like a cloak. He should leave, he knew this, he should head down to the sewers, but the sun wasn't down there and too much time in the dark led to insanity. He had seen plenty of proof, as a matter of fact, he was walking that fine line right at that moment. So he looked up at the sun just as a cold breeze blew. He closed his eyes and thought long and hard about his other world. If he concentrated, he could go there. It was easy enough, but was it safe? He could freeze to death while he was gone, and if he did die, could he stay? Was that possible? Did he want to risk losing Samantha for forever? The answer was no, but that mattered little at this point.

2

"The Earth is spinning too fast!" Donny heard someone scream out. He opened his eyes to see a man standing at a ship's helm. This man, he was dressed in clothing that had to be hundreds of years old. A red vest covered a once white shirt that had ruffles sewed into the sleeves and chest area. His slacks were feminine looking, tight around the ankles and crotch area. Then his shoes, Donny's eyes were drawn to them, and he was used to this because when he was exploring other worlds, he didn't have total control ... To him, it was like watching a movie in some ways. You looked where the camera pointed.

But those shoes were odd, and it took a moment for Donny to trust his eyes. They were backward, that's what it was, with the toe area pointing behind this man who stood at the helm.

Donny knew this couldn't be possible, not unless his feet were also turned to the rear, so what did this mean? He pondered. Perhaps this man is traveling in the wrong direction? And he was struggling, holding onto the ships wheel, and that wheel was close to his size in diameter. But then, he was in no way a tall man. And the white-wigged hair that rode on top of his head suddenly blew off. A ponytail flew in the breeze like a kite that has broken its string. What was left was a bald, hairless scalp and the eyes that were placed below that brow showed fear as they should ... Donny knew this, he knew this man at the helm was in grave danger.

"I told the Queen it was round!" He shouted out. "But I had no idea that it carried such speed!"

Now, Donny could hear other men, panicked, scared, and words were heard. Some were orders, others were prayers. Those orders would do no good, Donny knew this, he knew a lot of things because this was his vision, and he knew the prayers were a wasted effort as well.

He knew these men had sailed out beyond the safe zone. Out to where the sea was guarded by water dragons and these great creatures were drawn on the map. This was no surprise, not to most, only these few souls that will soon perish for their mistakes. Oh—they are brave indeed, but so were the warriors that faced such sad odds. Those killers who fought for the Queen to gain the riches to build this ship that these sailors are now on ...

In the end, they all die—don't they. Donny knew this, but there was nothing he could do. He was merely a spectator, sent here for reasons unknown.

This ship was old with sails that rose up into the sky, a line of them, one after the other, all white in color. And the deck was made from wood, as was the entire ship, at least Donny thought it was. Cannons, they were scattered along both sides, pointing out through a square

holes. But no men were tending to them, this problem they found themselves in, couldn't be handled with force, or firepower. This quandary was the direct result of attempting to go where they weren't welcomed. And that had already transpired once, and the results were deadly indeed.

Holy shit, Donny thought, that's Christopher Columbus at the helm!

The ship, it suddenly tightened its turn. Donny found himself standing on the port side now, he looked over the edge, and there was a vortex in the sea. Like looking down through the top of a tornado. They were spinning, heading towards the center where they would disappear, a fate they would share with all those who sailed these waters before them.

Donny—he looked hard out at the horizon, but he couldn't see those sea dragons, all the same, he knew they were out there, swimming around the outer parameter with so much force, the water had no choice but to follow. They would do their jobs, and this time—they wouldn't fail. They couldn't, not again because the sea was not to be crossed. The sea was the wall that separated species, Gods way of keeping the animals in their rightful pens. After all, it wouldn't be wise to allow the wolves to sleep with the coyotes. Or the bears to hunt with the mountain lions. No—that wouldn't be wise.

So they went vertical as the ship followed the seawater. Falling as though off a cliff. Donny could see the Captian and his eyes were the sizes of half-dollars. There was no hope, not for him, or his men. All the same, he held on to that wheel and even turned it as though that may help. Or perhaps it was just instinct, Donny wasn't sure.

The crewmen, they stopped yelling out orders, but they screamed out in terror. That water was going to be ice cold so they desperately held onto whatever they could find. But what good would that do? Donny thought little.

The sails—they caught the wind, and they were trying to pull the front of the ship back up into the horizontal position, but they were so small, and the ship was so large, hardly a fair exchange. The wood that held the fabric snapped into what looked to be a million splintered fragments. And the sound—it was deafening, the howling of the wind, the screams of the men. The water hissed as it spun, and death was there. Donny could see him, her, something up in the sky. Two eyes that looked down and those eyes didn't belong to no angel. They were the eyes of an angry God. And then he woke up.

3

He was dying, hypothermia? He wasn't sure, it didn't matter. He could feel it, his body was numb and his eyelids, they felt like they weighed a ton. He could no longer feel the stinging pain from the cold. He wasn't hungry, and he knew he should be. But none of that mattered, not now, not any longer, so he gave in while sitting on that sidewalk. With his head between his knees, he fell over, lying sideways on the cold concrete.

He felt something or someone, he was certain it was another homeless person, most likely rummaging through his pockets for that twenty dollar bill. Let them have it, he no longer cared. But there were words heard in the black that was now his world. Cutting through like a phone call that's plagued with a bad connection. He remained limp because he could do nothing else, and those people who were speaking, they sounded like they were drifting away. Distancing themselves from the homeless bum, that's dying in the very streets they call their home.

4

Samantha walked through the woods that flourished behind her farm. It was a crisp fall day, one where although the sun was shining, the temperature was well below forty degrees. She could see her breath when she exhaled, so she practiced blowing smoke rings. This was something her father had showed her while smoking his pipe. She wasn't as good as he, but she did blow some that were close.

The leaves had changed, and they were now a range of colors, all bright, so much so, some appeared to glow ... Yellow, blues, purples, and pinks. This was the reason she was on this walk, it was a special time of year, and she was well aware that soon they would all turn brown. They would dry out and fall to the ground. They would crumble under her feet. They will rot the same as all living things do in this world, and brown is a fitting color for death. She knew this well because she was dead and on those days when the streams water wasn't clear, she looked into it, and she was brown. And the water that rippled made her face look wrinkled and she thought perhaps it was. But what did that matter? The water would clear soon enough, and she would once again be beautiful. She took comfort in that.

She smiled, knowing the yearly harvest had been collected, stored, or sold ... The farmers could relax, at least for a little while. The festivals had ended, now it was the holiday season, and she just knew this year would be a special one. And why would she think otherwise? Down the road, a couple of miles was where her new home was being built, and her house was much larger than even she could have hoped for.

But, not all things were well. Her mother had recently had another baby girl, and this one was born sickly. Now, most times that wouldn't be a problem, but it was late fall, and Pappa had just brought in the harvest. It was time to rest, and that little baby girl did nothing but cry ... So about a week ago, he took her out back, and he stopped that bawling.

Oh well, momma will get over it, Samantha was certain of that. She had in the past, and little has changed since then.

No sir, it's well known that making babies was easier than feeding them. And although it takes a village to raise a child, seldom does a village step up to do so. Pappa knew this as did momma, and it was common, after all, what a family does on their land was their business. And to hand a child over to God before he or she can sin—does guarantee a spot in heaven. It was truly our loss, she thought, as she kicked the hardened ground.

Ahead, she could see the creek that marked the end of her world. On the other side, on the dead side, she called it, Donny was standing tall and waiting. She smiled as she approached, but that beam soon left her face. "You don't look so good," She said coming to a stop.

"I've lost some weight," Donny replied.

"You look as though you are ill," she said, and Donny could tell she no longer wanted him around.

"You want me to leave?" he asked, but her words stung.

Samantha began to skip away, following the bank."I think that would be best," she said, "After all, I've known you for some time, and you've helped me little. What kind of angel are you anyway?"

"I'm no angel," he said following her.

She then stopped and turned to look at him. "Then what are you?"

Donny felt his stomach burn, and he knew what that meant. He had been throwing up a lot of blood lately and had been trying to contain his stress to a reasonable level. But how could he control this? Samantha was all he had. "I'm someone who isn't really here at all," he said, "I mean think about it, I've seen years go by and yet for you, it;s been merely days. You aren't married. The house isn't finished ... It's like your life is standing still!"

"Perhaps it is ..." she said. "You know I once thought you were Lucifer. I mean—look at your world, the black clouds, the lifeless landscape. You are in a wasteland Donny Maer ... Are you aware of that?"

"I'm in a dream. This world you see isn't mine," He hesitated. "One time, not that long ago, you told me you would pull me into your world. Do you remember that? You said it was the only way to get into heaven."

She smiled and danced around in circles like a little girl. "No," she said. "I wouldn't say such a thing. I'm about to be married."

"I'm sleeping," Donny said, "and I'm dreaming of you... I always dream of you."

Her cheeks turned pink, but he could see she was flattered. "Why would you dream of me?"

"I lived in the house that they're building for you and Steven—I mean your fiance. Only I was there well in the future. I found a tombstone in the attic ... I think you're buried in the cellar."

Her smile disappeared. "You believe me to be dead?"

"We all die!"

"Perhaps you are Lucifer," she replied, and her cheeks were no longer pink, now, they were blood red. "How then—if you speak the truth, then how did I die!"

Donny dropped his head. "You hung yourself. I mean it was after a long winter and you were locked up inside the home. You got what they call 'Cabin Fever.' So seeing the ground was frozen, they decided to bury you in the only place they could ... Ya know, below the freeze line."

"So You are suggesting that I hung myself in my new home—the home that's not even done yet? And they buried me in my cellar?"

"That's right."

"And why would I take such a thing serious? Surely you are mad!"

"We have some kind of connection ... I mean—I dreamed it."

She turned and walked away, but she moved slow, she was thinking. Donny followed. "I dream of you because you are like me in so many ways," He said.

"Like how?"

"You were miserable, and I'm miserable. We can't hold onto happiness for any length of time. We're self-destructive!"

"In what way?"

"Well—you did take your own life, and I'm freezing to death on a sidewalk in Canada. What the hell am I doing in Canada?"

She shook her head, "What are you doing there? I thought you said you lived in my house."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. Our personalities make us prone to make bad choices."

Samantha stopped walking and turned towards Donny. "I would ask you to explain, but I feel that would be a waste of precious time. So I will leave you now, and I would like for you to stop living your life in dreams and live it for real."

"I can't control what I dream?"

She smiled, "I think you can." Then she walked away. Donny stood there watching her. He could feel the pain, the loss. How he wished he had been faster on that jet, he hesitated, it was only for a second, but long enough. He should have grabbed her hand and held on, forcing her to take him to her world, this world. Now, he feared he wouldn't be allowed to return.

He looked down at the stream, at the water. Columbus, he thought, this is my wall, my barrier that keeps me trapped in my world ... He wondered if that would ever change. He feared it wouldn't. He looked up in time to see Samantha's hair blowing in the wind. She was elegant, she was beautiful, and she would never be his. And this burned more than just his stomach, this burned every cell in his body.

5

There was a fire that burned hot in a steel barrel. The light from the flames glowed bright but the area where they flared out was so dark, it showed very little. Donny awoke to see there were two walls—one looked to be twenty feet or so from his feet, the other, he could feel touching the top of his head. He was lying down on a hard, cool surface.

A tunnel, he thought, and he would be correct. The sewer, and again he was spot on, although this part of the sewer he had never seen.

It was black, the walls looked to be covered in soot. Most likely from the trash can fires, and those fires blazed on, and there were others he could see burning in the distance. They heated the area quite well. He was comfortable, even with the smoke filled air, he was warm, and that was something he thought he would never be again.

Tires, he thought, that's what they're burning, and the smell was strong, and his eyes stung, and he remembered his last moments of conciseness ... he was dying, or at least he thought this. For a moment, he was certain he was in hell, and perhaps he was, or perhaps he had always been in hell. Those moments he spent with Samantha, maybe they were phantom memories of his time alive. Maybe he was the one dead, and she saw the ghost? Anything was possible now, or at least for Donny it was.

He looked around, his head throbbed now, with each beat of his heart it did, and Donny wondered if this was proof that the heart beats on after death?

Why is this place so dark! His mind screamed out. Then he reached back and felt the wall, he looked at his fingers, and it was as he thought--soot. And that soot absorbed the light like water that touches a sponge. He then placed his hand over his head, he gritted his teeth, and it was only now, did he realize he still had his fingers. He pulled his hands away and looked at them in the dark. He bent them, he straightened them. He smiled, he was sure the frostbite had taken them. Then he wiggled his toes, and they were there, and they weren't stinging. All wasn't lost, or was it?

If I were dead, then I would have my fingers and toes, now wouldn't I, he thought. But at this moment, life or death didn't seem to matter. He was comfortable, that's what mattered. Or at least as comfortable as one could be lying next to a tire burning trash can.

He pulled himself up, resting on his elbows, he could see a young girl was sitting on the other side of the metal barrel. She sat on a pale and looked straight ahead. She wore clothing that was tattered and torn. An old hoody sweatshirt wrapped around her and the hood was up over her hair. He could barely see her face, but he was certain she was no more than twelve years old.

In the distance, voices echoed. Most spoke normal, but some cried out in pain. A hospital for the homeless, Donny thought, and he had heard of such a place. A rumor. But there's always some truth in rumors. There were shelters for the unwanted, no surprise. The leper colonies, quarantine camps for those with unknown diseases. Why would this be different? The homeless aren't known to band together, but they are humans. Perhaps I'm not dead after all, Donny thought.

Just then, the young woman turned his way, and now, Donny could see she was blind. Her eyes were marbled white with no other color.

"I can hear you moving," she said, and her face was black, so those eyes stood out. Donny couldn't tell if she was a woman of color or just dirty as hell.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"You are under the city," she said. "You're close to the end of the maze."

Donny knew of this, the maze was what the homeless called the underground tunnels that were once the original subway system. Built back in the mid eighteen hundreds, they were made of red brick. They had rounded ceilings and were rumored to run hundreds of feet underground.

The idea was to travel well below the freeze line where the temperature was always tolerable. And transportation would be possible even during the harshest of winters. It was said this worked well, so well they added on, turning the earth under the city into a honeycomb of passages that all looked the same ...

Most of the homeless, they avoided the maze. "You'll find yourself walking over the bones of the dead," they would say. And Donny had no reason to doubt them. Now—as he looked around, he understood the rumors. Only the toughest of the homeless would seek shelter in these tunnels. It was warm, that was true, and there seemed to be just enough ventilation to keep the black smoke moving. But there was no doubt it was only the insane who would live here. Or the blind, Donny thought. There was no light, no sun, only the sounds of cackling old women and men with vocal chords that were made from gravel. The dampness, the stench of sewage, smoke, and body odor ... it would drive Donny over the edge, just as he was told it would.

"How did I get here?" he asked.

"You were brought here on account of the money you had," She replied.

"The money?"

"Twenty dollars goes a long way down here. So to pay you back, your life was saved."

Donny remembered now, the cash the preacher had given him. He was wearing the jacket. They let him keep the coat. He shook his head, everything was a blur. "I'm starving," he said, "How long have I been sleeping?"

"There's no day and night down here," she said. "Not that I would see it anyhow. But I can feel the warmth of the sun and do during the summer months. But it's not that time of year. So I stay down here ... I don't know how long you have been sleeping. But there's a hot dog that was saved for you. You can roast it over the fire if you'd like."

Donny looked at the can, the black smoke that billowed out over the flames. "No," he said. "If you don't mind, I'll eat it cold."

He sat up, took a bite off the dog and then told her his name was Donny Maer.

"My name is Tina," she replied. "There's no last name. At least none that I know of."

"Why are you down here, Tina?" he asked as he chewed. He would always remember how good that cold, hot dog tasted.

"When I was young, my mother took me into town to shop for some school clothes. At least that's what she said we were doing. We got off the bus and walked around ... It wasn't long, I realized I was walking alone. Easy to do when you can't see."

"Really?"

She looked at the can now, but Donny could see her nodding her head. "The first day, I thought I had lost her in the crowd. You know, when you're blind you listen for footsteps, and you follow them ... People were walking all around me so it would have been easy to stray. But that was all right, I was sure mother would find me.

"I remember I was so happy to have sunglasses on so people couldn't tell I was blind. I thought they made me invisible and that helped. So I kept moving, listening to those around me. I stopped when they stopped and walked when they did ... This went on until it cooled down and I no longer felt the sun. I had time to think then, and I had a bad feeling we weren't really out to buy clothes.

"I waited in the dark, or at least I thought it was dark, and I hadn't a clue where I was or what was around me, so I was as vulnerable as a person can be. But the sounds of footsteps faded away, so I knew I was an alone, or close to it. I stood there imagining I was hidden deep in the brush, but of course—I wasn't."

"Damn—so what happened?"

"A woman named Martha found me, she waited with me. She was kind, this woman, and it was a nice night, so she didn't mind sleeping outside. But my mother never came, and with Martha standing with me, everyone assumed she was my mother. And that was fine with me ... So the days passed turning into weeks. Each day I guess I looked more like Martha and less like my mother. I was becoming what I now am ... A bum.

"So summer turned to fall, and the temperature dropped, and it was no longer comfortable standing and begging on the streets. So Martha brought me here, and I've been here ever since ... Now I'll admit, I spend time up top, but not that much. I hate the cold, and there's little to see up there that I can't see down here." She chuckled at this.

"Why would your mother do that?" Donny asked.

"I don't know. Suppose she wanted her life back to the way it once was. So like a cute puppy that's grown into an ugly dog... I was dropped off far from home to fend for myself. But that's all right. Don't think of it much really. These people are good to me on account of with my eyes, I bring in a lot of money from the streets. I mean, when I'm working that is."

"By working, you mean begging."

"Call it what you want. But regardless of what people think, sitting there all day long with my hand out isn't exactly what I would call a great time."

"So you share what you get ... with all the others?"

"We're a community of necessary evils. So we stick together. There's no backstabbing, no fighting. No money hoarding, no jealousy, no stress. We don't pay taxes or worry about laws that are passed. We don't fight wars or lose sleep over our jobs. We live with what we have and are in debt to no one. To be honest, sometimes I feel like we should be giving them money instead of the other way around." Again, she chortled, this time, Donny joined in.

6

Donny found the maze wasn't hard to navigate at all. After he had finished his hot dog, the young girl gave him directions. They went something like this: Walk on the steel tracks that remain on the ground. When you come to an intersection, reach down and feel the rails. They have been set to allow the shortest path to the surface. When he asked if she was sure, she replied, "That's how I get there and back, and you'll be able to see every bit as good as me." Donny did as she said, and he would say it took a good hour, but he saw light coming through the end of that tunnel. He walked on until he came to steel cage that once kept people out. Now, bars were missing so the heaviest of humans could squeeze through. Donny thought the city must know about this, but seeing the last thing they needed was a bunch of frozen people lying in the streets. They decided to look the other way.

Donny exited the tunnel, and he looked around. The sun wasn't shining, the clouds were gray and thick overhead. Donny thought of his side of Samantha's world. The wasteland of gray and sand. He could see it here, the only difference was there was a layer of snow on the surface.

He took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the light, then he looked behind him, surprised, there wasn't smoke coming from the passage. Donny wondered where it exited, how it could go unnoticed? But decided that didn't matter.

He thought of Tina, the young girl in the tunnel. She was happy, or at least he believed she was. He would remember her, this blind child who has nothing and is content with it that way. And she was smart, so much so Donny found it hard to believe she had little schooling. But then she was street wise, she was a survivor, she was special. He was sure of this and time wouldn't change a thing; he would think back to her often, he would smile and wonder just what the hell it was that was wrong with him?

But now, he drew the zipper the rest of the way up on his new coat. He pulled his stocking cap from the right-hand pocket. He put it on his head, covering his ears. He noticed the snow; some flurries were picked up and blown by the strong Canadian winds. The loose flakes that once laid on the ground now danced and twirled around his feet as he walked. It was something to see, but damn it was cold. He hung his head, so the hat took the direct hit.

The city, it rose up behind him, he knew this, and he was aware that he was distancing himself from it. But there was nothing there for him, and he doubted there ever was. So with nothing to lose, he headed South, down Highway 15.

As he walked, his mind drifted as was common these days. He wasn't sure what the date was, and the clouds were so thick, even locating the sun's position to find the hour was impossible. Time no longer had a meaning for him, and he thought that was the case with all homeless people. Fridays meant nothing, nor did Mondays. With the exception of the weather, each day was exactly as the last, and so were the nights.

The trucks and cars blew past him throwing off gusts of winds that pushed him on. But those gusts were frigid, and he feared it wouldn't be long, he would lose feeling in his hands and feet again. So desperate, he put out a thumb and hoped for the best.

A large semi pulled off to the side, and at first, Donny thought he had tire trouble or something like that. As a rule, people don't pick up the homeless on account of the smell. But then he remembered he had on his new coat and thought perhaps the driver was fooled. Donny jogged to the passenger side, he climbed up and opened the door.

"Hop on in," the man said, and he was American, Donny could tell by the accent. Plus, he spoke in English. Donny climbed in and closed the door. Then he waited for that familiar phrase he had heard so many times before: "Damn—you stink! You gotta go!" But to his surprise, the trucker dumped the clutch, the air brakes hissed as they released and off they went.

"Cold out there," the trucker said. "You been warming up to some kind of fire. I can smell it on ya." Donny said nothing. "Don't blame ya," the trucker continued. "I'd be standing close to those flames myself ... Don't give a shit what they smelled like."

Donny rubbed his hands together, he blew on them. He could see the trucker out of the corner of his eye. His head was turning from the road to him, over and over again. This made Donny nervous. He began to sweat, so he pulled off his coat, and now, the trucker could see exactly who, or what he had picked up.

"My names Jerry," he said. "Don't suppose there's no need for last names given."

"I'm Donny."

"Well Donny, It's good to meet ya, and I suppose we ought to get this out of the way right now so the rest of our time together can be more pleasant."

Here we go, Donny thought. Here it comes.

"Now there's only two reasons a driver like myself picks up strangers. One is they want company, the other is they want sex. Every now and then, they want both. But that don't matter now, what does is I was looking for company and nothing more ... So ya can relax."

Donny looked straight out the windshield. He didn't see that coming. But he did wonder if his appearance and smell could have come in handy this time. Didn't matter, the trucker wasn't getting sex, this he knew, because he was no stranger to homosexual advances. If they wanted a blow job, he would smile and show them what was left of his jagged teeth. He had been told that his mouth looked like an old chain sprocket. One where most of the teeth were missing and what was left had been filed to points. Not to mention the food that was crusted on them. The homeless don't have access to toothbrushes or clean water for that matter.

