You might want to listen tothis before you read my story.
******
Michael was my friend. Michael died saving my life.
Michael row the boat ashore . . . sister help to trim the sails . . . the River Jordan is chilly and cold . . . chills the body but not the soul . . . the river is deep and the river is wide . . . milk and honey on the other side.
I can only hope that Michael has found his milk and honey.
This is the story of Michael.
Michael and I grew up together. We went through grade school together. Then on to high school, where together we stayed. Neither of us wanted to pursue a “higher” education, so we decided to travel to broaden ourselves, as the terminology was in those days. At that time, we thought good would always win out over evil. But we were yet to be taught our lessons of the real world. Evil does sometimes triumph over good.
Michael James was six feet tall. He had straight blonde hair and blue eyes. The bluest eyes I ever did see. If limpid means clear as I think it does, then Michael’s eyes were limpid pools of blue. The color was that of the sky, perhaps a little lighter with flecks of yellow throughout the irises. Upon meeting Michael for the first time one was taken aback by his eyes. They did not bore into your soul—they lit up your life. Then there was his smile. I had known Michael for many years and I don’t think I ever saw him without that shit-eatin’ grin on his puss. And that grin, and its persistence, was amazing, given the fact that Michael suffered from a skin problem. He had large red patches on his skin, including his face. They came and went. I thought the name of the disease was psoriasis, but of that I am not certain.
Michael had no mother. She died when he was quite young . . . before I knew him. He had no siblings; he was reared by his father, which is probably the reason I am alive today. By that, I mean he was raised to be a man. He was taught “The Code” of real men, which is: You do what you have to do.
Michael row the boat ashore
Though we both had the travel bug, my case was more pronounced than his. During the summer between our junior and senior years of high school, I took off and bounced around the country while Michael held down the fort, so to speak. When I returned to finish my last year of school (at that time I still bought into the myth that you needed at least a high school education to survive in the world), I regaled Michael with tales of my adventures.
Well, after hearing what a wonderful world awaited us out there, Michael could not wait to hit the road. He wanted to leave immediately, but seeing as how I had just come in from a three-month run, I prevailed upon him to wait a few months and allow me to at least try to get my diploma. He said he would wait, but he did not, or he could not. Within six weeks of my return, Michael was on the road.
the River Jordan is chilly and cold
Michael was hip, and the only place for a hip guy to migrate in 1968 was San Francisco. And that was the end of Michael’s roaming. He fell in love with the city. I endured my senior year as long as I could, but two weeks short of graduation I said, “The hell with it!”, stuck out my thumb and headed for San Francisco to rendezvous with my friend.
When I arrived, I didn’t know where Michael was living; however, I knew if I hung out on Haight Street long enough, I’d see him. It took less than two hours.
This will tell you something about my friend Michael: He always had a place to live out there, and never paid rent. People were always asking him home, and once there, he just moved in. They were always glad to have him. And when I would hit town, he’d take me to wherever he was living and tell me to make myself at home. The person who actually owned the domicile never looked askance when he brought me through the door, they all loved Michael, and any friend of Michael’s . . .
it chills the body, but not the soul
For the most part, Michael stayed in San Francisco. I, however, could not stay in one town for more than a few days. I was like a pinball, rebounding from coast to coast, and from Canada to Mexico. While on the road I was alive. When on the road, I interacted with humanity and had to live by my wits. I loved being on the road. Because of Michael’s reluctance to leave San Francisco, I had two homes, one on each coast. My mother’s in Miami, and wherever the hell Michael was staying at the moment in San Francisco.
On one of my forays to San Francisco, I was introduced to Linda, the love of Michael’s life—his soul mate. They had met at a Clint Eastwood marathon. A movie house was playing the three Sergio Leone films. You know, A Fist Full of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More, and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly ... non-stop, twenty-four hours a day. Michael had a bag of Red Acid, and in 1969, what girl wouldn’t swoon toward a man who was into Clint Eastwood and had a bag of LSD? It was love at first sight.
sister help to trim the sails
Now that Michael had himself a woman, he got his own digs. Every time I hit town they were living in a new place. It wasn’t always easy to find them, but somehow we would always meet up on Haight Street. I stayed with them on Geary in the Tenderloin. We stayed south of Market in the low rent district, we stayed across from Golden Gate Park, and at the end, we were again in the Haight-Asbury district.