If they wanted anal, he would wish them luck getting past the smell. Again, no toilet paper or clean water. And if they wanted him to enter them—well then maybe, but that usually wasn't the case. The truth was, Donny was the caveman, and cavemen don't turn other men on. It was as simple as that.

So ole Jerry wanted some company and nothing more. Donny smiled because he didn't speak much. Didn't really have a lot to say. But on this occasion, he made an exception.

He told the trucker about Tina, the homeless girl he met down in the maze. How brave and smart she was. He talked about his trip to Miami, and how he was sent away on a plane to Canada. He told him about the Marathon gas station where he worked and dousing his friend with gas. Then the reason it happened. He told him all about his time on this Earth, including his trip to the carnival where he met the manbeast. And when he was through, ole Jerry looked at him and said something Donny never thought he'd hear.

He said: "You have lived my friend."

"What?" Donny thought he misheard Jerry. He thought he would hear pity, or fear, something, anything but envy. But Jerry did envy him, it was in his voice... wasn't it?

"You have done more in your short years on this Earth than most will do in a lifetime," he said. "Look at me. I graduated high school, got married to the girl I took to prom. We had our first child by the time I was nineteen. Others soon followed.

"Ya know, I didn't want to be a truck driver. But fate doesn't give a shit what we want. It locks us in ... Oh sure—some think we have a choice. But we don't. Hell—I couldn't quit this job on account of money issues, insurance for the kids, and the benefits I would lose. So I went on and time passed. Before I knew it, I had put on fifty pounds, then another hundred. Now, what else could I do?"

Donny looked over, and for the first time since they met, he looked at his new friend. He was large, so large Donny thought he couldn't shower. Maybe that's the reason he doesn't notice my stick? He smells as bad as I do.

Jerry, he wore a hat, a baseball cap and the hair that flowed out from under that hat was greasy and hung in clumped strands. His face was hairy, no razor had touched it for a long time. And his shirt was stained, food stains.

There was a large coffee cup that sat empty in a holder. Trash laid all around the floor and up on the dash. And he wheezed, this lunger had emphysema, and there was a pack of Pall- Malls that were open and half gone. That's all he needs, Donny thought, and he was glad he no longer smoked. But that would pass soon enough. Marlboro's are a beautiful product, 'You Get a Lot To Like!'

So they drove a fair part of the day, ending their time together when they pulled into a truck stop to refuel. Dandy's Diesel Fuel and Food Emporium, it was called, and it was large, with bays for all types of vehicles.

"Well," Jerry said as he flipped the emergency air brake lever. "I'm close to my stop, so I'll be heading back up North."

"Thank's Jerry," Donny said. "It's been swell talking to you."

"Hey," Jerry replied. "You wanna make five bucks?"

"Sure, what do ya need."

"Fill my tanks, so I don't have to get out."

"Don't you have to take a piss?" Donny was about to explode.

Jerry pointed to a large jug that was strapped to the driver's seat. There was a plastic tube that ran to the top."I wear a catheter," he said. "I piss whenever I feel the need." He smiled.

7

Once the tanks were full, Donny took the five dollars and shook Jerry's hand. "Good luck," he told him.

"Same to you," Jerry replied, and Donny thought it odd that a man in such sad shape would worry about his luck. But then, Donny didn't believe Jerry was real excited about living or the future, which was something they certainly had in common.

So he watched as the truck he was just in drove away. Then he stuck that fiver in his pocket and walked towards the double doors that led into the building.

He could see a lady was standing there, and she was watching him, and he suddenly realized that no one paid for the fuel he had pumped. And that truck took two hundred gallons. That would mean she's looking for a hell of a lot more than five bucks! Donny thought, and suddenly his knees began to feel weak, but he went on all the same. There was nothing else he could do, not really.

He wasn't sure what the exact temperature was, but he knew if the air instantly stung the skin turning it numb, then it was well below zero degrees Fahrenheit... His skin was numb as hell.

So he was looking at her, and she was looking at him, and he knew this wasn't going to turn out well. But they would have to have some pity, after all, he wasn't the owner of the truck. But did that matter? He didn't think so, they wouldn't want to hear it, and they would be out a fair chunk of change. Would she have to cover it? Would they take it from her check? Oh God, how could you do this to me, Jerry! He thought as he reached out for the door handle... Here we go!

Then, and to his surprise, she opened the door before he could. "Come on in," she said and smiled.

Donny stumbled on his words. He said the only thing that came to mind. "I-I-I-I have some money." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the five dollar bill and handed it to her.

The woman smiled as he walked into the breeze area, then she opened the other set of doors, inviting him into the main building. He stopped for a moment, he looked around, and the place was full of activity. Men in the restaurant eating, all sitting at a long bar. And others were walking around picking up eight-track-tapes that held songs from their favorite artists. Drinking coffee, and looking at candy, or gum. And Donny thought they could find whatever they wanted in this place. It looked to have it all, and he thought perhaps it did because semis can't just pull into the K-mart parking lot and go shopping.

The woman, she was now standing beside him holding what little cash he had. "I take it you want a shower," she said, and Donny looked at her, surprised.

"Yes," he said. "Do you know where I could take one?"

She laughed, "Right here silly. The truckers need a shower every now and then too. It's fifty cents."

"I don't have any money," he said.

"You have five dollars," she replied, surprised.

" I think that's gonna have to go towards the fuel I just pumped."

She laughed, "Sweety," she said. "I was just coming out to give that man his receipt. You don't pay for the fuel, the company he works for does. It's like a credit card of sorts. You don't owe us a thing." She hesitated. "But to be honest, we'd sure appreciate it if you took a shower and washed those clothes."

Donny sighed, relieved. "Yeah," he said. "I would like that ... Can I get some soap?"

"It's another ten cents—but sure ... Come on," she said and walked on into the store. Donny followed her up to the counter where she rang him up and handed him his change, along with a key. "The soaps right over there in aisle four," she said, pointing in the general direction.

"Thank's," he replied. "How long can I stay in the shower?"

"It's slow, most of the stalls are empty so you can stay for as long as you like." She then looked around making sure no one was watching. Once it was clear, she reached into a heated glass food display that was located beside her and pulled out a hamburger. "On the house," she said as she handed it to him.

Donny took the food and stuffed it in his coat jacket. "Thank you," he said, then headed for aisle #4—the soup aisle.

"You're room # 6," she said, Donny raised his hand holding up his right thumb.

Once he had the soup, he searched for door number six which was easy enough to find. Placards were hanging above each entry, and they had nothing on them except large numbers. Using the key he was given, he opened his up and walked inside. The door was sprung, so it closed behind him, self-latching and locking Donny assumed ...

Now, he stood inside what he would call a utopia, and he felt so good, and he was happy to be alive. I mean the place was warm, almost steam room warm. And there was a bench where he could sit. There was a sink that had a mirror hanging on the wall above it. And a toilet—a working toilet with clean water in the bowl and ass paper hanging on a roller. A full roll as well.

He went to the bench, and there were clothes hangers attached to the wall, he took off his coat and hung it up all proper like. And it looked good, and he whispered a thank you to ceiling, hoping that the preacher would somehow get the message.

He went over and pulled some toilet paper off the roll, not a lot, no sense being wasteful. He tore off two squares and rubbed the softness all over his face. His eyes were closed, it had been so long, it felt good but foreign.

He had to use it, the toilet, but then he remembered the hamburger that was in his coat pocket. He went back for it and brought it with him, unwrapping it only after his pants were down, and he was sitting on the toilet ... Then he took a bite, and he knew most would see this as being vile, uncouth, and savage. But those people have lived a blessed life, and his was so far from that. And with that thought—he caught himself ...

It wasn't easy to get this at all, he thought. I went through hell! I almost froze to death while lying on the fucking concrete. I inhaled tire smoke for God only knows how long. I had to walk through the black of the maze, feel the steel car rails with my feet and hands. Not knowing for certain if I was going the right way or lost and screwed because there damn sure was no hope for a rescue down there. No sir! don't make the mistake of believing for a moment I don't deserve this, and a hell of a lot more!

He finished his hamburger and then his movement. This time he used a little more paper than he needed. Hell with it, they'll make more, he thought, and they would. He then went to the shower, and he stripped down naked. He hand washed his clothes first, then hung them to dry. There was a drain in the middle of the floor, so water wasn't an issue. He then looked in the mirror, and he was shocked to see there was very little facial skin showing.

He opened his mouth to look at his teeth. The work the dentist had done was holding up well, but those were only the molars, the front teeth were still rotting and chipping away. They were dead, he was sure of this because they no longer ached and there was little left. He ran some water and using the soap, he washed his teeth with his fingers. He scrubbed them over and over until he couldn't stand it any longer. Then he spits and rinsed. He took another look ... it didn't help much, those teeth were still rotten, jagged, and dead.

His hair, it was past his shoulders, and gray streaks now ran through it. This was something new, and he wondered how old he now was? He couldn't really remember.

His mustache ran into his beard which was untamed and wild. It too showed some gray now and grew down his neck, mixing in with his chest hairs. He wished he had some scissors, but there was no sense wasting money on something like that. And his eyebrows were twice as thick as ordinary peoples, they were full and bushy, running from one eye to the other with no break around the nose. And that nose, damn it was big, flat and long. Like an Olympic ski jump, and he smiled because he was the caveman, and this is the way a caveman should look.

Then, he took a long, hot shower, and as he stood under the stream, he closed his eyes and wondered just when the last time soap and water had run over his body?

Down in Miami, he thought. No—soon after I arrived in Montreal. I rented a room. How long ago was that? He couldn't remember; it felt like it was another time or life. Everything had that feeling. His childhood, his past, it was all distant like a movie he had watched long ago. He remembered the plot, but not the details, and he wondered if he ever would, or even wanted to. He couldn't say, not now.

He washed his hair and beard three times with the lye soap. Each time the sudsy water looked cleaner than before. Whiter bubbles that spun around the drain and then disappeared. Once he was satisfied, he turned off the flow and dried off.

He took a towel and wrapped it around his waist; he laid down on the long bench seat and closed his eyes ... He would sleep until his clothes were dry, or until someone ran him out. Take as long as you like! That's what she said, and Donny could have remained there for the rest of his life. At least it felt that way at the time.

8

Samantha sat on the rear edge of her father's wagon. There was a horse that was attached to the cargo buggy, and it was nervous and jumpy. It bit down hard on the steel bit that separated its jaws. It danced as though there was a rattlesnake close by ... Donny looked around; there were no reptiles in sight. It can sense I'm here, he thought and wondered if that were possible.

He was dreaming, Donny was confident of this because this wasn't like the other visions he had had with Samantha. This one he was a ghostly figure—one with hearing and sight, but couldn't be seen or heard. But he was there, as solid and as real as everything around him. And that horse, it could feel him, but only the animals are gifted with the sixth sense. Donny knew this as only the dreamer could.

So he watched the young lady as she sat on that buggy, and she looked straight ahead, and Donny could swear she was troubled, and it was for that reason alone he was there. He was supposed to witness what was about to happen, or what had happened long in the past.

He was leaning against a wooden post that held up the front porch overhang for the local general store. A place called "Ole Henry's," which was a well-proportioned wood framed

building. One that was located close to the town of Mishawaka. But Donny didn't recognize it or anything around it. But he knew where he was, and he wasn't far from his home.

Ole Henry's was built fancy—at least what could be seen from the dirt road was. This meant the front entrance area, and there were some fine craftsmanship for the shopping farmers and their wives to drool over. Rossetta's, carved into what looked to be the most delicate blooming rose. Massive beams, lathed, rounded and designed, and they secured the overhang. One of which Donny now found himself leaning against. Fancy doors that were solid, sturdy and fit proper, with no gaps and the same reveal all the way around. And glass windows with frames made from oak that worked one-finger-smooth thanks to the help from lead counterweights that were hiding in the walls. No, there was no doubt, this area was as much of a showroom as an entrance.

The weather was pleasant, summertime Donny thought. The air was dry as were the fields. No rain, not for a while and the wind kicked up the dry ground and swirled the dirt around as Dust Devils often do. And they spun down the road, dancing to some unheard melody. Donny found this disturbing, a drought during the growing season meant nothing good was coming. He knew not even a million years would change this.

Standing in the doorway of the General Store, not far from Donny, was a young man. Samantha's fiance. He was a tall, lanky kid, not handsome but not ugly. He was known to be disrespectful. A smart-mouthed youngster who was spoiled, and although his body grew, his mind stayed that of a child. Donny knew all of this, and this information was supplied to him by someone, somewhere before the dream began.

He also knew that this spoiled shit cared little for what he had, and that included Samantha, the one woman all others dreamed of. The reason for this was simple: he thought the world was made for him and nothing was above his grasp, or too good, or unfair, or undeserving. The boy took comfort in this, as he had been to many barn dances. He had seen the other available suitors looking at Samantha, and there was no question of what was on their minds. But she would find no better bow than him, so he worried none. She would be there when he wanted, and for as long as he wanted, there was little doubt of this. And it pained everyone who was lonely, and those farms were far apart, and there were so few to choose from ... but what can you do? So they stepped aside and allowed this spoiled ass who went by the name: Steven Curic, to take what he wanted once again.

Donny felt his stomach burn. Even in the dream world, he could feel it because as he slept, that's what it was doing. He watched Steven as he talked to another farmer. Donny assumed this was Samantha's father, but he wasn't sure.

He then looked at Samantha, and she was staring at them, but he was confident she couldn't hear what was said. Maybe she doesn't have too, he thought.

Going by the look on her face, he could tell she wasn't happy. Most likely they were making plans for the upcoming wedding, or perhaps the dowry that was little to nothing. Samantha's father hadn't much to give. It wasn't long, she stood and walked down the dirt road towards her home. The older man looked over and saw her leaving so he quickly said a few more words then moved on to the buggy.

Donny watched as he took off after her, he then looked back at Steven, who was also watching them. It was then the man who worked the counter at the store walked up behind him. "You're a lucky man," he said.

"What would make ya say that?" Steven asked.

"She's as pretty as a newborn fawn," he said and placed his hand on Steven's shoulder.

Donny could tell Steven didn't care for this. "Then you marry her," he snapped. "Look at her... We're up here speakin' of our weddin' and she walks away all disgusted like!.

The storeman chortled. "I suppose one could see that as a bad bad sign," he said, then turned and walked back inside the store.

Donny watched as Steven went to his horse and climbed into the saddle. He then adjusted his hat and started off for home. The same direction Samantha was traveling. Donny had a feeling that Steven had his doubts about the wedding the same as Samantha. And he wondered if he was like her? Is he being pressured into it? Maybe this was an arranged marriage?

He walked into the store where two other men were standing at the counter, speaking to the shop clerk. "What ya make of the big event?" one of them asked.

The clerk frowned. "I'm not much for Steven," he said. "He's as spoiled as last years corn. But I do think the world of Samantha and someone oughtta tell Steven what's going on 'fore it's too late. Ya know, put a stop to it!"

"And who do ya think's gonna do that?"

"Not sure, but if the woman I was gonna marry was already in bed with my pappy ... I would walk away, and if that was to happen—it would put an end to most of Samantha's problems. She wouldn't have ta marry that jackass, and no marriage—no pokin' for the pappy! That was the deal—at least that's the way I heard it."

The others shook their heads. "Now, don't go doin' some'in' foolish," one of them said. "It's none a our business, 'sides, we don't know nothin' for true!"

"I don't know," The clerk countered, "Ole Morris (Steven's father) was a bragging 'bout it, and that would be as close to the horse's mouth as words can come. He says the deal was done ... that as long as Vern handed his daughter over to Steven, he would get himself another twenty-five acres. Double his farm it would. On top of all that—he would build the newlyweds a new home, just catty-corner from his home. Promised her a fine life, he did."

"So what's the harm in that?"

"Nothin', but that was when ole Morris told me why he was building the home so close to his ... Says he wanted to keep Samantha within walkin' distance on account a the misses dried up. Says she's not havin' no more children."

"Don't mean it's already takin' place."

" 'fraid it does. At least so the way he tells it. He say's she's a beauty, and looks real fine clothesless. Say's she feels real good and what she does for the eyes—she does double fer the private parts. Now I'm no book readin' fella, but I would say that would mean it's already takin' place."

"Well, I still say it's none of our business. We all know the winters are long and damn lonely. Just 'cause she's married to his son don't change a man's desire."

"So you're thinkin' it's all right?" The clerk asked.

"Not sure 'bout all that, but it won't be the first time such a thing happened. Won't be the last either."

Donny watched as the clerk backed down. "Suppose you're right," he said. "Best let the Lord figure this out."

Donny walked out of the general store; he stopped while still on top of the wood porch, still under the overhang. He looked out at the dry fields; the corn was still alive but barely and those dust devils, they still twirled down the dirt road that ran in front of him. But he cared nothing of the corn or the sand. He only cared for Samantha, and now, her demise was beginning to make sense. It was a combination of things and that old abandoned home that still stood in the woods behind Donny's home, the one that had no known history ... Well, it did now. It was the shelter where Steven grew up. It was where old man Morris hung his hat, where he called out his orders, where he hid from God and his sins. Donny wondered if that was the reason it was abandoned, did others walk inside and feel the dirt that clung to their skin? Did they realize they wouldn't be able to get it off? Did they turn and vacate the house that from all aspects of reality should have been a dream dwelling? A Victorian castle straight from the homeland ... out here in the middle of nowhere?

Donny was certain it had to be something like that, and it made sense or at least sort of. He could hear the men talking behind him, although he wasn't sure what they were saying. He no longer cared. He blinked his eyes and even though it was only for a moment, the dream pulled him away from the store and now, he was standing in front of his home on Day Road.

In front of him, almost close enough to touch her was Samantha, beside her was Steven, and they had their backs to Donny. They were looking at the home which wasn't complete. Donny could hear hammering sounds coming from inside.

The wood slats on the exterior were raw, unpainted. The doors hadn't yet been hung, but Donny could see his home, and he wanted to shout out that it hadn't changed much in the hundred plus years it now stood. But that would be fruitless indeed.

He swung around and looked at the dirt road that would one day be called "Day Road." It was a one-lane-hard-packed path that in no way resembled what was on the way. But the home, it certainly did. He turned back around in time to see the two walking up the stairs and onto the wood deck that led to the interior of the residence. Donny followed them.

They looked around at the bare walls that had no spackle. Only the two by four stud skeleton had been erected. Samantha, she said little, Steven did all the talking. "This will be the living room, this will be the kitchen. Bla-blah-blah."

Then they walked up the stairs onto the second floor where Steven took her into Donny's room where Morris the perv' was working. He was on his knees hammering the floors tongue and groove wood slats into place. Donny was shocked when he looked up and smiled.

Morris the perv' wasn't anything like he expected, and he wasn't anything like his son Steven. Where Steven was tall and skinny, Morris was well-built, with a strong lantern jaw and large hands. Callused hands, a working man's hands. His eyes were emerald blue and piercing. The eyes of a gunfighter. His hair was brown with only a touch of gray around the temples, and his face was handsome, even at the elderly age of thirty-eight.

Donny walked in front of the three and looked at Samantha, she was smiling at Morris and that smirk wasn't the kind of smile a young woman should be giving to her father-in-law.

She wants him, not Steven, Donny thought. She isn't being forced into anything. She wants this, it's the only way she can be with him. Suddenly, Donny began to think of the children she would have. He wondered how many would be Steven's, and how many would be

sired by his father? There would be no way of telling, and they both would have access to her. That's the reason Morris is so hell bent on getting her married to his son, he thought. If she was to marry another, she wouldn't live on his property, or in a home that he built. She wouldn't come to holiday dinners. She would drift away, and he knows it. So seeing he can never have her all to himself, he chose the only other option! Donny shook his head, no wonder she's fucked in the head! He thought and there was the sting of jealousy that burned his insides.
"This will be our room," Steven said. "See, we can look out that window and keep an eye on the fields." Samantha's eyes didn't break from Morris's eyes, and she said nothing at all. Donny turned and walked out of the room. He walked down the stairs and back outside. There was a path already worn in the grass that led to the dirt road. He took it, taking a left, heading downwind ... Just then a dust devil hit his back and pushed him on, then another and then another. Each one, taking him farther from Samantha and his home.

9

It was almost dark when Donny finally came out of the shower room. He walked down the hall, and he could see the shadows of the oncoming night as it set in. He looked at the woman who was working the counter, and she wasn't the same as before. Most likely not as friendly.

The place was open twenty-four hours a day, as most truck stops are. And there were just as many people walking around as before. So now that his odor wasn't so offensive, he took some time to look around.

He had been in truck stops in the past, however, they were the ones located on two-lane roads. This one was nothing like those. This one was like a large home, a place to rest for wayward travelers. And whether they were fueling and leaving, or sleeping in their trucks in the lot for the night, they were welcomed in this home.

So he came to a stop at a large plate glass window that showed the outside. He wondered if he too was welcomed here? He could see the wind blowing the flags and they stood straight out waving violently, pointing to the South. He could feel the cold air as it pulled through the glass. He could see the snow circling off the surface of the frozen black top. Even the salt was no match for this Canadian cold front ... So what chance did he have?

He decided it would be best to stay where it was warm for as long as possible.

He found a room where there was a sign which read "Truckers only!" He walked in any way and there were rows of chairs all facing a television that set on a shelf on the wall. There were trucker's already sitting in some of the chairs, they were watching the news. Donny took one of the seats in the back, one against the wall, this way he would have someplace to lay his head. He watched the news until after one in the morning. This was when the screen went blank. This was when the television station stopped broadcasting. This was when Donny pretended he was sleeping so the woman who came in and turned off the television would leave him be ... She did.

XIX May eight, 1974 Donny is nineteen or twenty, Benny thirteen, Pauly is eleven.

1 Back To Work

It was a little over five months from the day he entered the Dandy's Diesel Fuel, and Food Emporium truck stop, did Donny find himself sweeping the floors. He smiled as he worked and most around him found this odd as his job consisted of everything the others didn't want to do. But that was all right, this wasn't a career, it was for food, clothing, cigarettes, and a warm place to stay.

It would be Mary Stoddard, the lovely woman who invited him inside for a shower, she would be the one who would find him sleeping in the chair in the truckers lounge. And she would put him to work, and Donny knew he owed her as he hadn't a clue if he would have survived the winter out away from the city. And there were many storms, and as each one raged, he would look out the window and thank God he wasn't exposed ... Then he would thank her ...

Mary was kind to Donny, she saw something in him that others overlooked. Donny hadn't a clue what that something was, but he was grateful for the attention. But who wouldn't be? Mary was a very sexy woman, one that wasn't real easy on the eyes but made up for that with a body that screamed out for sex, and she had no problem showing it. But then most who make money inside a truckers cab would say it was part of the job.

"The art of seduction," she told Donny as she cut his hair and trimmed his beard. "That's what it's called. You see the counter job is only to create desire. I mean, there's plenty of hookers that come in during the night and knock on their doors. And they get their share, but then, they work for pennies on the dollar. The reason for this is they don't want to put in the work."

"The work?"

"That's right. You have to realize those cabs are dark. Most of those men couldn't even tell you what the woman looked like come sun up. Most don't care because there's little desire, only relief, and they ain't gonna pay a lot for relief ... Hell, they can do that themselves for free.

But you take me, I'm the one they look at long and hard while they're paying for their food, or whatever. And while they're staring at me, they're thinking of one thing and one thing only ..."

"Sex?"

She smiled. "Could short change the hell out of them and they wouldn't have a clue because, at that moment, they don't give a shit about money. They only care about me, and how I would feel, and they think of what they would do to me if they could. And as they drive down that road, these images burn in their brains because driving is boring and they need something to break the agony that has become their lives ...

"Soon I will see them again. Standing at the register, buying something they don't need. And I know they're here to see me, and I let them think what they want. I let them dream, and then when the time is right, and for a hefty price, I let them have it."

Donny thought a moment. "Don't you ever worry that you won't meet up to their expectations?"

She snipped a fair chunk of hair and laughed. "Honey, sex is mostly in the mind. I could lie there dead, or I could perform like a sex starved teen ... wouldn't make a bit a difference."

Donny smiled but he didn't like this it all. Originally he guessed Mary to be in her early forties, her hair was riddled with split ends, and her skin was leathered from too much smoking. She looked older than she was and Donny would learn she was only thirty-five. He was twenty now and he thought he could have loved Mary Stoddard. But just like that—she became a friend and would never be anything more.

Since he met her, he had stopped dreaming about Samantha Curic, and her life. He wasn't sure if the reason for this was because he was falling for Mary, or because he knew Samantha was mating with most of the males in Steven's family. Could have been both, he supposed. But as the words came out of Mary's mouth, Donny realized at that moment two things. One was she didn't feel the same way about him. If so, she wouldn't have admitted to being a whore. The other was women weren't to be trusted, and it wasn't only Nancy Dally, the girl who screwed his best friend, it seemed to be all of them.

He was taught to believe that women were pure and hadn't the desires that men had. But it wasn't looking that way. Nancy did it for free, at least Mary was making money. This hurt him in more ways then he would know. At least not until later in life. This would return, and it would haunt him. It would help bring on his end.

But right now, he swept the floors, and he took out the trash. He cleaned the restrooms and pumped gas for the full-service cars, and since he had enough clothes, they began to pay him, and he saved every penny.

He slept in the storage room on an army cot that one of the mechanics loaned him, and he had nothing, owed nothing, and there wasn't a thing keeping him where he was ... Only a few friends and Mary Stoddard.

So on this day, this unseasonably warm day, He leaned his broom against the wall. He turned and went to the storage area where he had a new duffle bag that held his clothes. He slung it behind his back and walked out, into the central shopping area, and up to the counter where Mary stood. She was busy with men waiting in her line. Donny looked to see Carla, a heavy set woman standing at a register and there wasn't a customer close. She didn't care, it just meant she had more time to read her love novels. Donny smiled, he would miss this place.

"What are you doing?" she asked when it was his turn for her attention.

"I want to thank you for all you did for me," he said, he could feel tears start to build.

"You don't have to thank me," she replied. "You were a great help through the winter. Are you leaving?"

"Yeah."

"Suppose I knew this day would come. I hate to see you go. I'll—I mean—we'll miss you."

Donny wasn't sure what he wanted her to say, but that wasn't it. He forced a smile and walk away. Through the breezeway and the double doors. The sun hit him, and it did provide some comfort. It was a beautiful day, so this time he smiled for real and headed for a bus that was fueling up in one of the bays.

"Where ya going?" he asked the driver.

"To the terminal."

"Can I catch a ride? Be happy to pay my way."

Once at the terminal, he purchased a border ticket one that would take him close to Vermont. From there he would hitch hike on home. So by the late afternoon, he was standing at one of the border patrol windows.

It had been two years since he landed in Montreal, in all that time, the one thing he held onto was his passport. The reason, it held no value.

"So ...You're returning home?" the man said as he stared into Donny's eyes.

"That's right."

He handed the passport to another man who immediately got on the phone and made a call. "You wouldn't be a draft dodger now would ya?"

"No sir," Donny replied. "But—I thought the war was over."

"Don't matter, draft dodgers are still criminals."

"Well, I'm no draft dodger."

"According to your passport, you were in Canada for the past two years. Why would you spend so much time in the cold north if you weren't running from something?"

"I didn't have a choice."

The man on the phone hung up and came back over and handed the officer Donny's passport. "He's clean," He said.

The officer took another look at Donny, he then stamped the page and handed the booklet back. "Welcome home," he said but Donny damn sure didn't feel like he was welcomed. He grabbed it and stuck in his front pocket and then walked across the imaginary line. He could already feel the cold attitude of his countrymen. There would be no more Coats, no money, and no breaks. He was in America... the land of the greed and home of the "Look at me!" Fuck everyone else.

He shook his head, but this wasn't a surprise. This was the life he knew all too well, so as the warm breeze blew on his back, he walked down the emergency lane on Interstate 89. A four-lane highway that was loaded with traffic. But his thumb remained relaxed and at his side. He looked straight ahead and waited for the next highway patrolman to stop and harass him. He wondered why he hadn't just taken a bus on into the States? To a Town? Why did he get out at the border? Did he want them to tell him he couldn't return? Did he know deep down that this was a mistake? No answer came to mind, only more questions, and he already missed Mary, but he knew there was little point in dwelling on that. Those feelings, or the betrayal. So he went on until the sun set until he was tired. Only then did he walk off into a wooded area. Out of sight, and safe.

The air was cool now, low sixties he would guess. He laid down under cover of brush and some trees. He slept there, using his duffle bag as a pillow. He would dream, he would see Samantha Curic again, and this comforted him.

2

In this vision, he was walking down that dirt road, the road that would someday become Day Road. And that same warm breeze he had felt all day was still blowing, but this time, he was walking against it. But that didn't matter because he knew where he was going, and no amount of wind would stop him from getting there.

The corn in the fields that were all around him, whistled as the wind cut through the stalks. And those stalks were tall, green and very healthy unlike the last time he was here. He looked down at the dirt road and the soil was black dirt, which meant they had a fair share of rain this season. He smiled, because this meant all was good. In a few months, the area would be teaming with corn and sausage festivals, and all in the world would be right. At least it would be in this dream. A euphoric feeling swept over him, one so strong he would have thought he was on heroin. But he had never done the drug, so perhaps Acid would be closer. He began to skip and twirl around like a child who's been told he has a new puppy. And he feared this feeling wouldn't last, and as that thought ran through his mind, everything began to fail starting with the corn.

He slowly came to a stop as the green turned to brown. As the stalks wilted and bent, dying in fast motion, drying up, turning to dust. Within ten seconds, the fields were as dry and barren as the salt flats.

He looked down, and the road was now a tan color and the wind was picking up the dust and spinning it into Devils ... What world am I in? He wondered and then began to walk on, fighting the sand storm that was gaining strength. Something or some higher power didn't want him to go on ... Didn't want him to witness what was ahead. He knew this, and it only made him more determined to continue with this journey.

He thought of the General store, that day it was dry. Could this be the same day? He wondered, but there was something different now, something foreign. And he was scared, but couldn't stop. Good versus evil, one was pushing him on, the other back. This went on until he could no longer see, no longer breathe, no longer make headway. It was then, he fell to his knees and screamed out: "What do you want from me!!!" And everything cleared ... The wind died down, the sand fell to the ground, and Donny was no longer in the middle of the dirt road. Instead, he was kneeling outside of Morris's home. The Victorian palace that lay dormant and abandoned in the woods behind his room.

Donny pulled himself up to his feet, and he looked around. The place was alive now; fresh green paint was on the exterior. Glass panes were in the window frames. The front door was on, working, and closed. And he could hear people inside talking. A family with voices that ranged from children to adults. It was a gathering, he thought. A get-together and by the looks

of the brown, leaves that covered the ground, he would guess it to be late fall. Thanksgiving! He thought and this made him smile. He walked up the stairs and onto the porch. He looked in the window that sat beside the front door, and he could see them, but they didn't look as happy as he would have thought. Not as cheerful as they had sounded. That came from the children, he was sure of that, and plenty were running around. But as for the adults, they sat at a large table. Four of them. Samantha, Thomas, Morris, and another woman who Donny would say was Morris's wife.

They all had plates full of food sitting in front of them, but no one was eating. Samantha was looking down at the table like a child who's being yelled at. Morris, he was saying something to Steven and as for the other woman ... she was staring at Samantha, and her eyes were sending out something so strong, Donny could feel it from outside the home, and he knew what it was ... It was hate! It was anger! It was rage!

She knows about Samantha and ole Morris, Donny thought, and he knew this was true. And then the screaming began starting with Steven. "You son-of-a-bitch!" he shouted out as he slammed his hands down on top the table and raised off his seat. And those children scrambled upstairs. They knew this wasn't anything good. Donny could hear the door slam.

Morris, he had his hands out in a calm down style gesture, but that did little good. In a blink of an eye, Steven sailed across the table like some sort of gymnast. Donny didn't even see his feet touch the wood. And he was all over Ole Morris, and the Mrs. ... she sat there staring at Samantha.

"She's pregnant," Donny whispered, and he could see it now, the swollen belly. "This is their first child, and it may be Morris's. Now, that's something to be thankful about!" he chuckled. What the hell, it's only a dream.

Ole Morris, he was stronger, Donny could see that. He swatted the boy away like a gnat. Pushing him aside but that wasn't a smart move, but Ole Morris had no way of knowing that. At least not at the time, but he would soon learn the error of his ways.

Steven, he hit the wall, head first and it was such a hard impact, the plaster broke like an egg shell that hits the pan. But Steven, his adrenaline was pumping, and they do say a madman has the strength of ten. Donny would agree because Steven jumped up, put the old man in a headlock. Then they proceeded to dance around the floor like bad, ice skaters, they wound up close to the table.

The Mrs., she remained silent, and her gaze never left Samantha, and Samantha only looked at the wood that held her plate. And just like that, the knife was pulled from the breast of the turkey, and with one graceful movement, Steven slit Ole Morris's throat ending what was destined to be a lifelong family dispute. And all went silent, and all watched as Ole Morris fell to his knees holding the wound. Donny, he could swear he was bleeding out while looking at the roasted turkey that cooled on the plate.

"Don't think you'll get much sympathy from him," Donny whispered. And he smiled as Samantha began to scream. Then he pulled back as Steven looked at her with eyes that wanted nothing more than to end this misery. But Donny wasn't worried; he knew how Samantha would die and it wasn't on this day or by Steven's hand. All the same, he would remember that look, it was truly the look of insanity and once seen, can never be forgotten.

Donny looked away now, he walked back down the steps, down the beaten path, to the road. This explained so much. The reason the home sat in the woods deserted. The aura of death would have remained long after the deceased was buried. Perhaps for eternity.

He wondered if those children he had seen around Samantha later in her life, at the table when he first saw her—were they hers? Or was she raising Steven's brothers and sisters? Did Steven cut the throat of his mother and spare the life of his father's lover? His wife Samantha?

Suppose he could have stayed and found out, but there was no point. He was done with her, he had seen enough, and he would dream of her no longer ...

3 -- Side note from the author

In the morning, he walked the same as he did the day before. Along the side of the expressway and he wasn't asking for a ride. So he was once again at the mercy of passing semis and other vehicles. Their tires seemed to scream out as the rubber rolled on the asphalt. The wind that followed after they passed tried to pull him off his feet. But he ignored all that and went on like a Saudi warrior who walks alone in the desert. And that's what he felt like, even with the noise that surrounded him. He was alone in a wasteland. Lost in thought that ran so deep he could hardly hear or even see the movements that ran in front of him and came up from behind him.

He wasn't hungry although he should be. He wasn't thirsty even though he was dehydrated, and he damn sure wasn't in a good state of mind. He was reliving the dream. And he ran the series of events over and over again until it all added up, and the more it added up, the more painful it was ... But he went on all the same. Like a record that skips playing in a deserted home. The same thoughts cycled endlessly, only changing when a satisfactory answer was accepted. And it hurt because Samantha was his escape from reality, and I know this seems strange because she wasn't real, she was only in a dream. Or perhaps, in the beginning, it wasn't a dream but rather flashbacks from all the acid he had done ...

My point is—Donny never found anything that said her name was Samantha Curic. He never dug down and found her remains, so he wasn't sure she was buried in his basement. True, there was the cross in the attic, but that could be a simple religious symbol which was what he initially believed. In reality, he wasn't even sure she ever existed. This all began with the story his grandfather had told him about the mother who was locked in the basement because she had cabin fever. But no names were given, and nothing was said about her hanging herself, or dying down there ...

No—the facts are simple: Donny dreamed it all. It all came from his mind, and even though for years Samantha Curic soothed his troubled soul. In the end, he turned her into a slut who was sleeping with both father and son. A woman whose actions were the result of a death, maybe two. And she deserved to hang off that rafter.

So why would anyone come to such sad conclusions? It's the way his mind worked. Always did, always would. He had the mentality of a warrior, and when a warrior has nothing to fight, they fight themselves. They become filled with so much hate, killing is easy, and everyone deserves what they get.

To Donny, his father was abusive but hadn't ever left a bruise or mark on him. Near as I could tell, he was a chain smoker and an alcoholic, with a gravelly voice that always sounded like he was shouting, but that hardly makes him a beater.

His mother was also an alcoholic and had a drug problem, but that was common at the time. Life is long and hard, and being beautiful was never more important. So aging mothers used uppers to lose weight, downers to sleep. Before long, reality becomes blurred. So add some whiskey, a couple of years, and suddenly a person no longer likes what they have become.

A lot of them simply walked away and started a new life ... There was a name for this phenomenon, it was called: "a nervous breakdown!" But Donny's mother, she got help and came back home and that's not bad at all.

Then, there was Nancy Dally, the only woman who showed interest in Donny, and may have even actually loved him. He used her, showed her little affection. Told her she was more of a friend than anything. Then—when his friend asks if he can have sex with her, Donny says sure—what the hell, then holds it against both of them. And as this story goes on, you will find that he does until the end ... No—just like Samantha Curic, there's bad in everyone, and no one could find it like Donny Maers.

The mind of a warrior ... Everyone wants it, but God help those who have it.

So it comes at no surprise that this way of thinking was already taking its toll ... Donny was twenty years old now, and throughout his adolescent years, he was sure he would die in Vietnam. That there was no reason for education or healthy living. There was no future, and so he lived for the moment, or day. But that conflict had ended, and he wasn't prepared to be anything but a homeless drifter. And so that's what he was.

In desperation, when he woke up under those trees along the side of I-89, he made a promise to himself ... One where he swore, he wouldn't live past thirty years of age. That if he were still around, he would finish it before that one, special day ended. The only question remaining was how?

4

Later in the day, he walked into a town called Swanton, which was a fair-sized city, and he could see a Holiday Inn, standing at least ten stories high. Then there was a Hilton that looked twice that height. There were others, and along with office buildings they made a skyline that was impressive and showed whatever was wanted was certainly available.

Donny, with a pocket full of cash, walked right on past all that. He went straight to where there was a train yard. He wasn't going home, he had come to that conclusion right after he decided to die before thirty. There wasn't anything there for him. So he looked around at the cars that were loaded ... hooked to engines and were about to leave. He stared down the tracks, the south bound tracks. He went to a car that had a door open ... he jumped in.

"This carriage is taken," he heard and looked over to see a real live hobo sitting on the floor while leaning against the sidewall. Donny smiled as this man looked exactly like they showed on the television. The hair that was pulled back and windblown. The dirty face, the fingerless gloves on his hands, and the old leather boots that weren't laced all the way up.

"Looks like there's plenty of room," Donny said. "Or has the rest of your party not yet arrived?"

The hobo smiled. "Oh what the hell. If ya don't mind snorin', I suppose yer welcomed to stay. But otherwise ... you'll be wantin' to find another car."

"I have no trouble sleeping," Donny said as he walked over and took a seat on the opposite side of the car. "My name is Donny—Donny Maer."

"Popeye," the man replied.

"Popeye...? You mean like the sailor man?"

"Yep."

"How's a man get to carry around a name like that?"

Popeye lifted his arm and with his free hand, he tightened the flannel sleeve to show his forearm was much larger than his bicep. Donny could see it was disproportionate to the rest of his body. He looked to be medium height and thin as most who lived such an unforgiving lifestyle are. But his forearms looked swollen, full of fluids, or maybe it was muscle. Whatever it was, it was far from normal. "I see the similarity," Donny said. "Mind me asking what happened there?"

"Couldn't say for certain. My momma claimed my arms soaked up hog fat like a damn dry biscuit. As for what the doctors said ... well, hadn't never seen one of them."

"Not ever?"

"Oh suppose maybe walking down the street or something ... You got a smoke?"

Donny pulled out two cigarettes from his pack of Marlboro's, he put one is his mouth, the other he tossed across the car to Popeye. He then watched as the train-man tore off the filter and threw it out the open car door. He then pulled out a Zippo lighter and flipped they top back ... Donny recognized the sound of clicking steel and flint being sparked. He could see the royal-blue flame that rose up off the wick. This made him think of his father, and he hadn't done that in a long time. Now—he wondered just how long that time was?

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a blue tip match, he rubbed it across the wood slats that made up the car's floor. The match sprang to life, and it wasn't as awesome as the blue flame of the Zippo, but it served its purpose all right. Once lit, he drew in as much smoke as possible, then inhaled it deep into his lungs, all the while, his eyes remained on Popeye.

It was close to dusk when the car did its first jerk. The engines were so far ahead, they couldn't really hear them. At least not yet. Didn't matter, there was no doubt of what was going on. The sound of steel on steel as the wheels rolled on the tracks. The banging, clanking and squealing as the cars moved then settled over and over again until there was a consistent pull. Then there was a steady thump as the weight of the train rolled over the railroad ties. Ka-thunk, ka-thunk. This sound, along with the wind and steel singing, he would have to get used to. He was sure he would. A consistent sound that was a nuisance now, would be comforting soon enough.

He looked at his new friend, and his eyes were closed, and there was a look of contentment on his face. Donny had heard songs and stories of life riding the rails. The freedom, the addiction. It was said it was like sailing, that once it was in your blood, it was hard

to walk away. He understood this as he watched Popeye, he knew those tales were true. And he wondered if he was to ride long enough—would he feel the same?

He smiled, he reveled in the fact that he hadn't a clue where they were going. That it wasn't in their hands. And he doubted that Popeye knew either. South, that was the main thing, the only thing. And before he knew it he had his eyes closed. And as the wind rolled through the open doors and whirled around the steel walls. He knew it didn't matter where they were going. The only thing that mattered was they were moving. And as long as they did that, they wouldn't be found, not by anyone. They were ghosts now. Beings that came and went and there was no predicting where they would be found or which train they were currently on. Not even the government could stop the trains. And Donny was beginning to dislike the Government.

5

Donny awoke at what he would guess to be the middle of the night. The train was no doubt at full speed. The noise was now at a level that was so loud, there would be no chatting among the illegal passengers. He looked around into the blackness that had taken over the box car, he could see the shadow of his new friend sleeping where he was not long ago sitting. Now he was laid out and if he was snoring, Donny damn sure couldn't hear it.

There was the glow of light now beaming through the open doors. The moon was full, and the skies were clear. He got up and walked over to where he could see out into the countryside. He now stood in awe, holding onto the steel frame that surrounded the opening. The moon had lit up the scenery nicely, but with all its light, it wasn't able to drown out what looked to be a million stars that burned above it.

He could see the tree line, and they were deep in a forest somewhere. There were no homes, no porch lights. There were no streets, no cars, no city sounds. There was only nature, and it could have been the balmy temperature or the fact he was closer to home. It could have been seeing that royal-blue flame of the Zippo lighter. Or the smell of moist, green floral. The same aroma that's found in Indiana during the growing season. It could have been a combination of all those things. But he felt so good, and this feeling was rare, and he didn't want it to end, so he sat down, dangled his feet out the door ...

He then thought of his home and childhood. Those long summer days when he would play into the night. He thought of Rooster, his grandfather's dog, and all the time they ran through the woods chasing nothing but air. Now it seemed as though it was a million years ago, and he thought maybe it was ... Maybe he was in purgatory, in waiting, maybe he would be reborn, have another shot at life. Most times, this thought would scare the hell out of him, but on this night, it warmed him and would until the sun rose and took it all away.

6

Popeye was a Native American, one with browner skin than most, and a strong, lantern jaw. His hair was straight, the color of the mane on a thoroughbred race horse. But he kept it short, said it was easier to maintain it that way.

He was a strong man, one that took little from others. Otherwise, he would have remained on the reservation. He wore old clothes torn and stained. And boots with little left on their soles. Donny could picture him sitting around a winter campfire sporting his fingerless, cloth gloves while warming soup still in the tin can it came in.

But he was a decent fella, and he didn't look for trouble. As a matter of fact, he blended into his environment like a chameleon. This was something different for Donny. Homeless people didn't care if they're seen, but hobo's do. Some of the workers hated those who rode the rail. They saw them as lazy, worthless, and wouldn't think twice about shooting over their heads while they ran off. Sometimes, they would shoot them in the back just to make sure they wouldn't return. What's the harm, no one cares about a drifter? They are trespassing after all.

So Donny had to become stealthy. Learned how to ride under the train, lay across the wood ramps, out of sight. He had to stay thin, in shape, ready to run. The rails had changed since the great depression. Back then, there was tolerance, compassion, but not any longer.

So he spent three years walking and hitching rides on trains that looked to be heading in his desired direction. He would end up in New York, Georgia, Tennesee all traveling by rails. And working odd jobs for food money.

During the fall and winter months, he stayed down in the Southland. When it was spring, he headed west, sometimes making it all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Summer was spent up North, anywhere from Northern California to Maine.

He traveled in clusters of other men like himself, these clusters were never the same as those around him would come and go depending on their desired destination. He found this as a benefit because losing friends was part of being free. Can't have it all and this way, there was only you and those who happened to be heading your way. Popeye was always one of the latter.