One thing I must tell you about Michael so you can get a sense of the man. And yes, he was a man; though we were the same age, he was a man, while I was just a kid. I think Michael knew he did not have much time in this world. He could not wait for anything. Back then, we were doing acid all the time. Normally, you would swallow a pill and wait for it to take effect. But not Michael. The twenty minutes or so that it took was just too long for him. He had to shoot the acid into his vein to get off instantaneously. Of course Linda and I would have to follow suit or there would be no peace. And in those days, I just did not have it in me to stick myself with a needle. Michael did the honors.
the river is deep and the river is wide
The last time I came into San Francisco and saw Michael and Linda was in 1970, it was July. They were living in the Haight. It was a crummy neighborhood; the Summer of Love was three years gone by then. All the shops on Haight Street were boarded up with sheets of plywood, and the denizens of the street were the leftovers from that long ago summer.
True to form, it was not Michael’s apartment he took me to; he and Linda were living with a guy named Bobby. Bobby was a likable enough fellow. He just didn’t know bad men when he met them. Bobby had set up a “drug” deal to buy two pounds of marijuana. Nowadays it seems ridiculous to term buying two pounds of pot a drug deal, but in those days, that was heavy shit.
It was my first night in town and we were sitting in Bobby’s pad smoking a joint when Michael told me he was going to be a father. I looked over at Linda, she was radiant, and she was also blushing. I was just about to say something appropriate when the door crashed open, and two guys burst through the entrance. They were the assholes that Bobby was supposed to buy the pot from.
Michael row the boat ashore
Only one of them had a gun, but that was enough for us. When told to lie on the floor, we did so without protest. They then said to Bobby, “Where’s the cash?”
Bobby answered, “In my pocket.” The guy covering us with the gun told the other guy to get the money. Bobby, trying to be helpful, reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. Then it seemed like a lot of money, but now, as I look back on that night, it couldn’t have been more than $500.00.
As soon as the money was in the asshole’s hand, the other one with the gun walked over to Bobby, placed the gun to the back of his head, and killed him. Upon hearing the shot, Michael and I looked at each other and knew that we were next.
the river is deep and the river is wide
Before I could think of anything to do, Michael bounded to his feet and rushed the guy with the gun. When I saw Michael go into action, it released me from my paralysis, but not soon enough to help Michael. He took a bullet to the chest. While Michael was being shot, I picked up a lamp from a table and smashed it over the gunman’s head while his partner stood frozen in place.
it chills the body, but not the soul
The man with the gun went down hard and the gun fell from his hand. All this went down fast; in a blur, I did not have time to think. I picked up the gun from the floor while the other guy still stood frozen. Obviously they were not professionals, though, at the moment, that did not enter into my thinking. I aimed the gun at the one standing and shot him dead with two shots. Then I turned to the one on the floor. He was moving and about to get up when I put a bullet into his head.
sister help to trim the sails
By the time the second one fell to the floor, Linda was bent over Michael. I dropped the gun and went to them. He looked at her and smiled, then he looked at me and said, “Get her out of here.” We both, Linda and I, said at the same time, “No!” Then Michael died.
Michael row the boat ashore
It took me a full minute, which at the time felt like an eternity, to make a decision. I grabbed Linda by the arms and pulled her into a standing position. She was numb. I told her we had to get out of there; that this was a drug deal gone bad, and there were dead bodies—four of them! I told her prison was no place to have a baby, and Michael knew that. That is why he wanted her out of there.
if you get there before I do
I told Linda to collect everything of hers and Michael’s that could identify them. I had the presence of mind to wipe the gun clean, but not to pick up the cash lying on the floor. Linda could have used it; she had a baby on the way. I took Michael’s wallet. He had never been arrested so I knew they couldn’t identify him by his fingerprints. After I had Michael’s wallet, and while Linda went about collecting her things, I took the time to vomit all over Bobby’s carpet. It was, after all, the first time I had killed. We left Michael and never looked back. Though it wasn’t actually Michael we left, only the body that housed that wonderful, brave man.
tell all my friends I’m coming too
Linda’s folks lived in New Jersey, so I hitchhiked with her to the east coast. She was in a state of shock, and because Michael’s last words, though not implicit, were to look after her, that is what I did. After getting her to her parents, I stayed in the northeast for the next seven months. I kept moving, but would drop in to see her every few weeks. Seven months later, when the baby was born, I was there. I was there for my friend Michael. It was a boy and I was asked to be his godfather.
milk and honey on the other side
Once Linda had the child, and I knew she was in the goods hands of her parents, I said good-bye. And while still on the road, I dropped in to see Linda and my godson every few months.