Donny didn't worry about whether people were looking for him. He was sure they thought he was dead. The family would believe he was rotting in some dope field in Nam, and the Army ... well, why would they give a shit?

The days of elated wives greeting their husbands with a kiss on the tarmac was replaced with the soldior standing alone, wide eyed and crazy as hell. Looking around for a woman that now belongs to another ... Most likely a College boy who wasn't forced to go to war. Someone like Steve Rousch.

Donny believed there was no honor among any human, not man nor woman, and if you wanted to keep what you had. You'd better be there ready to shoot at the hounds that sniff around your door. And they're always there, waiting, watching for that moment when your shit isn't protected. He knew this because many rode the rails that told this story. And those numbers seemed to be increasing at a noticeable rate, and those who created this problem didn't care, but why would they? Everything worked out fine for them.

So Donny watched closely and listened to these poor souls who were so foolish as to believe they would be heroes. He could see the pain that wouldn't leave them be, wouldn't allow them to forget. He knew what he was looking at and it came from years of sermons that told of right and wrong, of heaven and hell. Preached from birth only to have a rifle handed to them. To be told to kill or be killed. And by whom...?

Donny understood all this very well, and he could feel their pain. But he knew Popeye could also, maybe even more so. It was he who told the tale of the King's wars. A War that was waged between two Kingdoms. Both were of the Catholic faith, both were certain they were in the right. Both believed the same God was on their side and would protect them. And so they prayed, and they took comfort in this. But when the battle was done, few remained alive, and since the Kings didn't join in on the fight, there was no winner declared. And the high Priests were called in to answer to the Kings as to why God didn't protect them ... The answer they gave was the same: "God doesn't pick sides. If you want to declare a winner, one King must fight the other to the death ..."

The Kings declined, and the war was declared a tie, and the Kings were still Kings, not cowards, but Kings. And that's the way it's always been and always will be. But they are cowards, and late at night, one would believe they would wake to this reality. I wonder if they ever do?

Popeye said his people were once called savages. "This came from a race that's as ruthless as all others put together. The white man!" he hissed, and he was mad as hell.

Donny wouldn't forget that, and he was sure those around him wouldn't either. As much as they believed they had lost at the hands of the whiteman, their kind. It was nothing compared to what the Native Americans had suffered. "So hold on bitches—it's about to get a whole lot worse!"

XX December Third, 1977 Donny is twenty-three, Benny is eighteen, Pauly is sixteen.

1

It was a cold late fall evening in the mountains that were close to the town of Bardstown Kentucky. There was a fire burning inside a clump of trees that hid those who weren't supposed to be there. The fire went against protocol because they were too close to the train yard. But it was snowing hard, a storm, one that looked to be gaining strength. And visibility was down to maybe ten feet, so there would be no one who could see them or even care at this point.

The ground had already accumulated close to six inches of snow. This was the first snowfall of the season, an early one for sure and Donny wished he was farther South at this point. But that hadn't worked out.

He and Popeye had landed a job close to Peoria Illinois, they helped build a barn for a farmer who was out in the middle of nowhere ... Donny thought this as comical seeing the farm was what he so desperately wanted to get away from. But the pay was good, and they were taken care of, so they stayed on until the job was completed. That was a couple of days ago so here they sat. Huddled around a bomb fire, one that burned in the middle of what looked to be an oncoming blizzard.

In the distance, they could hear the trains moving in the depot. Metal slamming against metal, as the cars were hooked up or unhooked. They say the mail carriers work through some bad weather, but they haven't a thing on the yard men. They're tough as hell, with hands that are leathered and calloused. They worked around tons of moving metal that will crush anything that gets in the way. Certainly, a body part has no chance, and they are well aware of this. The wood trusses under the rails are stained with blood from lost feet, arms, legs, lives. A reminder of just who is the boss.

Donny had respect for these men, even though they hated anyone who rode the trains. Why they hated them, he hadn't a clue. Perhaps it was that they were down there working in a storm while the easy riders sat around a warm fire ... Didn't matter, he wasn't planning on making any lifelong friends anyhow.

But he, and all those like him, found comfort in these sounds. They were like a song and meant they were close to home because the cars were home—a motor home. And although Donny preferred to be farther South, there was something special about this night. This storm. It brought back memories of his youth, and he found that as he aged, and as he looked back, those times weren't near as bad as he thought they were. But then—he didn't look back often. Scared to, he feared what he would remember because nothing was forgotten. Not forever, and he was finding that unlike a child, an adult can't just let go of the past. Sins are always sins, and once something is said, you can say you're sorry, or "you didn't mean it," but those words will remain. And they will haunt you and so will your actions.

And so they build, these regrets—and they pile up, and soon form a mountain. And the burden takes it toll, and there's no way to lessen the load, no hope for relief. That's where illegal drugs come into play, A little self-medication; but there's not much chance of scoring when you're around transients who are as broke as you ...

So soon, the loser realizes that their sins are now winning the war, and it's becoming so difficult to move. This crushing sensation feels like a python on you and it's found it's next meal. It's wrapped around your chest, squeezing tighter each time you exhale. Pushing the blood to the head and you'll swear it's going to burst like a zit.

Soon, you will realize that this enemy, this unseen, violent thing, wants nothing more than to gain total control. And you haven't a clue the reason why? What's there to gain? Nothing, there's only loss in this war. Insanity perhaps, but like the amoeba cell that enters the ear. It will breed, it will feed, it will destroy the very host that allows it to live. Nothing can be done, so it's best not to dwell on the past. Good memories lead to bad, no one knew this more than Donny Maer.

But this time there was something different. He had heard some of the yardmen talking. The train they were loading was heading to Elkhart Indiana. His home, and ever since he heard that, it was all he could think about.

The other men in this clan were at the end of their journey. They would be going their separate ways soon enough. Many of the railmen took to the mountain terrain, and it didn't matter what time of year it was. They found it was easy to blend in, and they were seen as one of the hill folk, and if you weren't simple—you weren't welcomed. This clan was no doubt simple.

They spoke of opportunities that were waiting for them. They claimed that their time in Nam had given them some much-needed skills. They were schooled in what dope was good, and what wasn't. What it was supposed to smell like, look like, and seeing they were considered the Governments dumpster babies, they could certainly be trusted. So now the offsprings of those who brewed moonshine were growing dope on land that was government owned, and they were calling for all willing hands to come on deck.

It was a sweet deal, Donny would agree. It seemed our elected leaders had taken tax payers money and purchased large parcels of forests and crammed a flag on the land, just like they did on the moon. One small step my ass, they were stepping on anything and everything.

So after the ribbon cutting ceremony, the first thing that was done were rules were put in place. The first was you could only wonder around on a small portion of what you owned. An area that was well monitored and fees were collected. The rest of the land was to be protected and kept pristine for the animals. A noble idea really. The only problem was those from the hills weren't like most. They had been taught that everything on this planet was put there by God, and it was there for their survival. So it only made sense that seeing they helped pay for the land, they could hunt on it, and farm on it. They could take timber, and it wasn't long, the authorities named them as a constant, and consistant problem.

What made it worse was when the officers realized that the hill folk really didn't mind being thrown in jail. Hell, for most it was a blessing, especially in the winter time. So when the judge would sentence them to thirty days, or five hundred clams, they took the thirty days. Some even went as far as made a scene to get for more time.

Even if they didn't want to go to jail, they had no money for bail or fines. So they would sit around taking up space and county cash. And this went on until out of pure frustration—they were set free ... They would then return to the same place where they were caught before and do the same thing they were told they couldn't do. This went on until the authorities stopped fighting what was clearly a losing battle. Instead, they avoided these areas and before long, the farmers weren't growing corn. Instead, they were growing Marijuana. And when the crop was found by the authorities. Who were they going to arrest? It was on Government property.

So for now, it was easy money. And the area was the perfect place to hang out. The only thing that was asked was that you stay out of trouble.

This was the talk around the fire on this snowy night. And although there were some who weren't buying into it, most did and that included Popeye ...

Donny sat silent and looked into the flames. He then looked at all those around him and realized that he would never see them again. That was the code of those who rode the rails, and it was sad. Most were good men, and he was proud to call them his friend. He would miss them and wonder what ever became of them. He cleared his throat and everyone stopped talking and listened.

"I just want to say that I know most would call us worthless. That we're wasting our lives, and there's much better and bigger things we could be doing ... To them, I ask what would that be? And I get no answers. And I ask just who determines the worthless from the worthy? Would it be those who slave in the factories? Men like my father? Or would it be those who sit in their little cubicles; phone stuck to their ear as they ask how they can help a stranger? I doubt it, If I were to guess I would say it's the people who are rich ..."

"Amen Brother!" Someone said. Others joined in.

"So those brainwashed souls who will always work for the Kings—I wonder if they'll ever know that the worthless are the only ones who are actually free? I doubt they will, and it's their loss, not ours.

"With that said—I want it known that I've enjoyed traveling with you people. I would say it's been the best days of my life. But times change and if we don't change with them then good things will end, and bad things will replace them. This I know so it's time for me to make a change ... But I do believe it's safe to say that we are worthless, and we won't be making a mark on our world. But then maybe another scar isn't needed!" He lifted his can of green beans, "To us!" He said and took a drink. All those around the fire cheered and joined in. Popeye wasn't one of them.

"So what's going on?" He asked, he was sitting on the right side of Donny. He was looking into the fire.

"I'm tired of being hungry," Donny said. "I mean, being homeless in the city, there was food all around. Out here, it's slim, and you aren't sure when or where your next meals gonna come from. So even if you have enough food to fill your belly, you can't eat it 'cause you have to ration it."

"Working on the farm ruined ya—didn't it?"

"I think it did."

"I know what ya mean. That's why I'm going with these fellas. See if there's anything to this whole dope business ... Why don't ya come along?"

"I thought about it, and I may be back ... Here." Donny handed Popeye a piece of paper. On it, there was his address and telephone number. "When you get settled, send me a letter telling me where I can find you. I may not be living there, but if I'm not, my parents will see that I get it."

Popeye put the paper in his pocket. Donny then stood and held out his hand. Popeye forced a smile. He stood, gave Donny a bear hug, then shook his hand. "I'll be seeing ya," he said, but there was a tear welling up in his eyes before he could finish this sentence. Donny felt the same thing, so he turned and walked away.

He knew there was a chance they would see each other again. Maybe Popeye would wander into Elkhart Indiana. Or perhaps he would tire of his hometown and take back to the rails. So it was plausible that they would meet in the future ... But at that moment, it seemed like there wasn't a chance in hell. So Donny didn't look back. Instead, he listened to the sound his feet made as they stomped down into the snow. He looked down instead of into the storm, and he thought of nothing ... nothing at all.

He continued on until he came to the car he knew was heading home. He climbed in and took a seat. The train would be leaving soon. The yardmen had left and were now hooking cars to another engine. That meant this one was ready for departure. It wasn't long, it began to move. He relaxed ...

It had been close to six years since he left home. He had no clue of what he would find, or if he would even be welcomed. He blew into his cold hands and thought of the friends he just left behind. And they were friends at least as close to them as he had ever had. This thought sent a cold chill down his back. A voice inside his head screamed out that he should have listened to the speech he just gave. But the speech was meant for them, not him. He wasn't one who would live forever on the rails. And why...? Because his destiny wouldn't allow such feelings of joy. Of freedom. His destiny rolled along in the sky inside a black cloud, and that cloud was always close by and it didn't matter how fast the train went, or how far it traveled ... That cloud was on its way. Just out of sight. The last thing Donny wanted was to expose them to the hell that haunted him. No one deserved that.

The breeze was cold, but he didn't close the doors. He was seated so he could see out the opposite sides opening, and the night was dark with a white wall of snow that looked to be alive. And the faster the train went, the more spectacular this wall was. He would miss this, he knew that now. And he had a sick feeling in his gut, but it wasn't burning like usual, it was the feeling that has a name: A gut feeling. And one would be wise to listen to gut feelings. Some believe it's the body seeing the future or the past. And when a stomach that's always hungry is warning you to not head to where there's plenty of food ... That's called: A strong gut feeling.

I wonder if things would have turned out differently if he had listened to his instincts that night. I doubt it would have. I believe Donny would have allowed that black cloud to roll over him at some point. No matter what the circumstances were, no matter how good things turned out. Because that cloud wasn't following him, it was him. He was his worst enemy. He was a warrior.

Tick tock!

2 Three months later

The train was traveling fast, much more so than in the past. Popeye was sitting in the corner and Donny could see he was scared. He had never seen fear in the eyes of the Indian; it was there now.

Sounds were coming from the train, loud and in no way normal and everyone who was catching a ride on her felt the same way. There was something wrong, and whatever it was they couldn't fix it.

"She's still picking up speed," someone yelled, A hobo who Donny hadn't seen before. He was looking out the doorway towards the front to where the engine was. "It's gone," he screamed out. "We're traveling down the mountain, and there's no damn engine! The first turn we'll de-rail!"

He swung around, and everyone in the car could see his face, and he was scared. Scared to the point he lost his stomach. And instantly there was the smell of vomit in the air.

"Wake up!" he heard and opened his eyes to see Benny, his younger brother standing over him. "You had a nightmare," he said smiling.

Donny looked around and the wind-up clock on the end table read 8:00, he turned and put his hands over his eyes. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I told you. I want you to come with me and take a look at this van I'm looking to buy."

Donny thought for a moment. "You told me this when?" he asked.

"Last night, but you were pretty messed up so you may not remember."

"Is Grandma making breakfast?" he asked knowing that she was; he could smell bacon cooking.

"She is and it's almost ready."

He slowly pulled himself out of bed and put on his jeans. He then grabbed a clean white long sleeve insulated shirt and pulled it over his head. Grandma liked to keep the home cool.

They walked into the dining room and took a seat at the table. And before they could get comfortable, Grandma put down two plates; both loaded with bacon and eggs. Scrambled just they way he liked them.

Donny rubbed his stomach—it turned from the whiskey he drank the night before. He smacked his lips, his mouth was dry, and he was searching around him for something to drink, but there was nothing. He then looked at Benny, who had eyes that were red and swollen.

"You already stoned!" he said. Since he arrived, he learned that Benny had turned to the numb feeling that can only be obtained from smoking Marijuana. And he had an unhealthy appetite for the plant. He also learned that his activities were far from a secret and everyone

around him knew what was going on. And that included Grandma, but she would act as though she didn't.

Benny reeked of the plant, a distinct odor that's not like another. Once smelled, always remembered, and there's no denying what it is, or why you smell like it.

Donny loved to smoke, but he liked to think he had some control over it. But as he looked at his little brother he could see the addictive personality they shared was showing its ugly head. God, wait until he can drink, Donny thought.

"You shouldn't stay stoned all the time," he said as he took a drink of water.

"Well, " Benny replied, "until I'm old enough to drink, I haven't much choice." He laughed, but Donny didn't. He knew alcohol wasn't near as forgiving as dope. He also knew there were liquor stores around that would sell to minors. Meaning it wasn't hard to get. And he had witnessed Benny drunk on more than one occasion. But there was little that could be done, and Donny wasn't one to talk. Benny had made that clear.

"Where did you get money to buy a van anyway?" Donny asked as he ate the eggs.

"Dad's going to pay for it," he replied with a mouthful of food.

Donny stopped, he dropped his fork and looked up at him, "What do you mean Dad is going to pay for it?"

"Well—I mean I'll pay him back."

"You don't have a job."

"I will in a few months. He's already working on getting me into Steelpress. Once that happens. I'll have plenty of cash."

Donny slowly picked up a strip of bacon, he watched Benny as he continued talking. "It's a shame that he couldn't get you a job there," Benny said. "I guess it was your record and the fact that you were a draft dodger. Suppose that kept you from being hired."

Upon his return, Donny was vague about what had happened to him. He kept the promise he had made to Sargent Thomas Houp. He never talked of Miami, or crazy ass, blind as a bat Elmer. He simply said: he got a leave after basic training, so he left and didn't return. He dodged the draft and went to Canada. It was easy, and seeing President Carter had pardoned the draft dodgers in 1977, it all added up.

Mother Maer could have cared less—she was happy to see him alive. But Don senior, he took it hard. So hard Donny wasn't allowed in the house. So he moved in with Grandma who was frail and happy to have a man around again. Win—win.

"Dad never offered to buy me anything," Donny said trying to keep the subject on track. "And I had a job when I was sixteen years old!"

"Well—you can't blame him. I mean look at you now. Ya got a job at a trailer factory for three dollars an hour. No benefits. I mean—come on. Once I graduate, I'll be making over three times that, and I can't be fired ... Oh, trust me ... I can afford a car!" He giggled, and although it wasn't a stab at Donny, it felt as though it was.

"So you want me to take you to your new van with my old ratty pickup truck. Is that what you're saying?" There was anger in his voice, but Benny didn't pick up on it. Or perhaps he did and didn't care.

"You live with Grandma what else do you have to do?"

"I live with Grandma because she needs someone to look after her!"

"And how much rent are you paying?" He asked, and now Donny knew he was trying to get under his skin. And he was ... He knew Benny had heard Don senior complaining about Donny's living arrangments. About how he's living for free. He could hear the old man speaking: A draft dodger AND a free loader!

"I don't pay rent because she owns the house," Donny replied. But he knew the answer was weak.

"And you wonder why Dad won't loan you money for a car!" Benny started laughing.

Donny could feel the blood pumping through the veins in his face. Pounding, with each beat of his heart. He knew Benny was stoned and wasn't picking up on the fact that he would be wise to shut his mouth. So before he did something he knew he would regret. He stood up, then picked up his plate. He reached over and with his fork. He pushed his food onto Benny's plate. Benny looked up at him surprised at the offering.

"Here," Donny said, "a little something for those munchies."

He walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room. He closed the door and locked it. "Get Dad to take you to get your fucking van," he mumbled and laid down on his bed. He looked up at the ceiling and thought of the what Benny had said. It was all true, his little brother was about to get a job that any grown man would kill to have. One that would ensure a future that could only be rivaled by the automotive industry in Detroit. A factory with a strong union, one that would get those fired, re-hired. And with benefits that were unheard of in any other factory around the area.

It was a job that one couldn't get by filling out an application, it was given by someone who already worked there. Someone who had pull beyond those who were the first-generation employees. These men were thought of as royalty to those wishing a shot at a better life. And the factory was the French Quarters that screamed success.

Don senior was a second-generation employee, a millwright that had teeth. He was a King, and he would get Benny in, and Pauly would soon follow. Donny had no doubt that his rejection from the factory had nothing to do with his record. He was a minor, and those records were destroyed when he turned eighteen. So that left draft dodger, and they wouldn't know that. There were no records, no warrants because he wasn't a dodger ... So that meant his father didn't want him there, and that burned like hell. That filled him with rage and hate that ran deep.

"Why are you here?" was the first words out of peoples mouths who worked at the trailer factory. And once he answered that question the follow-up was-- "can you get ME a job there?"

As he lay on the bed, Donny thought of the job that he now had. He welded frames for cargo trailers. It was hot work in the summer and during the winter his flannel shirts, and frayed pants were consistently catching on fire. There were many nights when he would lie on the couch with cut potatoes over his eyes. Easing the burning sensation that comes from flash burns caused by accidental exposure to the direct light of the welder's torch. Or caring for skin burns where a piece of molten steel fell on his arms, legs, or torso.

It was long hours with little pay something his brothers would never have to deal with. And during the winter months when sales slowed. Donny's hours would be cut down to four days a week ... Sure, it's nice to have the time off, but thirty-two hours at three dollars an hour wasn't going to pay a lot of bills. Not rent to Grandma and certainly not a new van payment.

"He's right," he said in a low voice. "Why would Dad loan me money when he knows I can't pay him back."

He now second guessed all he thought he knew about standing in front of the massive steel presses. In comparison, the work wasn't bad at all. He felt jealous, and that was difficult to control. His stomach knotted more so than before, and he felt as though he was going to lose what little breakfast he got down.

"I'm the first born," he whispered. "I was the sample child that taught Ma and Pa what to, and what not to do with the chosen two. The blessed boys that do no wrong."

Since his return, he had noticed that although Benny was treated like a spoiled bitch, he wasn't shit compared to Pauly. The youngest of the three. He belonged to Momma and was thought to still be as fragile as the day he was born.

As this burned in his brain all he could think was: if Pa's going to put up the money to buy Benny-the-pothead a new van, what was waiting for Pauly-the-Prince?

Another unique talent they both had developed was a way of flaunting all the niceties they received. Things never offered to Donny. Things like a Van. It was Saturday, and Donny knew his father was home and most likely wanted to ride along to make sure the deal was fair. There was no reason Benny needed Donny or his old truck.

And Donny knew Benny wouldn't come knocking on his door, ask him if he was going to take him? Nope ... The only reason he was there was to make sure Donny knew what was about to happen. So he could see his face upon hearing the news. So he could rub it in. The rewards that are only there for the 'Good Boy's!'

All innocent fun, and boys will be boys, but it wasn't fun for Donny. It was hell, and his brothers had no way of knowing what it was doing to him. How it was affecting him, and the longer he was around them. The more they received. And the more they were handed, the more they bragged. And the more they bragged, the more it worked on Donny. Ate at him like cancer. And there was no end in sight. This was only the beginning, and he would have to listen to it for the rest of his life.

So now, while on his bed, he rolled his head over and looked through the opening that led into his closet. There leaning against the corner wall was the shotgun his grandfather had purchased for him. The four ten. The pee shooter.

Tick tock.

3

Larry Jenkins, who owned the Marathon gas station where Donny had worked as a teenager, had a 1966 Ford pickup truck. Bought new, the vehicle was a crucial part of his fleet, and although now, it was rusted, faded and wasn't much to look at, it did still run well and was considered reliable.

Donny knew the history of this truck, so when it went up for sale, he approached his old boss.

"I'm looking to get a grand for her," Larry told him. "But for you—I'd take eight hundred!"

Donny frowned. "Well," he said. "I just got a job working at this trailor factory. I don't have the cash on me right this moment. Would ya take payments?"

Larry smiled and handed Donny the keys. "For you, I will, but no one else."

That transaction took place two months ago, and since then, Donny had already paid two hundred dollars off the balance. But that left little for smokes, dope, and none for Grandma.

So later that same day, and while Benny was off picking up his new ride. Donny sat in his old pickup truck and stared out at the train cars that were now idle in the yard. He thought of the day the train halted and he stepped out onto his hometown ground. It was cold, snow had just blanketed the area, and it looked like they would have a white Christmas. He remembered feeling warm and euphoric because the snow was new, white and untouched. But that soon changed.

After the fall out with the family, and a couple of weeks later, he sat inside his grandmother's home. He looked out the front window and watched as the clouds rolled back over the area and this time, it didn't snow, it rained. It did this for a week straight, and it was cold, just under freezing. So Donny didn't leave the house. He stayed where it was dark but warm and most days, he stared out into the gloom and wondered just what the hell was he thinking?

He was sure the black cloud that followed him had found him. And it looked as though the world would end, and that cloud came to a halt ... Right there over Donny's home. And it spit down on him, and blew it's frigid breath against the side of the domicile. And it whistled, and rattled the lose window glass.

Grandma—she stayed on a chair, wrapped tightly in a quilt. She watched One Life To Live, General Hospital. One sappy show after the other, and just about the time Donny was about to lose it ... In came Pauly holding a letter, one that was written by Popeye:

Donny

Hope you're good. Everything here is just as they said it would be. Doing great and think you should come and visit. I'm in a small town called Mackville. Hope to see you soon.

Popeye

Donny memorized that letter. Mackville, he had found it on a map, and it was around thirty miles due East of Bardstown. The place where he had last saw Popeye.

Donny cranked down his window and tossed out his cigarette butt. He then started up the truck and headed back home. All the while, he thought of life, love, and the law.

4

That Saturday night, Donny found himself on U.S. 31, heading South past Indianapolis and towards Louisville Kentucky. As expected he had heard from Benny the moment he arrived home with his brand new, custom painted conversion van. And Donny was the first to see it. Hell, there was no getting around it. They didn't take it to the farmhouse. Instead, Benny pulled her straight into Grandma's drive, and sitting in the leather, high-back passenger seat, was Don senior. And Donny hadn't seen his father smile much, but he was damn sure showing the teeth then. Those yellow beauties glowed through the front windshield like a lit up yield sign.

Fuck-you! Was what ran through Donny's mind as he rolled south, over and over again. He could see him, not Benny he was bad enough, but who could blame him for being happy. No—it was Don Senior, that's who Donny's minds eye could see, and that smile, and the way he stood close to Benny as he showcased his new ride. Donny was jealous green, he could feel it, and he knew as his father stared at him with that shitty smile, he could see it. And that bothered Donny, it ate at that ulcer that was no longer dormant in his stomach.

Now..., as he drove into Kentucky, he thought of what he was going to attempt and how it would most likely put him in prison. But there was so little to look forward to, and life at Grannies didn't impress him at all. So he continued on.

He drove up through the mountains to Bardstown Kentucky. He pulled off to the side of the road and looked at the depot where he took the train back to Osceola. Then he looked at the wooded area where they had their fire. It looked different now.

He took a look at his map, then put his old truck in drive and went down the side roads that took him deep into the mountains. Winding and twisting two lane narrow paths. There were no lines painted down the center. Potholes were everywhere, filled with rain water. And there was no place to park on the sides should one have engine trouble. Donny went slow, afraid one of the holes would blow out a tire. He had only one spare, and it was nine at night. Not a good time to change a flat in the roadway.

He hit the button on the floor that switched the headlights to "bright." He could see wood shacks as he rounded corners. Built on hills. These buildings were small, couldn't be more than one room. Smoke rose from the chimney, so Donny knew people were living in them, but he hadn't a clue how many. Didn't really think much about it. They were poor here, poverty was part of life, and this didn't surprise Donny, he had seen it many times before while on the trains. No—what it was was a sign, one that made Donny feel comfortable. It meant he was heading in the right direction. The people he was going to see wouldn't live near a big town. They wouldn't have nice homes. They would have nothing, and that meant anything goes. They would be wild and uncivilized. They would be avoided by all but their own, and they would like it that way.

He then rolled past a small sign that was nailed to a wooden stake. There was no "welcome" on the sign, only the word "Mackville," burned into a two-foot long piece of rough sawn wood plank.

Beyond the city limit marker, the pavement ended, and the city streets turned to black dirt. Along with tire tracks, Donny could see horse prints, and buggy wheel marks sunk into the soft surface. They ran everywhere, crisscrossing showing this was the locals main source for transportation.

"Just like in the old days," Donny whispered, and this town looked like something in an old-west movie. Each building was made from wood, simple like the homes he had passed along the way. Most were painted with white-washed lead paint that was aged and peeling, chipping, with flakes lying loose on the ground. And they all had porches with overhangs that were held up by barkless, and limbless trees. There was a numbness here, one that made Donny feel as though he was trespassing. That although the streets were empty and no candles were burning. There were people in there, in the dark, and they were watching him. So he drove slow, no more than ten miles per hour; let them get a good look, Donny thought.

The town wasn't more than a road that led East and West, with businesses along both sides. It was rumored that back in the days of Bootlegging, this was one area the 'G-men' would avoid. That it was known for producing the best whiskey in the hills, and there were important people who, and regardless of the laws set forth for the common man, would have such pleasantries. It was for this reason the locals were to be left alone. An order that came from the mouth of J. Edgar Hoover himself. But then, it was only a rumor.

Over time ... It's believed that this broad birth, gave the locals false confidence; they assumed all whiskey was good, and that the reason they were left alone was because they were tough ... Much stronger than those who fell. This brought on two things: one was they became just that—tough and dangerous. The other was they remained isolated, alone. To the point, they didn't see themselves as American citizens. They were like the Amish, only without the strong religious beliefs that would stifle a questionable or moral way of life.

As Donny drove down this dirt road, he could only see what his headlights would show him. But it was enough. Most of the businesses didn't have signs that said what they were. The ones that did were vague. "General Store" "Post Office." There was no tavern, at least that he could tell, but there was what looked to be a feed and farm store. Then, close to the end, there was a hotel on the North side. Across the street, was the sheriff's office.

Parked outside sat the only car in town. A 1961 Chevrolet Impala sports sedan. A four-door beauty. Rusted and faded with no writing on the sides. On the roof was a red, rotating light. Donny smiled, he would have expected no less.

He turned off his lights and then pulled up next to the cruiser. He parked. He could see inside the window, a man sitting at a desk. There was a lamp on, the only light burning in town. Even the hotel was pitch black and looked abandoned.

Donny thought long and hard as he sat there. The officer hadn't noticed him but he would if he had to fire the truck back up. The whining of the starter motor was obnoxious. So why did I park here? He thought. The answer was the light had attracted him. Like a bug to a flame, it drew him in. He chuckled, the truth was it was the best thing to do. The hotel wasn't open, no doubt because it was close to Sunday. If he pulled off somewhere and slept, he would surely wake to a knock on his window. And the person who would be outside would be that man sitting at that desk. Best to introduce myself and let my intentions be known.

Donny opened his door, the familiar metal clank from the hinges seemed louder than normal. He slammed it shut making sure he was heard. No sense startling anyone with a gun.

He walked up onto the deck and kicked his boot down to knock off the mud. He then opened the door and stepped inside into the warmth. The Sheriff—he swung around to look at his guest. Donny could see a big smile roll across his face, "Donny!" he yelled as he jumped up out of his seat. "Damn, it's about time you came to see me!"

"Popeye!" Donny shouted, in shock. "What the hell are you doing in here?"

Popeye wasted no time giving Donny the same bear hug he gave when they parted. "Damn, It's good to see ya," he said.

"So what the hell is this?" Donny asked as he stepped back to take in his friend. He was dressed in a tan officer's uniform. The badge hung crooked on his chest.

"I'm the constable," he said. "Elected not long after I arrived." He raised both arms, "who better for such a task?" He laughed.

Donny joined in, "You have to be shitting me ... Apparently, they don't care much about the law around these parts."

"Well, my job doesn't mean handing out speeding tickets or nothing like that."

"I suppose it isn't. I mean, how fast are those horses gonna go?"

"True. But to be honest, my job is more peace keepin' than anything else ... I mean, Truth is, I wasn't elected as much as I was asked if I'd do it."

"I thought you were working in the fields. You know ..." Donny brought his fingers up to his mouth, pretending he was hitting a joint.

Popeye smiled. "I sorta do," he said. "Ya see, we need a lawman here or else the State will send one. I hear tell, that's already happened and it didn't work out so well."

"No, suppose it wouldn't."

"So—where ya staying?"

"Damn sure not at the hotel, the place is closed up tight as hell. Suppose I'll sleep in the truck... As you know—I've slept in much worse. Besides—I have to be back to work on Tuesday."

"Tuesday? What happened to Monday? I thought you nine-ta-fivers worked on Monday's too."

"Winter's slow. The plant had to cut back to four-day work weeks."

Popeye smiled. "I'm sure that really breaks your heart."

"Well, I need the hours. The lack of cash hurts."

"Aah yes. The all mighty dollar," he replied. "I remember not long ago there was no way in hell you would stoop to such a low level. What the hell have they done to you up there?"

Donny shook his head as the smile left his face. "Up there—life ain't shit but keeping up with those around you. And to do that, you need a good job and a strong stomach."

"And from what I hear—you have neither," Popeye replied.

"That's why I'm here," Donny said as he pulled out a cigarette.

"You are lookin' to leave Indiana?"

"No. Was thinking of starting up a small side business."

"So are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"That's correct."

Popeye's facial expression changed, the smile was no longer on his face. "You know what you're getting into is a risky business ..."

"Yes. I'm well aware of the risk."

Popeye frowned. "There's an old Black Foot saying," he said. "Your journey is simply moving. That movement will not always be forward."

"You never told me you were Black Foot."

"I'm not."

"Good, 'cause that doesn't help me at all," Donny replied.

Popeye laughed, "It didn't help them much either, that's why they live on land that no one wants."

Donny went over and took a seat in the chair that was beside the Sheriff's desk. He lit his cigarette and looked around.

There was a wood burner in the corner. He knew it was burning because he could feel the heat radiating off from it. Then, there was a small cell that consisted of steel bars that ran from floor to ceiling. It wasn't much larger than the cot that sat inside it.

"This place is just what I imagined," Donny said. "Anyone been put in the cell?"

"Hell no," Popeye replied. "That there's my bed. This is where I live."

"Yeah...Suppose I should have guessed that seeing your clothes are hanging on the bars."

Popeye took his seat and then pulled away from the desk. He placed his feet on the top surface. He leaned back in his chair and looked up towards the wood planked ceiling. "So what's your plans?" he asked.

"I need to see Clarence Twirlin,"Donny replied.

Popeye looked at him. "You have some high hopes, my friend."

"I need product that can't be purchased up around me. I need something the Chicago clan don't have. Clearance has the best ... at least that's what I heard."

"Yeah—who'd ya hear that from? And how the hell did ya hear Clarence's name?"

"The guy I buy from knows all about him. Says he used to make trips down here and pick up. But stopped on account of he was scared."

"Scared? Scared of what?"

"Clarence for starters. He say's the man is as crazy as they come. Said he was always threatening him. Telling him what he was going to do to him if he got caught and squealed. So soon, Barry—that's my man's name—started getting all paranoid. Thought he was being followed and shit."

Popeye didn't crack a smile. "He wasn't kidding on that ..." he said. " Ole Clarence is a true mountain man. One with blood that runs all the way back to Scottland. Some say his pappy ate too much gunpowder back when eating that sort a thing was popular. Then he had Clarence, and the boy was fucked up. Don't surprise me none."

"So you know him?"

"Sure, everyone knows him. His home isn't far from here."

"Small world."

"Suppose, but I should tell ya, I don't know when your friend was dealing with him, but he don't deal with many. At least not anymore. And the few he sells to purchase all of what he grows. So—even if you could get in, it would mean another mouth to feed. That could be a problem."

"There's always a problem."

"On top of that ... like your friend, Clearance is paraniod as hell. He don't like dealing with strangers. Hell—truth is, no one around here does."

"That's why I'm here ... I hope to make some connections before the next harvest."

Frustrated—Popeye shook his head. "You don't understand," he said. "To work the fields is one thing. Soon, you become family. But to run is another. You're not family or even a friend. You're a potential problem, and no matter how long you deal with them, that's all you'll ever be. I mean, they ain't the mafia ... I'm not saying that, but they'll damn sure kill ya, and do ya know why?"

"No."

" 'Cause runners are shit, and no one cares what happens to shit. And there'll be another to take your place, so they don't need you. Not really, and that makes 'em dangerous as hell. No, they ain't no mafia, but dead is dead, don't matter who does the killin'. My advice would be to either move into the area and become part of the family, or return to the rails while yer still free to do so."

Donny could feel the blood run to his cheeks."I got nothing Popeye. I have no choice, there's no going back to the rails. There's no working in the fields. There's only failure, and I'm sick of losing. My family thinks I'm a damn draft dodger. I can't get a decent job because of my past, and I didn't do shit to deserve this ... No—I will run—with, or without your help!"

5

Donny spent Sunday with Popeye. He learned little from his friend as far as where to go and who to see. He was certain Popeye was trying to keep him from making a mistake.

They didn't speak of Clarence or what Donny was there for. Instead, they spent the morning in a small church. One that didn't have a statue of Jesus on the cross. The place was packed, and Donny spent the entire sermon looking around for anyone who looked like a potential supplier ... He found they all did.

They weren't handsome, this group of men and women. Nor were they well dressed. They looked simple, and from an era that had long passed. The men had greasy hair that was pulled back. Suspenders that held up the pants that were two sizes too large. Most were bone thin. Teeth, they were for the young. And some of the children didn't look entirely human.

The women, they weren't much better. A little more meat on their bones. Their hair was pulled tight back into a bun. There wore no makeup, and they needed some. Their skin looked translucent. Like they had never been exposed to the sun, and Donny wondered how that could be?

After Church, Popeye introduced Donny to the Pasture who was an expert on the area. "Call me Steven," he said. "The service is over now, so I'll be puttin' on my farmer's hat."

Donny found Steven to be a two-sided card. One side held a Bible and was a saint. The other was a whiskey drinking sinner who cared nothing about using the Lord's name in vain.

"Come on to the house," he said. "The misses has some ham and beans simmering over the fire. Be damned if they ain't ready by now."

Donny found he liked Steven, he was sure most did, and that was the reason he was the preacher. Like Popeye, he wasn't asked to perform the service by God, but rather the townspeople. His wife, a woman, named Hildy, she was quiet, said no more than needed, looked like all the others. Plain, pale, and wore a dress that ran from her chin to the floor.

Their home was simple, bigger than most. Two stories although the top was a loft with a bed. On the bottom, there was the fireplace, with a spit and a large, cast iron pot hanging over the flames. Then, there was a small kitchen and living area. Donny would say campers have more space. But he would also claim that the place was homey, warm, and friendly. So they sat by the fire and ate a bowl of ham and beans. After that, Steven passed around some moonshine and proceeded to speak of the area's history.

"Now you want ta sip that," Steven warned Donny. "That's some powerful stuff."

Donny took the canning jar up to his lips. They went numb before the liquid even touched them ... He would have much rather shared a joint with the Holy Man. His stomach would have preferred that as well.

"So," Steven asked, "Ya staying at the hotel?"

"No, I might try tonight, but last night when I arrived, the place looked closed."

"Well, that don't surprise me none. The woods been standin' forever. Least it seems that way. And they get few visitors. No reason ta burn the lights past dark."

"Be honest," Donny replied "I wasn't expecting a Hotel. I mean the city is rather small."

"Yeah, ya see the place was built after the nigra war. It was them Hatfields and McCoys—it was their doin's that brought attention to the hills. Lord knows we weren't askin' for it. But it came anyhow ... No ... I'll tell ya, nothin' good comes along with them breeders, they's like damn roaches—they are. And ya can stamp a lid on that—can't ya Popeye?"

"Amen!" Popeye said as he took a sip of shine. "Nothin' good at all!"

Donny didn't ask what was meant by breeders, he thought he would be placed in that category. He was white, so was the preacher; so who were the breeders? City folk? He thought on this a few moments then let it go. It didn't really matter.

"Ya see," Steven continued, "back then, them camera toters, and paper writers came 'round and started writing stories 'bout our way of living. Claimed time had passed on and done left us behind. Said we was savages and no better than them wild cats.

"Now—I will say there were some who wrote true, but not many. No sir—most wanted to sell their lies, and speaking true won't do that. Suppose writing it would be the same. What you think Popeye?"

Popeye was still lipping the whiskey bottle; he pulled it away from his mouth and said: "No breeder wants to hear it, so no sense writing it."

Again with the breeder, Donny thought.

"Amen," Steven said.

"Well—what would the truth be?" Donny asked.

"The truth is we's on this land 'cause no one wants it. Didn't back then, and don't now. The hills don't allow no big farmin' crops. The ground is rock, granite. Try and pull a damn plow

over that. And we's never owned no nigra's, not even back when we could. No sir, we did our own work, so if that mean's we's wild as cat's, then that's all right with us."

"You keep saying breeder's, what do you mean by that?"

"Ya know—them Englishmen and don't let 'em fool ya, that's just what they are. They's is breeders. And most of us are Scottish, and Scottish men don't take to the Brit's. Uh—huh! Goes back a long way and it's meaner than the one ole man Hatfield shared with McCoy! Ya see, we came ta this country to get away from 'em. But they's already here, so we moved away ... real far and we made sure we settled where them breeders wouldn't ever want to be."

"Up in the hills?"

"That right, and we's still here, and we may be mean, but we know that if them breeders wanted this land—well—we'd have our homes right up next to Popeye's ma and pa. Ain't that right Popeye!"

"You'd be on the reservation all right. Most likely shoeless and sorefooted too."

Donny smiled, not because of what Steven had said, but because Popeye was getting hammered. He knew his friend wasn't really listening to the Preacher, he was answering only to keep Steven distracted so he wouldn't take away the shine. It had worked well.

6

After they had left the Preacher's home, Donny helped Popeye get back to the station. He placed him on his cot, and he was passed out. He then went across the street to the hotel which was open. Now that it was light, he could see it well and although it was old, it in no way matched the rest of the structures in town.

This monster had two floors, and each room had its own private balcony. Black, cast iron rails were installed on the upper floor for safety. The metal waved and curved, no doubt heated and pounded by the hand of a capable blacksmith.

It was built with hardwood, massive round pillars ran from ground to roof. Rosettes of the Victorian nature were used to add elegance to the structure. A style not seen in the area. There were shutters for the windows which each room looked to have one. The glass, no doubt made from old bottles that were melted down; it was flat now but showed ripples and waves. Distorted to the eye, at least from the outside. But it added some class to the place. Some history. As Donny walked towards it, he could see the quality that had stood the test of time.

He walked up to the double doors that had lead-stained-glass inserts, no doubt original and one of a kind. He walked inside to see the traditional long check-in counter. It was exactly as it had been shown in an old Western movie he had seen called: Timberland. He looked around, wondered if this could have been where they shot the film? No—most likely not.

There were old chairs placed about. Wood with red leather covers that looked to be held tight with a thousand red buttons. A long couch was against the wall that matched the chairs. Donny looked at them, and it was as though he was stepping back in time. He thought of what Steven had said, that time had moved on and left the area behind ... He could see why this would entice not only the country but the world.

He walked up to where there were square boxes that looked to hold mail. Over each box, there were hooks that held keys and those keys were of the simplest design. Skeleton keys, he thought, and this was the first time he had seen them in person. Amazingly simple not only to use but to pick if you were a thief.

The lobby was smaller than he thought it would be, with the bulk of the area being reserved for the clerk ... On the counter, there was a service bell. He hammered down on the button, three times, no more. Ding-ding-ding. Within ten seconds, an elderly woman came out from the rear and walked up to where he was standing. She smiled, but it was forced, she looked like she was in pain, which Donny was sure she was.

"Ya lookin' for a room?" she asked, and what teeth she had left seemed to be hitting each other. There was a clicking sound when she spoke. Like listening to a horse chomping on its bit. This sent chills down Donny's spine.

He could see she was overweight. She was barefoot, and her feet were twice the size they should have been. She wore a long dress that looked as old as the counter she stood behind. This garment was stained, and Donny could smell she hadn't bathed for some time.

"Yes," he replied, "I am looking for a room, and I would gladly pay for one of your cigarettes—that is if you would be so kind." In her mouth was a smoke dangling. Non-filtered, hand rolled by no doubt a professional.

"Be a nickel."

"No problem."

"Most people 'round here would say that's steep. But I grow my own 'bacco, right out back. And I age it right out there in the barn. So I don't think a nickel's too expensive."

"Sounds fair to me."

She looked at him as she reached under the counter, she pulled out some papers and a small burlap bag that held tobacco. "Here you go," she said. "Ya have ta roll your own on account most claim I roll 'em too tight ..." She paused, "Ya can roll can't ya?"

Donny smiled as he picked up the bag and began the procedure. "I suppose I can manage," he replied.

"Ya talk funny," she said. "Where ya from?"

"I talk funny because I didn't finish school," Donny replied. "Didn't find much use for all that knowledge ... But I'm from Northern Indiana."

"If'n you's planning on hanging 'round these parts, ya better say you're a farmer ... Even if you aren't."

Donny said nothing, he went on rolling his smoke. He noticed her watching him closely, he knew she wanted to see if he was good at it. If he was, that meant he wasn't from no city. No city rat rolled their own smokes.

Once he was done, he tied the bag and handed it back to her. "Thank you," he said and pulled a lighter out from his pocket. " So—you have a room?" he asked.

"We have rooms," she said.

"Slow this time of year?" He asked. She was memorizing his face. He wasn't sure why--maybe she was looking for a man ... No—he was certain she no longer had a purpose for a man; not even a caveman.

"Slow most all the time these days," She replied as she pulled from her cigarette. Donny watched as the fire ran up the paper ... That cigarette wasn't rolled too tight, it was perfect. And Donny knew she hadn't a clue he was on to her. Each area likes to believe their secrets aren't known to others. But they're all similar. No different then the man at the beach that sticks his wallet into his shoe, he hasn't a clue there are wallet filled shoes all around him. "Why would you come here this time of year?" she asked bluntly.

"I was a railman for some time. And during the harvest season I worked the area for some eating money."

"Ya did huh?" he could see she was unimpressed.

"That's right, and I came back because I wanted to see my friend Popeye. He wrote and told me he was here." Donny threw this in because he knew her next question would be just what it was he had harvested. But this threw her off.

"So—you're sayin you're friends with the Sheriff?" She asked.

"We used to travel together."

She slowly nodded her head, then pushed the registry over towards him. "Sign in," she said. "How long ya be staying?"

"One night."

She turned and looked over the assortment of keys. Carefully she studied them, then she reached out and pulled one from its hook. "This here room's on the second floor. If'n ya need some'in don't bother askin, won't be anyone here."