There are three human beings extant on this earth because of my friend Michael James. I am one of them.
Michael row the boat ashore . . . Hallelujah.
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You guys are sensational. You looked over my first chapter and made astute observations and suggestions. Some, I have already incorporated into the manuscript---others, I'm giving serious consideration to. I had not intended to post any more of the novel, but then I woke up this morning, I thought, Why the hell not? Getting input from as many people as possible before publication can only make my humble offering better. And don't worry. At the rate I'm writing, after the first five chapters, you'll be let off the hook indefinitely. I'm not working that hard. I'm too busy out smelling the roses, so to speak. And if I smell many more roses, my liver is going to explode.
By the way, the horrors you are about to encounter are real. Maybe the reason the book is going so slow is not my drinking. Maybe it's my research. For every ten minutes of writing I do, I spend twenty minutes in research. I'm not saying that is a good thing. Perhaps it's my way of avoiding that dreaded blank page.
If you remember, chapter one ended with my protagonist stepping out onto the road for his journey to Cork.
Chapter Two
An ancient road it was. The Roman Christians had used it in the fifth century to spread the Word and baptize an entire nation. Then it was the Danes, or Vikings as they were known, who had come to conquer the isle late in the eighth century, deepening the wheel ruts laid down by the monks. By the time the Normans arrived in the twelfth century, it was a well-worn track that led from Cork to the Western shore. Along its length, the Danes built their castles. In the sixteenth century, Henry the Eighth’s soldiers used the road in their subjugation of an unruly people. Three hundred years later, Devin Mahoney, in solitary desolation, followed the wheel-rutted lane to an uncertain future.
With a pale dawn approaching, Devin made his way east into the face of the rising sun. It was an exceptionally clear day—not a cloud in the sky. He saw no children playing on the side of the road as in years past. Occasionally he would pass a work gang, but for the most part he had the road to himself.
As he approached the town of Coom, he came across the body of a dead man right there on the side of the road. There was little doubt that he had died from starvation. The body was barely more than a skeleton. It was not the first dead person Devin had seen. Over that last fifteen months, he had seen many. Devin wore no hat to doff as he passed by, but he did nod in that direction as a sign of respect.
He made it as far as the outskirts of Glenflesk before deciding to stop for the night. He went into the woods off to his right while the last rays of the setting sun reflected off the somber grey clouds in the west, turning them a soft pink around the edges. He found a small clearing after a few steps. This will do, he thought.
The road followed the River Lee, so water was easily accessible. He had not stopped during the day to eat, for his strategy was to make what he carried in the sack last as long as possible. Besides, he was used to going without food. Nevertheless, he now eagerly anticipated a bowl of bland cornmeal or perhaps a little oatmeal.
He put the sack down and collected what dead branches he could find in the vicinity. After clearing a space for his fire, he snapped the thin wood into foot-long lengths and laid them on a small pile of dead leaves. Next, he reached into the sack for the matches. While rummaging around, he also brought out the small kettle and the larger of the two bags of food, figuring it to be the cornmeal.
Once the fire was going, Devin went to the river and drew a kettle half-full with water. On the way back to his camp, the thought suddenly struck him that Missus Meehan had made no mention of a spoon. How was he to eat his stirabout?
He need not have worried. Missus Meehan was a good woman, indeed she was. There was a large, wooden-handled spoon at the bottom of the sack.
With the meal mixed with water, he held the pot over the fire using a three-foot-long branch and waited for the concoction to start its contented bubbling. Then he would stir it, and before long, he would have warm food resting comfortably in his empty stomach.
Devin’s eyes were fixated on the dancing flames of the fire. They were mesmerizing. His body was warm, wrapped in the fine overcoat; his thoughts wandered. Little doubts silently crept into his contemplations. It was a long way to America. Did he really want to leave The Auld Sod? But if he stayed, what hope would there be for him? Half the country was slowly starving to death.
His thinking was abruptly interrupted by a thrashing noise behind him. Quickly he turned his head, but he could see nothing. He was blinded—he had been looking into the fire. In fear, he cried out, “Who goes there?”
A voice sang out, “’Tis only I, Tom McNevin from Kinsale, County Cork. I saw your fire and thought you might be wanting company on this grand night.”
When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he saw a man standing a few feet away, wearing a smile, his hat in hand. Devin relaxed. “Come in, Tom McNevin. Come and sit by the fire.”
McNevin squatted opposite his host and held his hands over the fire to warm them. The firelight reflected off his gaunt face, showing him to be about forty. His hair and beard were dark, but starting to turn a little grey. His eyes were laughing eyes—merry eyes. His clothes were little more than rags and he sported no overcoat—he wore no shoes. He looked across the fire at Devin and saw a young man with a sparse brown beard and stormy blue eyes. He was a good-looking lad and his welcoming smile made Tom McNevin feel right at home.
“’Tis a grand night to be sitting by a warm fire, such as yours, and in such in such fine company,” said McNevin.
“So ’tis. I’m Devin Mahoney.”
Devin noticed McNevin eyeing the pot he held over the flames. “Have you eaten recently?” he asked in a soft voice.
“I cannot say that I have. But I have not come to eat your food. ’Tis a cold night and your fire looked inviting.”
“You are welcome to anything I have. I too know what it is like to go without.”
Devin handed the stick holding the kettle to McNevin. “Here, take this. Keep it over the top of the flames. I’ll do the stirring and soon we’ll be eating like kings, we’ll be.”
As Devin gingerly stirred the cornmeal, he asked of McNevin, “When did you last eat?”
“Like many of our countrymen, it’s been a little while since a bit of food has passed these lips. A day or two days, ’tis all the same. Since the blight came upon us, one day seems like all the others. I don’t count time by days anymore or even hours. Time is the distance from one meal till the next.”
When the stirabout was ready, McNevin placed the pot on the ground next to the fire and eagerly looked in Devin’s direction. He was trying to be polite and wait, but the pain in his stomach willed him to inquire, “Do you have two spoons?”
“Only the one; you are my guest, you eat first. When you have had your fill, then I will eat.”
They took turns eating and when the pot was empty, McNevin insisted that it would be he that took it to the river and cleaned it. While he was at his task, Devin searched out more firewood. It was a cold night and they would have to keep the fire going. Devin would be warm enough in his heavy coat, but McNevin would need the warmth of a fire so as not to shiver throughout the night.
With things taken care of, the two men sat down next to the fire, one on each side, and looked into its flames. They were grateful to have eaten this evening. Their stomachs were full. Tomorrow would bring what tomorrow would bring. But for the moment, they were two contented Irishmen.
Without taking his eyes off the fire, Devin asked, “Are you going or coming from Kinsale?”
“I’ve been to Dublin. I’m going back to Kinsale, but there’s little of any worth there for me, no more. These days there is very little for me—and people like me—anywhere in all of Blessed Ireland.”
“You’re slightly out of your way.”
“When I left Dublin, I thought I’d roam a ways to the west and see if there was any work for an able-bodied man. I’ve been all the way over to Glenbeigh. There is no work—and very little food that I’ve come across in my travels.”
“I’ll tell you true, Tom McNevin, there is very little for us poor folks here in Ireland. The land of St. Patrick, fairies, and the little people. The land of ruins. Of standing stones that have stood since the beginning of time. The land where my ancestors vanquished the Danes and ruled all this land hereabouts. I tell you true, Tom McNevin.”
McNevin moved a little closer to the fire.
Devin threw on a few sticks to build it up. “Tell me, Tom. What is it like in a big city like Dublin? Are there hungry people there too?”
“If you are not ready for sleep, I’ll tell you what I’ve seen from Kinsale to Cork to Dublin and back. Me thinks that somehow we Irish have angered the gods. What misery I’ve seen. But I have also seen acts of boundless Christian kindness.
“Before I tell my story, you must tell me what it is that you are doing out here on a cold night, mixing stirabout and wearing a fine gentleman’s coat. I would think that you could afford to stay at an inn.”
Devin laughed. “The coat was given to me by a kind woman. Underneath, I am dressed much as you are.” He then told his story and ended it with, “I’ll be going to America now. When I return, I’ll live in as fine a manor house as you have ever seen and have a coach-and-four to draw me to and fro as befits a man of my standing. No longer will I be walking from town to town.”
McNevin warmed his hands over the fire. “I’m sorry about your family. Me, I never had much of a family. My mother died giving bringing me into the world and, for one reason or another, I never married. Perhaps it was for the best. I don’t know how I’d survive having my whole family wiped out in a trace.”