Donny thanked her and took the key. He walked up the stairs then down the hall to his room. Number thirteen, and he wondered if she did that on purpose? If she thought he was superstitious? He smiled as he put the key in the lock. If she only knew, he thought. I don't need no number to call on the black cloud. You'd have to do better than that.

Upon entering, he walked over to the window, he pulled back the curtain and saw the woman was already on her way over to the Sheriff's office. "She's checking out my story," he whispered. "Can't blame her for that." He let go of the curtan, and it fell back into place.

He walked over to his bed, he removed his jacket, and then his shoes. He took a seat and looked around. The room was bare for the most part. A single bed, springy, with a small dresser. He wondered where the restrooms were. They damn sure weren't in his room. Then he wondered where the heat was, it was cold as hell. Then he wished he had asked the old woman just how much this room was going to cost him because he was already thinking of returning to his truck.

He laid down and looked up at the ceiling. For all the charm the outside had, the inside suffered for it. The walls were dark stained wood, the ceiling was spackling, old, water-stained, and reminded him of the room he had grown up in. The only thing missing was the rusted ceiling fan that no longer worked.

The place was dark, and as the clouds began to build and the sun sat, it only got worse. Soon, he could hardly see so he turned on the one and only lamp. A small desk light that sat on top of the dresser. It was plugged into the only wall switch in the room.

He could hear the wind outside, howling through gaps of the old structure, he could swear he could feel it. There wasn't any heat, he knew this now. On the bed, there was only one blanket and it wasn't very thick.

"I'll bet that bitch is sitting in front of a nice warm fire," he mumbled, as he went back to his bed, leaving his clothes and socks on, he pulled back the blanket and climbed under it. He would live, he had certainly slept through colder conditions, but this was the first time he would pay for it.

He closed his eyes and silently thanked the Pastor and his wife for the bean and ham soup. He now knew had he passed, he would go hungry. And with little sleep during the previous night in his truck—it wasn't long he was in a deep sleep.

7

It was during the night, sometime, he awoke to a pitch black room. As he lay there, he knew this wasn't right, he knew the light was on when he fell asleep.

The wind, it blew hard against the windows, whistled and rattled the panes. He looked at the glass which was frosted now and that ice seemed to be on both sides—like a beer mug that's been pulled from a freezer ... There was little doubt that it was every bit as cold inside as it was out.

Again, Donny thought something was wrong, the curtain, it was covering the window. Now, it was pulled and strapped to the side. He could see the moon glow, although, with the thick clouds, it wasn't much. Someone's been in my room, he thought. The old bitch! It had to be her! But why? I mean—I can see turning off the light, but why would she pull back the curtain?

To make sure I'm awake at dawn, was the answer his mind gave him.

He threw off the cover and went to the dresser where he pulled on the chain that turned on the lamp. Nothing happened. Using his right hand, he followed the electrical chord down to the outlet—it was plugged in. No power, he thought. She's turned off the power to the whole damn hotel. No wonder it was so dark last night when I came into town.

He grabbed his coat, put it on. He pulled his stocking cap over his ears. His shoes were next. Then he left the room. He went down the stairs, back to the lobby. He looked around, and there was a door off to the left, behind the counter. Around the door, he could see the glow that no doubt came from a fire. The bitch was in her nest, all nice and warm.

He went to the double doors where he had entered earlier. This wasn't easy, it was dark, and the stained glass inserts blocked what little light there was out there. He felt around until he found the knobs, the door was locked, and there was no latch to release it.

"What is this," he whispered, "some kind of joke? Or is it a bad dream?"

He chuckled, because if it were a nightmare, it wasn't that scary. It was uncomfortable, he would admit that, but in no way did he fear for his life. As a matter of fact, if anything, he thought the old witch should fear for hers.

He turned back around, he walked to the desk, he pulled up the hinged section that allowed people to pass. Once on the other side, he carefully let the flap drop back into position.

He went up to the door, he put his ear against it and listened ... He could hear the crackling of a fire. Then, the snoring of a sleeping she-wolf. He put his hands up to gaps around the door, he could feel the heat. There was little doubt, this was where she slept, and she was inside this cocoon. He knocked, easy at first, three times, no more.

He then placed his ear back up to the door and listened ... Nothing. He knocked again, a little harder. This time, he heard the snoring come to an abrupt halt. He heard the smacking of lips, jaws, and teeth. The beast had awakened. There was the sound of springs singing as they expanded and contracted. She was moving around on the bed. Then, a glass hit the floor, the sound of it shattering was unmistakable. "Hog 'n' Hell!" he heard her yell out. Then-- "Who'd Ya want, and why is ya waking me!"

"I'm looking to leave, ma'am. The room is freezing, so I'm gonna sleep in my truck."

"So ya thinkin' a stealin' from me? Well—ya can think again, them doors won't be unlocked 'til ya pay what's owed ... Now git on back ta bed, the desk'll open an hour past sunrise."

Donny did as he was told.

8

"That woman's a real piece of work!" Donny said as he walked into the Sheriff's station. Popeye was sitting at his desk, leaned back in his chair, his face was pointing to the ceiling, and there was a wet rag over his face.

"Gladys?" He said. "Yeah, suppose that's why she don't get many renters."

"Why the hell didn't ya tell me that? The bitch locked me in last night!"

"I was drunk ... remember? Besides, you said you were gonna stay in your truck."

"That was last night."

"Last night, tonight, it's all the same." He was talking into the rag, his hands hung loose at his sides.

"I take it you're not feeling well."

"Been better."

Donny closed the door, he went over and opened the wood burner. He threw in a couple of logs that were waiting along the side. He closed the door then rubbed his hands together. "It's cold as hell out there," he said. "Snowed some too."

"Don't surprise me none."

"You have any coffee?"

"No."

"Don't suppose ya know where I could get some?"

"Gladys—she has some ... but it'll cost ya."

Donny turned and looked out the window. Across the street, there stood the hotel from hell. Inside and just past those stained glass doors was Gladys. Donny's mind's eye could see her well enough. Standing at that counter like a jailer who's handing back personal property upon release. Teeth clicking as her jaw chomped ... Cigarette hanging off her bottom lip. "I think I'm good." He turned and walked over and took a seat. "So," he said. "We gonna meet some people today or what?"

Popeye removed the rag from his face. He leaned up, turned his chair and was now face to face with Donny. "I thought we already went over all that," he said.

Donny pulled out some tobacco he had purchased from Gladys upon his exit. He began rolling a smoke. "You want one?" he asked, Popeye shook his head no. "Listen," Donny continued as he licked the glue and sealed the paper. "I know what ya said, and I've had some time to think. I say we can do well with these people, all that's needed is a chance to get to know them ... I mean, I did all right with the Preacher—right?" he stuck the smoke in his mouth. He pulled out a blue tip match and using the side of the chair, he struck it. He then lit his smoke and drew on it as only an addict can.

"Yeah, ya did all right ..." Popeye replied. "But how'd ya do with Gladys over there. 'cause she's closer to those you'll be dealing with. Ya do all right with her?"

Donny smiled, "Can't say I did, but she has her money, and I'd like to think she's satisfied with the transaction that took place ... No complaints."

Popeye pulled open a drawer that was on the right side of his desk. He pulled out a bottle of Rolaids. Popped open the top and shook two out. He tossed them in his mouth. "I suppose there's no sense in sugar coating what I have to say," he said. "Ya see, when I wrote ya,

I was truthful in that all us rail men were put to work. Just like what was told. But there's a reason I'm not with 'em."

"Ya—what's that?"

"Upon our arrival, the preacher was the first to greet us. Or I should say—the first ta warn us."

"Warn?"

"That's right. Ya see, there's a reason they like us, wanderers, to work for 'em," Popeye was looked Donny in the eyes now. "The reason is there's no one looking for us ... If ya know what I mean."

"Go on ..."

"They can do as they please with ghosts and that's what we are. And I listened to Victor, I damn sure did, but the others didn't. They went on and Donny ... I haven't seen a one of 'em since."

"But you said they was like family!"

"I did, and from what I hear they are ... But 'round here, family members come up missing all the time ... My point is, they don't let family or anyone leave. Not alive anyhow on account of they know too much. "

"Bull shit! You're just listening to that Bible thumper ... ya have no proof!"

"Maybe—but Victor told me that if I took this job—it wouldn't be long—I'd see he was right."

"And?"

"Ain't been here half a year, and already I've ran into some terrible things."

"Like what?"

"Dead people, left on the side of the road like road kill. Shot in the head with a damn shotgun. Hell, they don't even try and hide 'em ..." Popeye shook his head as the images returned to his mind. "Most of 'em work for the buyers. I suppose something went wrong, and they don't take well to that. So they leave 'em out where they're found. So the buyer will know and won't make the same mistake again."

"What mistake did they make?"

"Who the hell knows? I doubt even the buyer knows. But they have one less runner workin' for 'em, and it won't be long, another will come 'round. A never ending herd of tough guy's who find out they ain't so tough after all!"

Donny thought a moment. "So what's that all have to do with me?"

"Donny," Popeye said. "Those buyers ... they're as ruthless as the growers. They don't see each other. At least not often. Everything is done by employees, so their hands are always clean. The runners work for the buyers, and the sellers work for the growers. Ya see, the runners and sellers ... they take all the chances.

"Now I know you'd think they would be high ranking, but they're the opposite. They're like a piece firewood. They'll only be around until it's time to warm the house. Then they're thrown in the fire and burned. And ya know what?"

"What."

"Another piece of wood will be cut, split, and placed in the pile. Think what ya want, in the end, the wood always gets burned. So let's look at what you're thinkin' a doin'. You'd be the buyer and the runner ... You'll be takin' all the chances, and you're the only wood left ... I'd be findin' ya Donny ... On the side of the road, dead and rotten, and I wouldn't give ya more than six months ... And that's if ya don't get killed upon meeting 'em.

"Now, I don't know what that friend a yours told ya. But either he done business with 'em long ago, or he's not speakin' true!"

Donny smiled as he stood up. He shook Popeye's hand and thanked him. "I'll be seeing ya," he said as he turned and walked to the door.

Popeye, he was so hungover, he said nothing at all. But then, he hadn't a clue he would never see Donny again. But who ever knows when that exact moment arrives. Sad, but he would always remember this meeting, and he will take comfort in that he kept his friend from making the biggest mistake of his life.

Chapter XXI September 16th, 1980 Donny is twenty-Five, Benny is Nineteen, Pauly is Seventeen.

1

"He just checked himself into the God Damn drunk ward!" Don Senior grunted in a disgusted tone. Donny, who sat at the other side of the table, listened, but it was all he could do to keep from breaking into a fit of laughter.

"How long will they keep him?" he asked and then took a drink of coffee for no other reason than for the cup to cover his smiling lips.

Donny had just been told that after a total of six months on the job at Steelpress, Benny found out that one of the many great benefits offered was that he could receive paid leave as long as he was under a doctor's care.

"Six weeks," Don Senior replied. Donny could see he was stressed, and he should be because he was one of the people who were key in implementing this new deal.

It seemed there were a lot of employees who suffered from alcoholism. And although most made it to work, they were hardly efficient. So when it came time for the union to work a new deal with management; they were successful in implementing a six week paid leave for those needing help.

Now, there seemed to be an ongoing, and growing line of Steelpress employees heading to the hospital with Benny leading the pack.

"And you said he was the first one?" Donny asked.

"The very first fucking one, and the bitch isn't even old enough to drink ... You have any idea how this makes me look?"

"I think so," Donny said, as he stood and walked over to the sink. He placed his cup on top of all the other dirty pots, pans, glass, and plates.

"So," Senior asked, breaking the subject, "how are you and Barb holding up? How does she like the new home?"

"She loves it," Donny replied. He and Barb had got together after the funeral of his old friend: Steve Rousch. She was a widow, he was a loner, Steve wasn't in the picture, so what the hell. Donny had also visited with Nancy Dolly at the funeral, and she was available and interested. But Barb, she was such a beautiful widow. One who was in no way less stunning than she was as a teenager. So why eat the liver when you can have the porterhouse ... On your way Nancy Dolly.

So there they were, both screwed over by the playboy Steven Rousch. Both left heartbroken and both needing another to lean on ... Her more so than Donny. The truth was, at first, Donny cared little for Barb Rousch. She was part of a past he no longer wished to be reminded of. But there was a chance for revenge here, and even though Steven wasn't around to see it, it still felt good in some strange way. I mean sure, the fact that Steven had taken his own life should have been enough—but it wasn't.

"You two," Senior said. "you've been married what ... a year now?" he asked.

"Around that."

"Any thoughts about children?"

"Sure, planning on having a whole litter of 'em. Gonna breed until we have at least three boy's on account we need to keep the name Maer alive and healthy." He laughed, but Senior didn't.

"She doing all right," he said. "I mean after the death of Stevie?"

Donny felt his skin crawl. "Sure," he said. "She's doing fine."

"She got some Insurance money didn't she? I mean—life insurance?"

"She did, but it doesn't pay on Suicides. Why—what ya getting at?"

"Nothing, just thought that was how you were paying for those nice cars you have now. That's all."

"Well, we both work, and I'm making a lot more money now."

"That's good. Certainly is ... But did she ever say why Stevie took all those pills?"

"No, most likely because he was a pussy."

"What ya mean by that?" Senior asked.

"A real man would take a bullet, not a bunch of sleeping pills. A real man wouldn't write a sappy note and leave the empty bottle on top of it ... That piece of shit was a lot of things ... But he wasn't no real man!"

"Ya ever think he did that so she wouldn't get the insurance money?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Donny could feel his face turning red. All he could think about was his father knew he was getting enjoyment out of the news of Benny. He knew it, so he had to do something about it. He's a fucking expert all right. Just like that he switched it, he's calm and I'm about to lose it. Now, he's laughing at me! Don't give him the satisfaction ... Stay calm! But that's not easy to do.

"It's just that I heard," Senior went on, "that she had left him. And there are women like that. Black widows ... ya know what I'm saying."

"No Dad, why don't you explain it to me ... And please, be specific!" Now his voice was rising.

"Take it easy," Senior said, but Donny knew he didn't mean it. "I'm just saying that she's a very attractive woman, and when you're married to a woman that all the other men want ... Well, it's a given that sooner or later, one of them's gonna get her. Now, I'm not saying forever. I mean, she may return. But there's gonna be pain, Son, and you're gonna have to be able to live with that."

Donny's mind froze up, and his surroundings turned into a blur of red. The only thing in focus was his father's face. He could see every small red vein on his cheeks that ran around that big, red, nose of his. He could see the eyes that looked no better. He could see his thinning hair that was shaved a quarter of an inch from his scalp. He could see all this very well, but that was nothing compared to seeing that shit eating smile on his lips.

Donny landed the first blow, a shot straight to the nose. Senior, realizing what was on the way pulled his head back, and that softened the impact somewhat. But the chair he was sitting in fell backward to the floor. Senior went right along with it. He stayed with the momentum, rolling around and he was back on his feet before Donny could get to him. And he was on his way.

Senior, with blood gushing from his nose, and with a momentum that looked straight out of Hollywood, came up with an uppercut, one that dug his left fist into Donny's stomach, just under the rib cage. Donny exhaled violently, spittle spraying out of his mouth. He was bending over into the fetal position now. No doubt unable to breathe. Senior, adrenaline flowing, came up with his right. Another uppercut that connected solidly against a downward moving nose ... Lights out.

Donny woke up in the emergency room. Nose broken and pushed off to the side. Eyes swollen shut. Face burning and puffy, and a tube running out of his chest, one that was hooked to a clear box that had what appeared to be a ping-pong ball that rose and lowered when he breathed. His left lung had collapsed.

Donny could hear people around him long before he could see them. He had to force his eyes open, and the first person he saw was none other than his old friend: Officer James Stanton, or as he was now known: Detective James Stanton.

"Donald Maers," Stanton said as he leaned over so he was in view. "Imagine seeing you again. Now I do understand that your voice will be a bit stuffy since you can't breathe through your nose. But I'm told your mouth is fine, so you should be able to speak."

"What do you want?" Donny asked, his voice was muffled.

"Well first, please, tell me how your time in Nam went? From what I hear you're a draft dodger, but I think we both know better than that. Now, before you answer, let me warn you that I heard from Seargent Houp. Oh yeah, he not only came to see me, he also demanded a refund since your loser ass, and you are a loser, wasn't good enough for his program!"

Donny looked straight up as though he could see through Stanton. He was aware that Stanton was the reason for Houp's interest. This wasn't a surprise."I'm not supposed to talk about that," He said.

"Of course not," Stanton replied. "But all and all, I do believe you owe me. I mean, I did keep you from spending time in prison ... Wouldn't you agree?"

"Sure. You're a straight up guy. Damn glad ta know ya."

"I thought so. Anyway, here we are, once again. Daddy's been mean to Junior. Nothing new, and like before, I will ask if you would like to press charges. You know, it's my job."

"I thought you were a detective?"

Stanton laughed. "Aah, you got me there. All right, I took on this case because I just had to see you again." He paused a moment, looked around and then leaned in closer. "You remember the last time we were in here. I believe you told me to go to hell. Or you flipped me off. Something like that. You were so sure of yourself, wasn't you. Ready to take on the world, and now look at you. Over ten years have passed, and I find you right back where I first met you."

"What's your point?" Donny asked wondering if there was anyone else in the room. There was--a nurse who walked around flirting with the Detective. Not much help.

"I want to know if you want to press charges on your old man?"

"No."

"All right then. I'll be seeing you as soon as you're released."

"What the hell are you talking about, I said no!"

"Ooh I heard you, but your father said yes, and he's already got a lawyer."

2

Three days later, Barb pushed the wheelchair that held Donny out of the hospital. Once outside, he stood and walked to the car. He said little because the shame he felt was unbearable.

His face was still wrapped in gauze. His nose, it would never be straight again, but the good news was it would be just a large as it was before. Maybe even a little fatter. Donny didn't find this joke amusing.

"Careful," he heard Barb say as she helped him in. "How's your head?"

"I got a massive headache," Donny replied, but he wouldn't take pain pills. Afraid of picking up old habits. Once he was seated and Barb was in the car, she fished through her purse and pulled out a bottle of aspirin.

"Here you go," she said as she handed them to him. There's some pop there if you want to wash them down."

Donny took his medicine, he drank the rest of the soda. He then looked out the passenger window and watched as the world passed him by. He thought of what his father had said. It burned like fire. His stomach, his skin, his face. He could feel the blood run to his cheeks each time he thought about it, and he did so often. There was little to do in the hospital and so much time to kill. This made it easy to replay the scene in his mind, and each time, he saw more of what actually happened and less of what he thought had happened. And there was a difference, his mind fabricated the smile on his father's face. He knew that now. He also knew that in reality, his father was right ... Barb had left Steve. And Steve, he did leave that note so she wouldn't be able to collect on the Insurance policy. Hell, that's what the damn thing said.

"This is a suicide!" it read, and on top of the note was an empty bottle of tranq's. Enough was pumped out of his stomach to prove beyond a doubt, that he had intended to die. But still, Barb got a lawyer and fought it. Like an angry rat, she showed her teeth, and she showed an ugly side of her not seen in the past; at least not by Donny.

Now, as he watched the people walking down the sidewalks of Mishawaka Indiana, he wondered if he would see it again. He wondered if perhaps his old friend Steve had gotten the last laugh after all? He closed his eyes, and they burned, just like his skin, his stomach, and his cheeks. She had gotten it all after his death, but that wasn't enough ... Now, the black widow had another victim, Donny, and he wasn't even sure he really loved her.

"I'm pregnant," she said out of the blue. Donny's head went limp, it hit the glass on the passenger side door. Tic toc!

3

Don Senior dropped the charges after hearing the news that there was a little bundle of joy on the way. He was going to anyhow, the only reason he pushed it as far as he did was because he wasn't sure what Donny would do. Now, it was a time for healing, a Grandbaby was coming. The first Grandbaby.

Donny had broken his father's nose, although the damage wasn't nearly as bad as he had sustained. And since the fight, things seemed to change between them, and this scared the hell out of Senior ... He knew his boy too well. He knew Donny was one to hold grudges, hatred, and anger. So it was in there and if it wasn't directed at him—then who was it directed at?

"You all right Dad?" Pauly asked he was standing in the hallway between the living room and the kitchen.

"Sure," Don replied. "Why would ya ask?"

"Well—you're sitting there in the dark for starters. Ya want me to turn on the television?"

"No—that's all right, just relaxing a little is all." But that wasn't exactly true, Pauly knew this. He could see a bottle of whiskey sitting on the table next to Senior's favorite chair. He could see the ashtray full of cigarette butts, and there was the glow of the one lit and held in between his father's fingers. The same fingers that held a glass full of whiskey and ice.

He turned and walked away, up the stairs and to his room.

Senior, he took a drink of that whiskey, he took a hit off that smoke, and he stared at the wall. He thought of Barb, the stunning Barb. A rare exotic woman, dark skinned like Cleopatra. Black hair that's long, straight and perfect, a body to match. What the hell was she doing with Donny? He had always wondered this, and he feared for them both. She could inflict pain, she had already proven that, but should she leave Donny like she did Steve Rousch ... well, let's say Senior thought she may learn that she's not the only one who can cause harm.

Senior saw it, that day at the table, right before his son took his swing and broke his nose. Oh sure, Senior got the better end of the deal, but that was only because he was lucky; in there was room to roll. Had he been up against a wall, things would have been different. He would have killed me, Senior thought, and he had no doubts about that. It was in his eyes, and it was easy enough to see. That hollow, cold look that has no compassion, or feeling. No control, or reasoning. Senior had no doubt that he would regret his actions, but that would come long after the deeds been done. Perhaps when he's sitting in the jail cell, or in front of the jury. Don't matter, Senior would be dead.

If Barb pushes too hard, Senior thought as he took another drink, she just may get to see those eyes, and God help her if she does.

Chapter XXII July 7th, 1985 Donny is Thirty, Benny is Twenty-Four, Pauly is Twenty-Two.

1

It had been a humid day, close to nintey-eight, so Senior wasn't at all disappointed when the sun set and the air began to cool. It was a rough day, he wasn't sure why this was, nothing different happened, all the same, he was tired, he felt old, and even though he took a cold shower, it didn't seem to help. So he went to bed early, which was where he was now.

He had the windows open, and there was a breeze that blew over his uncovered body, he wondered if his wife, June, could feel the same breeze in the room where she now slept. Donny's old room. He thought about getting up and checking, but figured it best to let her sleep. The truth was, he thought about her a lot these days, but most do when they learn their spouse is dying.