Devin shrugged and said, “My sister is safe up in the North.”
“’Tis good to hear,” affirmed McNevin.
Devin threw a few more dried branches onto the fire. “Now, you tell me what is happening outside of County Kerry, in the rest of Ireland.”
McNevin leaned back as the fire flared up. “I’ll get to telling you, to be sure. I am a seanchaí of renown. An Irish teller of tales am I. You make yourself comfortable and I’ll pay for my supper this night with a tale that you will remember and pass down to your grandchildren as they sit upon your knee in that fine manor house that you will one day be building.”
Devin pulled his knees up, wrapped his arms about his legs, and waited for the seanchaí to begin his story.
“I had six acres that I planted every year for twenty years. The crop fed me with enough left over to sell at market and keep me steeped in whiskey for a few weeks after harvest. My rent was always paid. But then the blight struck. The leaves withered, the stems rotted, and my beautiful praties were covered with dark and black patches. It all happened very quickly.
“Without a crop, my rent I could not pay. The owner’s middleman badgered me daily and told me I’d be thrown out onto the road unless I came through. This after twenty years on the same plot of land. I had always paid my rent, but would the landlord give an understanding to the blight and what it has done to this country? No, he would not. He wanted only his money and his tenant of twenty years be damned! I told the middleman that you cannot get blood from a turnip.
“As a result of the agent’s badgering, I took myself off and joined one of those work gangs that the government had set up. We went out at dawn each day to dig holes. There was no reason to dig those holes, but if we wanted to be paid, we’d have to dig them damn holes. The next day we would go out and fill in those very same holes. Sometimes we would build stone walls that enclosed nothing or made an existing wall higher by two feet or more. All for no rhyme or reason, only to keep us busy.
“At least we were fed twice a day. Once at ten and then again at four. But it was very poor gruel they gave us, it was. And you had to work the full ten hours to be given even that.
“At the end of the week, I would turn my pay over to the middleman to keep a hold on my farm. But he always told me I still owed. Finally, I had had enough. I was working ten hours a day, six days a week for two miserly meals a day. And after all that work, I still went hungry on Sundays!
“The summer of last year I gave up my farm and left Kinsale. I thought I could find work in Cork, loading boats. It was on my first day out that I saw my first horror. I came across a woman walking my way, holding a bundle in her arms. Like me, she was dressed in rags, and like me, she was thin, her face drawn. I could tell by her looks that she had not eaten in many a day. But unlike me, she had a look about her that I cannot describe.
“When we came abreast of one another, I stopped and asked, ‘Are y’ alright?’ She looked at me with a blank stare and says she, ‘I do be alright, but my baby is hungry. Can you spare a morsel of food for the wee little one?’
“I had a biscuit in me pocket that I was holding for dinner. How I could I say no to her plea even if I had wanted to? I withdrew the biscuit and held it out to her. She says, ‘You give it to him.’ She unwound the swaddling to reveal her child. It was horrible, it was. The infant was dead, and from the look of it, had been so for some time. I looked at the woman smiling down at the lifeless baby boy as though he was alive. She had lost her mind either from hunger or grief—or both.”
Devin exclaimed, “That is horrible. What did you do?”
“I did the only thing I could do. I pressed the biscuit into her hand, saying, ‘You feed him and have some for yourself.’ She did not try to feed her baby and she did not raise the biscuit to her mouth. So, the only other thing I could say was, ‘Mind yourself, mother.’ She thanked me and resumed her slow wanderings. I stood in the middle of the road watching until she was out of sight.”
“Yesterday, I came across a dead man lying in the road just outside of Coom,” volunteered Devin.
“Aye. Corpses lay thick upon the roadside these days. I’ve seen a few myself. A month back, I stepped into a burying ground to avail myself of a little shade from the beech trees lining its walks. There was a funeral taking place and I decided to linger until the service was over. After the mourners had left, the burying men held the coffin over the dug grave. One of them pulled a string and a spring mechanism popped open the bottom and the body wrapped in old potato sacks fell six feet to its final resting place. I asked about it. ‘We have run out of wood for making coffins—there are just too many dead,’ informed one of the men. ‘Undertakers all over Ireland are doing the same,’ said another.”
“Now tell me, Tom McNevin, what is life like in the cities of Cork and Dublin?” questioned Devin.