'Cirrhosis of the liver,' was what the Doctor had said. And at first, Senior didn't believe it, but then, that's part of dealing with bad news. Denial, someone had told him. But time had passed, and with each day, June looked a little thinner, paler, and yellower. Now, she wasn't much more than skin over bone, and she had no will to live, but then who would. This life hadn't been easy on any of them. And after all the years, and all the time spent, it's still beating on them, and they say that's the way it is. That if you live long enough, you will pray for death ...

June was certainly praying now, at least when she was awake, and Senior wanted nothing more than to help her, but it was in God's hands, and it didn't seem like there was as much love there as he was led to believe. As a matter of fact, she was going through hell and, if she were anything other than human, she would be put out of her misery. And it wasn't only her, they were all suffering. It was like she had died long ago and they were forced to sit around and watch her rot away to nothing. Even the odor was becoming close to intolerable. Few stopped by for visits. Benny and Pauly, they avoided the place to the point, you would think the disease was contagious. Donny and Barb, they helped out as much as they could, but with both of them working, and with their second child on the way—that wasn't often.

So there he lay, looking at the ceiling, wondering when he would be able to return to work. Wishing like hell he was there now. But June could no longer care for herself, so he took a medical leave ... but that was all right, he was sure the end would come very soon. Maybe even tonight.

Strange how things worked out, he thought. Donny's working steady at the trailer factory and Benny and Paulie are both laid off from Steelpress, and it doesn't look like they're going to be called back. Didn't see that coming.

Steelpress had made a statement that the plant would be closing. They were heading South to where there were no Unions to deal with. Most thought that meant South Carolina or Georgia, but they would soon learn it meant out of the country altogether.

Only the loyal, and dependable would still be worked. A small crew so steelpress could claim it was an American Company. Something that was important since their parts were used on our automobiles. 'Made In America' was becoming 'Assembled in America,' and the people were too stupid to know what the difference was.

On his bed, Senior whispered out: "All those who don't make the skeleton crew can go straight to hell, right along with the Union you love so much!" He laughed because they had lost. The Union, the workers, they pushed too hard, and now, not only would they take a serious pay cut, but they would play hell finding work. No one wanted a spoiled ass Union employee. They were nothing but trouble. Always talking about what they had, and how they could have it again if only everyone would pull together and unionize.

So as he lay there, he wondered if he would be one of those loyal and dependable employees, or was he like all the others. Heading straight to hell right along with the union he loved so much. "What does it matter?" he whispered.

Thank God Donny got Paulie a job at the trailer factory, Senior thought. Would have got Benny one too if he wasn't so worthless ... Man, that boy's a mess. Already married and divorced. Drinks too much, takes whatever damn drug he can get his hands on ... The son of a bitch is suicidal. Has to be ...

And Donny, who would have thought he would turn out to be the sensible one? Married, hard worker, happy, starting a family. He's done real well for himself, and I have to say—we're closer now than we have ever been ...

And he hadn't a clue how true that statement was ... As a matter of fact had he went and checked on June, he would have looked out the window and saw Donny walking around the side of the house. Watched as he headed out into the field. Had he looked out the front door, he would have seen Donny's truck parked in his drive, and if his ear drums hadn't been blown out from pounding steel presses, he would have heard him pull in.

But none of that happened, so Donny went unnoticed. Walked right into the blackness with the amber glow of a lit cigarette being the last thing seen. Drunk and planning on getting drunker, he pulled the pint of Old Turkey up to his mouth and took a hit. Then he drew off his Marlboro.

In his left hand, there was a small, one gallon, gas can. He stumbled through the brush, past the trees, and came to a stop when he was standing in front of the old, abandoned house where Samantha Curic watched as her husband killed his father.

"Slit his throat," Donny said, words slurred. "Ripped that knife right out of the meat, and ran that blade straight from ear to ear ... Didn't think a damn thing of it!"

With the smoke hanging from his bottom lip, he walked around and poured the gas on the wooden exterior. Once it was empty, he threw the can through one of the broken windows. He pulled a match from his pocket and pulled it across one of the posts that ran from the deck up to the overhang, or second floor. With a whoosh ... the place lit up.

At first, the fire was burning nothing but the fuel, but that wood, it was old, and it was hard, it was dry and before long, it was blazing up into the night sky. Donny moved back because the heat was so intense it burned his skin, even from a distance of a hundred feet, he could feel it sting and it was growing ...

The hot air, it began pulling in cooler air, and this made a sound, a howling, the sound of an unworldly existence ... The sound Satan would make as he was pulled up from the bowels of Earth.

Then, the sound of firecrackers began. Pops, and squeals as the air was expanded and then released. Above, the mighty oak was too close, the rising air blew through the leaves, bouncing the branches, up and down like a horseman who has a whip. Some snapped and joined the fire below ... Donny, he took the last drink from his pint, then threw the bottle, into the flames. He stood there, weaving back and forth from the balls of his feet to the heels. His mind was numb, and he was getting tired. But he remained where he was, if for no other reason than to see if the past would surface. If Samantha would form in flames, call out to him, thank him ... But the only thing he heard were the screams of a fire engine which was far off in the distance.

He turned, and disappeared into the night. It was Samantha's fire now, and as the flames died down, June followed. She passed away three hours later.

2

The funeral wasn't held in the Church as Donny would have expected. Instead, they pulled the loaded coffin into the living room of the farmhouse. It was something June had insisted on before her passing. She wanted to remain inside her home for as long as she could.

So she now lay in a box that sat on a steel stand. She was pushed up against the front window; the curtains were open so the light would shine down upon her ... As Donny stood before it, he wondered how much of that light was getting through that closed lid. And it was closed because no one wanted to see what his mother had become ... So placed on the top, were pictures of her when she was young. Donny had seen the photo's a thousand times, but still, he found himself unable to look away. The smile on her face couldn't hide the sadness in her eyes.

He then looked at the little boy who sat on her lap, he noticed how the eyes looked the same, and he knew that little boy was him, and for the first time in his life, he wondered if his mother suffered from his illness? Was that the reason she drank so much? He thought it didn't matter, so he forced himself to look away.

In the kitchen, there was food lined up on the counters. Everything from roasted beef to Chicken pot pies. All brought by those who weren't hungry. Those who couldn't stay, but wanted to show a little respect ... Then there were the others, they didn't bring a damn thing but what they were going to drink, and they could stay, and would because to them, Funerals were fun ... The entire ritual—Donny found comical.

So he walked around, spoke to those who gave him no choice, then, when no one was looking, he went down into the basement, closing the door behind him. He turned on the light and took a seat on a bench he had made long ago. One that consisted of a three-foot wooden plank on the top of two paint cans. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, took a long draw and pulled the smoke into his lungs, as far as it would go, then he held it there.

Upstairs, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of whiskey. It was a hot day so the window air conditioning units were humming and the windows were closed ... The house was sealed.

The children remained outside, where they played as their parents remained hidden while they chained smoked cigarettes, and drank to life, health, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. They were quiet now, sad occasion and all. But that would soon change, a couple more drinks and they will be feeling good, and that coffin that's taking up space in the living room—well, that'll become nothing more than furniture. And just like that, June will be forgotten ...

Donny looked down at the dirt floor, and he thought about Samantha. The funeral they had before they buried her below his now resting feet. She would never be forgotten, not as long as this old house is standing. She will never be able to rest in peace, not down here.

"Slut!" Donny mumbled, "serves you right!" But did it?

He thought about the old abandoned home he had burned. The fire department came to the conclusion that Juveniles had lit it up. Hard to find out who, and since no one cared, they just let it go. Donny smiled as he lit another smoke with the the one he had just finished. He then threw the butt on the dirt floor and smashed it into the soil with his shoe.

Chapter XXIII February thirteenth, 1988 Donny is Thirty-three, Benny is Twenty-Seven, Pauly is Twenty-Five.

1

"Your father didn't give them anything," Barb said as she stood in front of the master bathroom mirror. She was brushing her hair, and in her mouth were two hair pins which she wanted to use to hold her hair back. And this wouldn't be a problem if Donny wasn't sitting on their bed if he wasn't whining again, if he wasn't so damn needy! And that's what he was becoming—at least in her eyes—he was hurt, his feelings were hurt, like a spoiled child although she knew he was in no way spoiled. Not as a child, nor as an adult. So why was he making her life so miserable?

"Not straight away has hasn't given it to them," Donny replied. "No—but you watch, they'll move in, then just like with the van's and car's that dad bought them, they'll pay for a little while, then that will be that!"

"Your Grandmother willed the house to your father ... So if he wants to help your brothers by letting them move in ... I don't see what's wrong with that?"

"They won't work—Barb! You know how they are, hell, Benny's turned into some kind of Sixties love child, and Paulie, he's just plain lazy as hell."

"That's not our problem—now is it."

"It will be when Dad calls wanting me to kick them out!"

"But we both know that won't happen. Paulie doesn't like working at the trailer factory, and Benny doesn't like working at all. So what do you suggest your father do, let them die in the streets?"

"So you think it's all right that they do nothing, and be given everything? I'll tell ya what's going to happen, Dad's gonna make his will all about those two! Ya, wait and see! They'll get it all!"

"We don't need it anyhow—Donny—you need to let this go. I mean it's your father's belongings to give as he see's fit. So if he decides your brothers should get it, then so be it. It's like you just said, they need it."

Barb pulled the pins from her mouth and placed them in her hair. She took a last look in the mirror, making sure she looked as good as she could. Once satisfied, she walked out of the restroom, turning off the light as she went.

"You going somewhere?" Donny asked.

"I told you, I'm going out with the girls."

"You did? I don't remember that."

That don't surprise me, Barb thought as she headed for the door. You drink enough now, I don't guess you remember much of anything. But she didn't say that. The truth was, Donny was becoming violent. He was buying guns now, pistols mainly, and had them hidden all about the house, as well as in his truck. She didn't care for that, for starters the kids were young, they were curious. If they got ahold of one, it would be a disaster. Add to that, he didn't seem to care about her safety, as there were no pistols purchased for her or hiding in her car. And lastly, they didn't have a lot to offer others, so just who was it he feared was coming?

Barb was no longer sure she or her children were safe. Donny had always been mysterious, she found this quality attractive at first. But now, she wondered if his dark past or his mysterious current dealings had put them in some kind of danger?

He had always been hardened and held grudge's, but lately, it was becoming clear just how strong that emotion ate at him. His hair was long again, now more gray than dark. His mustache and beard were following suit, and with this bad teeth, he looked twice the age he really was. He coughed violently, just like his father. He walked slumped over and was thin. Thinner than she had ever seen him. And he was now the supervisor at work, which meant he had some freedom, and she feared that freedom had allowed him too much time to think.

With all that being said, the strangest change he had made was—and for reasons unknown to Barb, began to hate his brothers, all the while learning to love his father? She found this weird because Senior was every bit as big a dick as ever. So why the change? Did Donny believe this would put him in the will? Did he really need that farmhouse? His grandparent's house? Or the land? The answer was no, so the next question was: why the hell would he want it? The answer was money. Barb was certain Donny would sell it. In the past, he had made it clear that he didn't like going in it. That to do so brought on bad memories. So Barb had come to the conclusion that Donny wanted the money, that was the reason for this change, and she didn't like that ... Not at all.

So she walked down the hall, past the children, and out the door, and into the garage. She jumped into her car and fired it up. She sat there and looked at the house door she had just closed and she knew it wouldn't open. That Donny wouldn't come and ask here where she was going, or with whom she would be with. Of all the things he was, Donny wasn't jealous, as a matter of fact, he seemed as though he didn't care at all. So she didn't fear him following her as she drove over to his Grandmother's old home. Or fear she would find him standing at the bedroom door watching as Benny made her scream. She didn't fear any of that because she knew that the demon's her husband was fighting—well—they wouldn't be found in this world, so he'd have to go elsewhere, far from here.

Chapter XXIV August First, 1996 Donny is Forty-one, Benny is Thirty five, Pauly is Thirty-three

A man named Carlos Manford once said that a dog that is chained, and only knows the chain, will never feel as though they have lived a long life. That even though, the years they are alive are the same as a household animal, the time awake is considerably different. For the chained animal, they will sleep so much, reality will become the dreamworld instead of the real one. And the dreamworld moves along at a speed that is close to that of light.

Carlos thought humans were the same ... That in the beginning, we will want safety, once we have that, we'll want security. We'll then crave structure, and we'll fear change, and although we don't realize it, we are making the chain that will secure us to our little slice of the world, or our little dog house. So once you notice the shackles that are now around your ankles, all that's needed is a few years, and then, like the dog, you'll turn to the dream world where you are once again—free! Your life will move rapidly now, but you'll allow it, because it will feel too good to stop it.

I wonder if there's any truth to this?

I'm certain Donny would say there was ... You see he had been free at one time, so he could see the shackles on his ankles very well, and long before others could see theirs. And he tried to escape, but that's so difficult. So he hung in there and there's where he now was ... No big shock.

But life does have it's ups and downs, and Donny and Barb's down was when Barb lost her job at the Bank. Suppose it was coming seeing it had been sold five times and each time, the new owners let people go. Then—shortly after this bit of good news, along came another, which was: with the economy in the tank, things had slowed to the point Donny's work had cut back to four-day work weeks, and even though he was a supervisor, he was paid hourly, so this did hurt. Add a hefty liquor bill, a top of the line marijuana tab, and you're struggling. Then add a new car, new truck, and max out some credit cards and next thing you know you're living the American Dream, which is filing bankruptcy.

"Take it all!" Donny told the lawyer. "I don't want none of it!" So they did, and now he was living in an old, drafty, rental home not far from where his father and brother, Benny lived. Who, and as predicted, had remained in Grandma's old house, and no, he paid no rent.

Barb, she went into a depression after losing the house. This got worse as Benny no longer had relations with her. She was getting too old, she was told, and although most would say she had that coming, I would say Benny was due the same if not more. But that's life and Benny had never grown up, not even now that he was in his mid-thirties. He still didn't work dealt pot to make what little cash he needed. Drank all the time, when his eyes first opened in the morning, to when they closed at night. He wasn't sober while in interviews, and he couldn't pass a drug test, so it came as no surprise that he was unemployed. And although Don Senior had no patience for his middle child, he still couldn't toss him to the curb. So part of Donny's prediction had come to pass.

But Paulie, now he was a totally different story. At thirty-two, he got sober, cleaned up totally, and then met and married a wonderful woman who went by the name of Cheryl. And this should have made Donny happy, but and as we know by now, happiness for Donny wasn't possible. So why would this special day be any different?

So here it is—you see for a wedding present, Don Senior gave the newlyweds some property on the front of the field. An acre for a new home. Why would this surprise Donny? He was already certain his brothers were going to get it all anyhow. So why would he be upset over an acre of property?

Because he lost his home a year before that, and there was no talk of help, or giving some land. There was no sympathy at all. There was that smug expression his father always had when he spoke of working for a trailer factory. "It ain't a real job," he never said, but Donny sure thought he did and often too. So yeah, now the day had arrived to showcase the new home. A house warming party and for the past six months while this mansion was being built, that's all he had heard about ... Just how great this fucking place was going to be!

"What ya expect?" He mumbled while he ran a brush through his greasy hair. "Ya think the banks gonna loan money to someone who doesn't pay it back?" And those words burned and were said by Senior. But only to Donny, when the old man spoke to Paulie, it may have been said, but in one of the two old man's hands, there would be his wallet, open and ready to distribute some funds.

"Did you say something?" Barb asked. She was standing by the door waiting for the restroom.

"No," he replied through gritted teeth. And for the first time, Barb could feel a little of what he was going through. They had lost a lot, and there was a chance that not having sex with Benny was part of it, she couldn't be sure. But she did feel as though they were being left out. And she felt for Donny because she knew he had felt this way for his entire life.

"Let's just smile and get through this," she said. "All right?"

2

Donny left the restroom, pushing alongside Barb as he passed her through the door. She could feel his body and he was stiff, like a nervous kitten, and she knew this day wasn't going to turn out well. She also knew where he was going which was down to the kitchen where he would fill the flask he always carried now with cheap whiskey.

So within thirty minutes time, there he was, sitting in a rather new chair, which was located in the new home of his youngest brother. In his mouth, was an unlit cigarette, smoking wasn't allowed. On his feet, there were only socks, no shoes on the carpet. And the only alcohol around was what was in the flask which was located in Donny's back pocket. Not a very festive occasion.

Senior, he sat off to the side on the couch, Benny, he was just outside the front door smoking cigarettes. Hanging from his side was a sexy, seductive, Brunette that looked straight out of a Cosmopolitan magazine. No—this girl wasn't the one you took home to meet mom, this was the 'Super Freak Girl' old Rick James song about: "She'll never let your spirits down, once you get her off the streets!"

Donny started humming the song as he watched her through the glass. As he stared at the black leather skirt that stretched over her ass, stopping just below her cheeks where black net stockings took over and ran down her long legs disappearing inside Knee-high laced up boots. She had pulled off the perfect combination of sixties hippy chick, and modern woman who isn't afraid to ask for what would please her ... But again, one would first have to get her off the streets ... Donny chuckled, and just then, Barb let out a grunt letting him know she was watching him. He turned to her and smiled.

He remembered when she could have pulled that look off. Didn't seem that long ago really. Every man who saw her wanted her, and he remembered what his father had told him. "Some will have her, maybe not for long, but she will stray ..." As he looked at her now, and even though she had put on weight and was showing her age ... he wondered just how many times she had strayed?

But this special day wasn't about past mistakes, so he let that thought go and went back to staring at Lisa's black, leather covered, gorgeous ass. He pulled the flask from his back pocket and took a drink.

A house warming, he thought , that's what this is, and this home is warm, very warm, but then it is summertime. And what about the gifts one should bring. The House warming presents purchased for those who apparently already have it all. A new house ... He looked around. It ain't big at all, he thought. Two bedrooms, a couple of baths. Nothing fancy. A small garage, not bad, but in no way a fucking mansion.

He now chewed on that unlit cigarette that still hung from his lip. The very fact that they invited me to this is nothing short of a slap on the face, he thought. No different than when they came over to show off their new cars, and vans. Look what I got and you don't! Look at me! What's wrong with you?

Donny didn't realize it, but his face had changed. Maybe it was the whiskey, or perhaps his mind, but his eye brows had dropped, and his lips were thin and straight. And he was slumped over in the chair. And he was looking at Lisa's ass, Barb could see that, but he wasn't thinking about it, and she knew it wouldn't be long ... they would be leaving.

I got that little piece of shit a job three fucking times, he thought. Each time he screwed me over by quiting. Never was there a notice, he'd just not show up. So how does fate reward me for my efforts? It doesn't, instead, it rewards that little rat bastard with a great job he scored because of his past Union ties. A job where on his first day, he's already making more than me.

Why not me? I've away's worked, always took care of myself. I looked after my brothers when they were young. It's that black cloud, that one I can't escape.

Suddenly Donny thought of the promise he had made himself. That if he was still alive, he would take his life upon turning thirty. But then the kids came along and put that little notion on hold. But they were getting older now. Micheal, the oldest had just turned sixteen, Tracy, was fourteen. They don't need me now.

"Come on," Pauly's wife Cheryl said. "Anyone who wants a tour, I'm available!"

Donny watched as Barb stood up. Outside, lovely-ass-Lisa, turned and left Benny's side. She walked into the house and past Donny. He could smell the cheap perfume that followed close behind her. It smelled heavenly.

He stood and walked out of the house. He walked up to Benny where he lit that cigarette that still hung from his lip. He then pulled the flask from his back pocket, he took a snort, then handed it to Benny, who wasted no time taking it.

"You not into the tour?" Donny asked.

"No, I've seen it being built. Nothing new for me to see."

"No, suppose not," Donny looked around making sure they were alone. "Hey," he said. "What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"You know, sleeping with that babe you brought with you? My God, that's one sexy woman!"

Benny took a slug from the flask and then handed it back to Donny. "She's nothing special."

"Ow, come on ... really?"

Benny lit a cigarette, took a drag and replied: "Rarely can they perform up to such high expectations. I find their dress sets that bar awfully high."

"So why would you hang with her then?"

"Because all my friends think she's the cat's meow—that's why."

"I don't get it?"

Benny looked at Donny and smiled. "You see, my friends will happily trade a night with her in exchange, they allow their women to sleep with me."

"You're shitting me!"

"No, and the funny part is, I know what they're getting which isn't much because she relies more on what you saw during the seduction phase then what you'll get during the mating phase. But what I'm getting ... now that's altogether different. I'm getting a woman who's a little hurt because she was traded and really horny because she's been traded. I get a wild night, while they get a quick nut." He laughed.

"You're a little sick—ya know that?"

"Just sex," he replied. "Nothing's gonna get hurt but feelings."

Donny and Benny took another drink of whiskey. Donny lit a cigarette while Benny went into the house to locate Lovely-Ass-Lisa. Donny turned and watched as he went through the screen door. He shook his head.

Donny couldn't figure out what it was that drew people to his brother. "He has charisma," Barb had told him. "Women want to sleep with him, and all want to be around him ..." Must be hung like a damn horse, Donny thought. Ya want to trade for a night—brother? He smiled. Maybe a couple of years ago that trade would have had a chance, but not now.

Donny threw his cigarette out in the grass, he turned and went back inside where Pauly was now standing ... "You guy's don't want to look at the house?" Pauly asked speaking to Senior and Donny.

"We've seen 'em before," Donny replied, as he pulled the flask from his pocket and took a drink.

Pauly frowned. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't get drunk while we're having the party," he whispered.

"Oh, that's right, you've been sober for what—a couple of years now?"

"Please—don't make a scene," Pauly said.

"As I remember—it wasn't that long ago you got three DUI'S in less than a year. You remember that? And wasn't it Dad who put up the home and land to get you off ...? Can ya back me up on this Papa?" Senior said nothing. Pauly—he turned to walk away, but Donny went on. "Yea, I can't help but notice me and ole Benny wasn't offered no fucking land to build on." He paused and took another drink, "And why not...? There's plenty here, so why weren't we offered any? Oh, that's right—you want it all...!" He paused a moment: "Talking that shit to me. Tell me not to get drunk...! Fuck you!"

Benny who was now in the room said nothing. Barb, came running out screaming that it was time they leave. Lovely-Ass-Lisa, who was standing behind Benny, took her first look at what appeared to be a Caveman. She stared at him because he was so unattractive, she found him attractive. He was untamed and vicious. He was dangerous and deadly, and as he stood to leave, his eyes showed a hollow, far away look. Black—the look of a gunfighter, unlike the eyes of Benny, which would look better on a woman than a man.