McNevin leaned toward the fire—his face a ghostly yellow from the reflecting flames—and said, “’Tis a little better than the country, but not by much. There is no work to be had in either place. People from the country have crowded the streets looking for work and the police do not like it. But they arrest no one because then they’d have to feed them. What they do is give beatings in an effort to drive them back to the country. I’ve been on the receiving end of a few beatings myself.”
“Do they beat the women also?”
“To be sure, I have seen it done, so I have.”
“Then glad I am to be going to America,” sighed Devin. “What else have you seen? I want to know so that I can tell the people of America the true story of what is happening here. They are a rich people, and a kind people. They would send relief if they only knew.”
McNevin threw a few more sticks onto the fire. When they had caught, and the flames danced about in the slight wind that was coming down from the north, he said, “’Tis to be a cold night this night. I am grateful for the warmth of your fire, and I will tell you of more things that I have seen. I cannot understand how we have fallen so low.”
Devin braced himself for what he about to hear.
“From Dublin, I walked west to Galway. ’Tis on the coast that I saw what cruelty really is. There were two women collecting seaweed and putting it into baskets. Having nothing better to occupy my time, I approached them with an Irish greeting, ‘Dia dhuit.’
“‘Hello to you,’ answered one of the women.
“They were both older than I, grey-headed, and dressed in rags. One of ’em had a ratty old red shawl about her shoulders. The other one’s dress was in such tatters that it was cut off above the knees. Both their dresses were heavily patched and neither of the women wore shoes.
“They continued with their work, picking up the seaweed below the high water mark, as we walked along the beach. ‘There be plenty of what you’re after just a few feet away, above the high water line,’ says I. ‘Why do you scavenge for the scraps when the bounty is within reach?’ ‘We dare not,’ said the one with the red shawl. ‘’Tis the landlord’s property above that line.’
“The wind was blowing in off the ocean and it felt good, being the warm August day it was. We walked in that manner for a short while, when, from the north, three policemen came running towards us, making heavy footprints in the sand.
“When they caught up to us, two of them pulled the baskets out of the women’s hands. There was a sergeant and two privates. The sergeant said, ‘I arrest you for thievery. You three are to come along with us. And come peaceably if you know what is good for you.’
“I was shocked at the turn of events. Not so much that I was being arrested, but by the fact that it was against the law to collect seaweed. Since when?”
Devin shrugged his shoulders.
McNevin answered the shrug. “I’ll tell you since when. Since those damn English came here with Henry II hundreds of years ago. Those damn English think they own the whole damn island and all of us too! But enough of that. Back to my story.”
Devin broke a dead branch in two and threw the pieces onto the fire. “Please continue,” he urged.
“The women told the police that they took seaweed only from below the high tide mark. ‘That is surely not against the law,’ pleaded one of the women.
“Apparently it was. The constable’s rejoinder was short and to the point. ‘One of the landlord’s drivers saw you and reported you. There is nothing that we can do here. You must face a judge in a court of law. But why were you collecting seaweed? You do not look like you have a crop that needs fertilizing.’
“‘We was gathering it to eat,’ said the woman with the torn dress. At that point, I spoke up. ‘I was not stealing seaweed. I was merely walking along with these two grand ladies, enjoying the smell of the ocean air and their good company. You do not see a basket in my hands.’
“The women corroborated my words. And the sergeant, being a fair man, said, “Seeing as how the report was about two women and there was no mention of a man, you be on your way now.”
“I wished the women well and continued down the beach until I came to a path that led back to the road. I’ll tell you true. There have been times since then that I wished I had allowed myself to be arrested. At least I would have been fed twice a day while in jail.”
Devin shook his head and said, “’Tis a sorry thing to hear.”
“Aye, it ’tis,” concurred McNevin. Then added, “But not as bad as seeing it.”
Devin fed the fire and said, “We should sleep. We have a good walk ahead of us tomorrow.”
“Are you saying you want me to travel the road with y’?” asked McNevin.
“Sure. You are my seanchaí. As we walk, you’ll be telling me tales of things you’ve seen in this last year and I’ll be sharing my food with y’.”
“It will give my head peace to travel with you. May your blessings outnumber the shamrocks that grow.”
“Thank you, Tom. There’s enough wood to sustain the fire throughout the night, but I’ll have to depend on you to keep it going. According to my brothers, I’m not very good at that sort of thing.”