"You hear that little Fuck," Donny screamed out, as he moved towards Pauly and even though Pauly was much larger, Lovely-Ass-Lisa knew he would cower, and he did. "He thinks I should control my drinking. After all, I've done for him."

"I know," Barb said, now she had positioned herself in between the two men. Both her hands were on Donny's chest. The other guests, they were gathered around, but none made a move or said a word. Pauly, he was backing off, ever so slightly.

"And where did it get me?" Donny continued. "I've never asked for a damn thing! And here I am renting a dump-ass-house where I can't afford to pay for the heat." Then he pointed at Benny, "Look at him! He lives in Grandma's house, free of charge ... a fucking gift! And for God's sake! Let's not forget the golden boy—Pauly—who has done nothing but fuck up, and ask for money. He's gotta a brand-new home!" He looked into Barb's eyes. "Tell me you don't think they should have given us an acre after all the shit we've been through? But hell no! There isn't enough for us. Not us and sweet, fucking Pauly."

"We need to leave," Barb repeated.

"Not before I kick his ass!" Donny said, and his eyes went back to Pauly who was now heading out of the room. A moment later they heard the back screen door slam.

"I think he just went out the back door," Cheryl said.

"Ain't that some shit!" Donny stated as he headed for the front door. Barb followed, they went out to Donny's truck where he stepped in behind the wheel and slammed the door.

"Please let me drive," Barb pleaded. "Everyone's watching, and they know you shouldn't be driving."

Donny looked up to see them all standing at the door and looking out the large bay window. He scooted over.

"You've just had too much to drink," Barb replied as she climbed behind the wheel.

Once they were on the road heading home. She looked at him and said, "You were right. I mean there may have been a better time and way to bring it up, but I can tell you that anyone in that house who knows your family was thinking the same thing."

"Don't help none, don't make me feel better," he said.

"I no, but take comfort in that they all know how Pauly uses his parents to gain what he can't get on his own. And then shoves it in our faces as though for some reason he is more deserving than we are. They know he isn't the good son, that he is really nothing more than the needy Son, and you should feel proud that you're not like him." She pulled into their driveway and turned off the truck, but they didn't get out. She could see Donny was looking out the passenger side window thinking and she knew he needed to talk. That he needed to justify what he had done. He knew it was bad and he wouldn't be forgiven easily. Maybe never so for the first time, he confided as to one of the many reasons he was learning to hate his youngest of brothers.

"You remember my friend Chris?" he said while looking out the window. "Used to work with me."

Barb thought for a moment, "Yea, didn't he move to Florida?"

"Yes—yes he did."

"What of it? As I recall, you two were pretty good friends."

"We were, but it didn't end that way."

"I don't understand, what happened?"

Donny looked over at her. "I got Pauly a job at the factory ... That's what happened."

Barb was confused. "As I recall, you said he was pissed about a raise he got, so he quit, and that's that? People move on, what could Pauly have to do with it?"

"They were old school friends, Chris and Pauly were. And what happened was I had just taken over as foremen and Junior—the old foreman, he had gone to work at a new plant they were starting up. Well, they sent Pauly along with old Junior."

"So what?"

"On the day they handed out yearly raises everyone received fifty cents across the board ... That is everyone but Pauly and me. I got a rather hefty raise for taking over as foremen, and Pauly got a raise for starting the new plant with Junior."

"And...?"

"At the time I wasn't aware of this, but Vern—the plant manager—was working with Jeff—the owner—and they were handing Pauly raise after raise. You see, they knew he came from a Union job, and they were well aware that should Pauly get called off unemployment, he would do the same thing he always did."

"You mean just not show up?"

"That's right. So Vern and Jeff thought that if they got close to his old wages, he would, stay on. Even if he were called back to his old job, he would tell them no, on account of he was making close to the same money and this job was more stable."

Barb thought for a moment. "Wasn't Chris going through a divorce and living with Pauly at that time?"

"Yeah. Ya see it was years later when Vern and I were talking about old times. He told me what was said the day Chris quit."

"Let me guess ... Let's see—I would say it went something like Chris knew Pauly was now making more than he was.That although Chris had worked there for years faithfully, they passed him over when it was time to start the new plant. And instead of promoting him, they handed it to someone who had already let them down multiple times in the past ..."

"Close enough."

"So that means Pauly was telling Chris what was going on the whole time."

"That's my little brother... You see, Vern thought anyone who was being handed money like that would have the sense to keep their mouth shut. But that isn't the way it works with Pauly. You see after work, he would tell Chris everything that was said and done. All the while always making it sound as though it was me and Vern who were pulling the strings. That we were fucking him over and the only reason Pauly was telling him this, was because he was such a good friend."

"What did Pauly want?" Barb asked. "I mean, what did he get out of it?"

"Ya know—that's the crazy part ... I don't think he wanted anything. As you know, Chris quit that day, it was on a Wednesday. He left for Florida on that Saturday ... Pauly stopped coming to work that following Monday. So what did he get out it? Nothing, he lost his friend and quit his job.

"But I've thought about this for a long time, and I now believe this was the way he always was. And I think he learned it when he was young. And if I were to be honest—it wasn't long ago, Benny was the exact same way. It's manipulation, for no reason or purpose, they both did it, but Pauly was much better at it. So in the end, Benny became like me, and Pauly went on to be the son that Ma and Pa could be proud of." He paused and took the last drink from his flask. "You see—it's like he can't help it, it's what he was trained to do."

"He became the dominate child ..." Barb said in a low voice.

Donny nodded his head yes. "I told you this because it proves what he is capable of. You see to sum it up: I did Pauly a favor by getting him a job at a place where he had already fucked them over twice in the past. So to pay me back, he turns a man who I considered a good friend and good employee against me in as little as two months. Two month's was all it took and I haven't heard from Chris in well over ten years."

"Yeah, but you sure have Pauly in your face, don't ya!"

"Damn sure do, and all I can wonder is how many other bullshit maneuvers has he pulled in the past that I don't know about? I mean, all this time I thought my shit luck was because there was a black cloud following me, now I'm really starting to think that Cloud's nothing more than my little fucking brother!"

"As I said, no one who knows your family history that will look down on you for this," Barb said.

"I think I really need to stay the hell away from them," Donny mummbled.

"You mean your family?"

"Especially my family."

Chapter XXV December First, 2005

1

Ten years separate 1996 from 2006, there are Three thousand, Five hundred and twenty days. And throughout all that time, Donny only saw the members of his family from a distance ... There were no holidays spent together, no birthday parties attended. No weddings, no words were spoken except for those which were absolutely necessary.

On January Thirteenth, Two Thousand and One, Don Maer Senior passed away from lung Cancer. He suffered for eleven months. And throughout that time, Donny never visited him. Not once. Upon his death, and after the funeral, which Donny didn't attend, he was notified by his father's lawyer that he had inherited the old farm house. One month later, the home was found burned to the ground. No one was blamed, because like the abandoned home in the woods—no one cared.

On December first, Two thousand and five, Donny went down to Indianapolis to visit his middle brother, Benny, who had been diagnosed with Cirrhosis of the Liver. He did this for no other reason than Pauly had reached out and made it known that Benny was dying and had to speak to him. Had to say goodbye.

So standing over Benny's bed, Donny leaned over real close so he could hear his brother speak. He was weak, yellow, and skin over bone. He looked just like their mother did right before she passed. Donny was expecting many things—I love you, take care, words like that, but what he didn't expect to hear was: "I had a long-term affair with your wife—Barb."

Donny pulled back, and he was ready to kill his brother, and as he looked into his eyes, he could see that's exactly what he wanted. He wanted to release his sins, and he wanted to die, right there, right now, and by his big Brother's hands.

"Long enough to where my children could be yours?" Donny asked him through gritted teeth.

Benny said nothing as tears began to build, and then rolled down his cheeks. Donny took that as a 'yes.' His hands, they went around Benny's neck and was like someone else was doing it. But it was him and he knew it, because he could feel it, and that neck was so thin, and frail. Donny began to squeeze, and it felt so good. And he began to lose his mind like he was back on a much needed acid trip. His head spun, wildly, and he realized that like his brother he too was no longer breathing. He took a deep breath and relaxed his grip ... Benny too inhaled, and Donny could see the disappointment on his face.

"You won't get off that easy," Donny whispered into his ear, and his face was as red as fire. "You will suffer here until Satan himself rips that heart of yours straight out of your chest! You rotten son of a bitch!"

On the way home, Donny came to the conclusion that his father had known about this all along. That it was the reason for the talk that sparked the fight that smashed Donny's nose. Hell, he thought, I believed he was looking out for me, but he was doing a hell of a lot more than that ... He was looking out for Benny, Barb, probably Pauly, and me. The entire family was at risk ... Jesus—how could I have been so stupid?

Even as he pulled into his drive, he knew Barb was already gone. This would be proven as soon as he walked through the front door. It's a four-hour drive down to Indy, that's eight hours total, then add some time visiting ... She had plenty of time to pack and move out most of her stuff. She also took a fair share of the furniture, and this really burned because he now knew Pauly was in on it. That he knew what Benny was going to tell him and he feared for Barb's safety, so he told her what was coming. Most likely helped her move out.

He took a seat where he pulled a half-full bottle of whiskey that was sitting on the end table. He hit it straight out of the bottle while he stared at the front window that no longer had any drapes ... "Why the hell would she take the curtains?" he whispered and then took another drink.

XXVI January 15th, 2006

On January 15th, 2006, Donald Maer the second took the shotgun that his grandfather had purchased for him as a child, and shot himself under the jaw. It would be the only thing he would kill with the gun.

His estranged wife Barb Maer, would find him dead in the middle of a pool of blood, slumped back over a kitchen table chair. A scene that was staged for her eyes only.

On August Eleventh, Two Thousand, and six. Benny Maer would passed away from liver disease.

So in the end, Pauly Maer had indeed become the dominate sibling. He and his wife left Indiana and moved out to Arizona. Not sure why this was, perhaps there wasn't as much history out West.
Epilogue

The stream was flowing gently as the skies were clear and had been for some time. There was little rain left to be drained from the flat lands, and that was where this stream found its source.

The weather was balmy, Donny would think close to the mid-seventies the same as the last time he was here. So he looked around at the dense green foliage and took a seat on the bank. Then he glanced into the water at his reflection. He smiled at the man who now looked back. He ran his hands through his jet-black hair and then over his tight and smooth facial skin. He was young again.

He raised his lips, and his teeth were white and healthy. His stomach was solid and no longer burned. There was a calm in the air, one he would describe as euphoric. There were no sounds of automobiles. No jets screaming across the sky and no signs of modern man.

He looked down past the water's surface, to the bottom of the creek where the crawdads were scurrying around, looking for food. He smiled as a minnow swam by and nipped at them. A taste that apparently wasn't what it was looking for because it moved on.

In the distance, he could hear the summer breeze whistling through the trees. And the smell of flowers was in the air. A scent he lost long ago. One that was ignored the same as everything that was good. But that had changed now. Donny didn't feel that way, not any longer. He was home, and he knew it. Here, there were no feelings of hate, nor remorse. No anger nor animosity. There was no need for them, and he wondered why there ever was.

He felt good just sitting there, and he knew he could stay for as long as he wanted. That it would always be there and as he looked across the stream to the other bank. He smiled, "I thought I might see you here," he said, and Samantha smiled back.

"You can come to my side now if you like," She said, and held out her hand.

Donny stood up and walked down to the water line. He then and without thinking, walked through the knee deep creek to where she was standing. He took her hand as soon he was able, and she helped him up onto the dry ground. He looked down to see his pants weren't wet, but he thought nothing of it or didn't care.

He looked at Samantha, deep into her eyes and he could see love. "You were always there, weren't you?" he said, "looking out for me." He gently pushed the hair from her face.

"Everyone has someone looking out for them," she said and then took a seat on the grass. Donny followed. Once he was comfortable, he felt shame for the first time since he arrived.

"I guess I made a mess of things," he said. But he could see she smiled, and he knew it was going to be all right.

"Most of us do at some point," She said.

"Barb left me."

"I know ... But do you blame her?"

Donny looked down, "No..., can't say I do."

Samantha laughed. "Don't worry," She said. "We're cut from the same cloth, me and you. So believe me, I know why you were so damn hard to live with!"

"Was I wrong?" He asked.

"Not entirely ... but mostly."

"What happened to me? I mean, where did it all go astray?" Donny asked.

"That's a real question," she replied. "One that you already know the answer too." She paused. "They say that when something has to struggle to remain alive, they will never take their own life. It's only when there is comfort, do living things question the reasons for their existence. And should they decide life isn't worth living, then hopefully, there will be a defining moment that sways that decision." She looked at him. "I would have to guess that the defining moment never found you."

Donny looked down into the stream. "It was when I became shop foreman," he said in a low voice. But as soon as he said it, he felt relief. Like once, the words were spoken. The memory was erased, and it felt so good he kept on talking. "I was never really happy—ya know, one who loved life. But I did want to live ... And now I know that it was those feelings that pushed me to seek out adventures. Ya know, to do what others would never think of doing. And I knew, even back then, that returning home would be my demise, but damned if I didn't do it anyhow.

He reached down and pulled some grass out of the ground. "You know ... I never wanted to work at Steelpress."

"I know," Samantha replied.

"But it would have been nice to be asked."

"Your father said he couldn't because of your past record."

"That's what he said ... But Benny told me there were a lot of workers who had worse records than mine."

"So ... you think he was ashamed of you, so he didn't offer you a job ... But did you ever think that maybe he knew you didn't want to work there? That he saw the look on your face when you and your mother picked him up from the plant. And how you hated the sound and the smell. Maybe, in reality, he wanted more for you but just didn't know how to communicate that. Just maybe he wanted you to be happy."

"That's a nice thought... But it hardly changes things."

"Do you think your brothers were happy working there?"

"No, they weren't happy working anywhere."

"Do you think your father was happy there?"

"No, but he was a good worker. That much is true, but he hated doing the same thing every day."

"Then wouldn't it make sense that he didn't want the son who shared his name. The one who was so much like him to have to go through what he did?"

Donny felt tears begin to form in his eyes, but Samantha didn't let him off the hook. "Go on," She said. "Tell me about that moment you decided to throw away your life."

He looked away for a moment. But the memory was so strong, so clear, he had to tell it: "I was away from my work bay, back in the rear of the plant far from the eyes of my foreman." He paused, "He was a good man, my foreman, one I thought of as a friend.

"We called him Junior even though he was well in his sixties. But like me, he was named after his father and even after he was a grown man, the Junior name stuck.

" But ole Junior had worked at the plant for most of his adult life. As a matter of fact, he was the first welder they hired when they opened for business. So it came as no surprise, that he was close to the owner. So much so, a promise was made, one that stated he would always have a job at the factory. So it would stand to reason that one day he would be made foreman. And he was, but that was as far as he would ever go.

"Ya see the owner was already old and time wasn't slowing down, so he passed the business on to his son. A young man named Jeff, who although made no such promises to the employees—he did hold faithful to Junior.

"So over time, there would be other people hired for higher positions than his, and to Junior, this was a slap in the face. So he would go out of his way to not get along with them. You know, make their lives miserable, and since he would always have a job. He was able to do just that.

"But over the years, this began to wear on young Jeffery, so when he hired Vern for the plant manager position. He took the time to talk to the man personally. Now I don't know what was said. But I do know that no matter what happened, ole Junior was unable to run Vern off. As a matter of fact, the tides turned and Vern was able, to get under Junior's skin. And this was something he damn sure wasn't used too." Donny paused. "This went on for years—ya know a battle of sorts. So, back to the beginning of my story ... I'm in the rear of the plant, fixing one of my mistakes, when Vern approach's me, out of the blue, and ask's if I would join him for lunch. He says there's something he wants to talk to me about, something important. Now, I've never eaten with Vern, never really spoke to him because Junior would shit if he saw it. But I couldn't resist, so the next thing I know, I'm sitting In a booth at Denny's and across from me is Vern, the plant manager, and Jeff, the owner. Pretty intimidating moment!"

"What was said?" Samantha asked, and Donny knew the only point in talking was so he could let it go. He was more than happy to oblige.

"They said they were going to start another welding plant. That they had leased a building that was no more than a mile away. They stated that they wanted me to run the facility and after I had agreed, they told me to start looking for someone to work it. At first, they only wanted one person, but that one person would do it all, so they would have to be knowledgeable of the procedures and what needed to be done.

"Now you have to understand, I had been doing the same job for a long time, and there were no promotions only occasional raises; so this was a big deal to me. So much so, I asked no questions, and I knew I should, and those questions were on the tip of my tongue ... Now looking back, I suppose I feared hearing the answers. Ya know, good things don't happen to be me often."

"What questions would you have asked?"

"Well, for starters—why the hell would you need me to look after one man? I mean, why not just have me do the work?"

"But you didn't ask."

"No."

"So ... who did you pick?"

"That was easy enough. I knew Pauly was out of work and needed a job. I also knew he was more than capable of doing it, so I thought if I hired him, it would not only help him out, but I could also shove it right down my father's throat ... Ya know, I was able to take care of Goldenboy after his precious Steelpress let them all down."

"Did it work?"

"No, when the old man found out what was going on, he told Pauly that it would do until he could find a better, higher paying job. Dad was always good at turning things like that."

"Were you there when this was said? I mean did you hear it with your own ears?"

"No, Pauly told me." Samantha smiled.

"I know what you're thinking, and trust me I've come to terms with it."

"And let's say your father did say it, do you think he wanted you to hear it?" she said.

Donny ignored her and kept on with the subject. "Anyway ... Junior was the jig maker. He was the one who built all the tables, as well as the wall jigs in the main plant. So it came as no surprise when he was asked to set up the new building. Which he did."

"And while he was away setting up that plant, what were you doing?"

"I took over as foreman of the main plant."

"And what about Pauly?"

"He took my spot welding sidewalls."

"So it sounds like all was good."

"Not exactly—ya see there was a friend of mine who had been working there for a good while. His name was Chris Bennett, and he built the walls for the Concession line, which were trailers for carnivals and such. Ya know, they served food out of them ... Anyway, he really wanted the new position and who could blame him ... I mean, you get to do it all which is far from boring ... right. Not only that, he saw it as a promotion, which would mean more money."

"But he was never offered the position?"

"No... he was needed on the concession line."

"This works better if you're honest," She said.

"It's not easy to say," he said.

"It will set you free."

Donny took a deep breath. "Chris had worked all the areas of the welding department. From installing the axles to building frames to welding the sidewalls. The truth is he would have been perfect. He would have worked his ass off, he would have been dependable, and I could have counted on him."

"But?"

"Putting Chris in that position wouldn't have affected my father one bit, now would it have!"

"So, when all this was going on, what did you tell Chris?"

"I told him it wasn't my decision, that it was Vern's."

"And he was all right with it?"

Donny slowly nodded his head, yes. "I told him it was almost time for yearly raises and he would be taken care of."

"In the end what happened?"

"It was all bullshit... I was never going to the new plant. I mean, sure they did get more production, but the real goal was to get Junior out of the main facility. Replace him with someone who was easier to get along with."

"You."

"That's right. I screwed over Junior first, and even when he realized what was going on, he never held it against me ... He retired a couple of years later. I watched as he drove away ... I really believed I would see him again, but I didn't." He paused then said. "Upon his passing, I remember it was Vern who told me. He didn't seem to mind, but I took it pretty hard."

"What about Pauly?"

"Yeah—I worked real hard on that. Ya know, convinced the higher ups that the only way they were gonna keep Pauly, was if they paid him. So they did, and none of us had a clue that Pauly was passing that information straight on to Chris." Donny chuckled. "Ya know, they really thought I had it all under control ... Hell—I suppose I did too."

"So then—while you were rubbing it in your father's face, Pauly was rubbing it in Chris's."

Donny shook his head, Yes. "And then, when the raises came out, and Pauly received another dollar and everyone else including Chris received only fifty cents. Chris was the first to know, and guess what?"

"Pauly was making more than Chris?"

"A considerable amount," Donny laughed. "In no more than three months on the job, my little brother went from five dollars and fifty cents an hour, to damn close to ten. The only people making more were Junior and me. And so, upon hearing the blessed news, ole Chris put in the same notice that he would get upon being let go. He punched out and walked away ... Three days later, he packed his shit and headed South."

"What about Pauly?"

"He worked up until that Friday and then he quit, or should I say, he stopped showing up to work."

"So you believe that when you're brother and friend let you down, that's when your life went astray?"

"No ... I mean, don't get me wrong, for a long time I loathed them both. I saw what they did as treason, and I swear if I could have, I would have hunted them down and killed them ... But then—time passed, and with it, I had to face the truth, and that was that it was me. That I had become what I hated. I had become self centered."

"You really believe that?"

"Sure—why not—I mean it doesn't matter, because I buried what I had done deep in the back of my mind, and I went on because 'on' was the only way to go. But I wasn't the same, and I knew I never would be. And unlike Junior, Chris did stop by and visited when he was in town. But I no longer thought of him as my friend. I no longer had friends, but I remember when I did. It seemed effortless like they showed up out of nowhere. But they disappear now, don't they? And you need new ones to replace the old ... From the moment I took that foreman's job on, they no longer showed up out of the blue. Soon enough, I had no friends, only memories of them.

"As for Pauly ... I couldn't admit that he had done the right thing. I mean, to do so would mean I was wrong, and I couldn't deal with that. So I made up reasons to hate him. Manipulated reality so nothing was my fault. But you can only lie to yourself for so long. Don't matter, in the end, I never saw him anyway."

"And Barb?"

"I was distant, I sunk into depression. I was no longer a husband, I was an angry old fuck. One who drank too much and that went on for at least half my life. Only getting worse as time passed by." He paused. "Even in the end, I made myself believe that her leaving me was nothing short of a blade in the back. I mean, now, I don't blame her for her descriptions. Hell—I can't believe she stayed with me for as long as she did."

"I know."

Donny wiped the tears from his eyes. He felt so much better, yet there was still guilt that remained. He looked at Samantha. "Will they ever forgive me?"

"They forgave you long ago... It was you that couldn't forgive yourself."

"Life is so sad..." He said in a low voice.

"I know..."

"Why?"

She smiled and took his hand into hers, "Because all must die at some point. And when that time comes it is then those who are miserable will become the lucky ones."

He laughed ... then he stopped, "Will I have to leave this place?"

"You will if you want to stay with me."

He smiled, "Where are you going?"

"Someplace down south where there is no winter. Only a dry season and a wet one."

Donny smiled as he stood up. "I hear Panama is nice."

They walked along the side of the creek. "We'll see," Samantha said.

The end!

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