I forgot to mention that publishers, for the most part, do not take on books that have already been published. And agents think the same way. If your book is selling maybe 1,000 copies a day (or even 500), and all by word of mouth, then they’ll knock down your door to sign you up.
I don’t know if you are in the process of writing another book, but if you are, you might want to save all that energy and work sending out your query letters for the new book.
You probably already know this, but there are sites that will teach you how to write a dynamite query and their members will critique it for you and add advice. That’s what I did. I think the site’s name is Agent Query. They also have up-to-date lists of agents to work from when sending out your letters.
Finally, have you ever thought of doing paid promotions with the likes of eReader News Today, Choosy Bookworm, or Free Kindle Books and Tips? For $30.00 or $40.00 they’ll send out an email to their thousands of subscribers and you’ll get some sales. You’ll have to drop your price to $0.99 for the day of the promotion. Remember, the more books you sell the more reviews you’ll get, and the more reviews you get the more books you’ll sell. I never give my books away for free. When people get books for free, many of them stick it on their Kindle and forget about it. But if they pay for a book, they’ll read it. Even if the book was only $0.99.
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They are always with me. At times they appear out of the ethereal mist, and other times they speak directly to my mind. I wish they would leave me to myself, but that they will not do. No, first I must do their bidding.
They come in the night and stay until the black sky fades to gray. When the stars leave the sky and the clouds to the east turn pink, I am allowed my rest. But I ask you, what respite can a murderer have? At their behest, I have killed again this night. And I will continue to kill until they go back from whence they came.
After all I’ve been through, I still remember the first time they came to me. It was a little over a year ago, and since then I have killed twenty-nine people. Please do not think me insane. I assure you these beings are real and not immanent. At first, I, too, thought myself demented when they stood before me telling me they came to save the human race, and to accomplish their mission, certain people must die. They explained that the demise of the race was not impending, but if action was not taken, and taken soon, it would be too late to set things on a course to ensure the continuance of mankind.
You are probably wondering, if you do not think me crazed, why they cannot do their own dirty work. That is a very good question and one I have asked them. They, of course, are not of our time and space. They appear—when they appear—as diaphanous specters; they cannot manipulate physical matter. Thus, I have become their instrument here on earth. Where or when they are from, I do not know. And why, out of all the billions on this planet, I was chosen, I know not. But it has been a long night and I must sleep. I will continue this at a later date, and continue it I shall, for I want there to be a record of my actions and the reasons for them.
I am back. It has been two days since my last entry in this journal, and tonight they had me kill again. That makes thirty people—thirty innocent people … men, women, and children—I have dispatched from this world. Yes … I am sorry to say that they have had me kill children. However, I was told that after tonight there would be no more need of my services. The human race was safe for the foreseeable future.
I refer to my tormentors as they or them because I do not know what they call themselves. Their form is vaguely human … two arms, two legs, and a head of sorts atop a torso, but their gossamer appearance precludes calling them human.
Tonight’s victim was a man in Moscow. I was directed to him and given his name. I then set about their business. I was told that his son, yet unborn, would one day invent something that would cause the death of billions. Being told the basis for this particular death was a departure from the norm. I had never been given rhyme nor reason for any of the others. The man’s name and the names of the other twenty-nine, including where and when they died, are in the addendum attached to this missive. I remember every one of my quarry.
I guess I should have mentioned this earlier, but my victims were scattered around the world. I do not know how they did it, but one minute I was in my room behind a locked door, and the next minute I was standing in a foreign locale with the name of that night’s victim swirling through my brain. Then into my mind came the place I could find him or her in the city, town, or hamlet.
Now, the thirty-first person will die. They, at last, have left me to myself. I am now free to end this the only way it can be ended—with my death. I’ve been saving and hiding my medication for quite a while now; there is enough to kill three of me. May God have mercy on my soul.
I affix my hand to this document this 3rd day of May in the year of our Lord 2017.
Signed,
Francis Fitzgerald
≈≈≈≈≈≈
When Dr. Allen had finished reading the above, he turned to Dr. Harris and said, “Interesting, but why have you brought it to me? We both know that the man was a certified, delusional schizophrenic. How long have we had him here at our institution?”
Dr. Harris hesitantly answered, “He’s been here at Oakwood twelve years, sir.”
“Well, there you have it. It’s too bad he took his own life; it doesn’t help our reputation any, but these things happen.”
“Yes, sir. However, there is something I think you ought to know.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of investigating a few of the names on Fitzgerald’s list. It’s taken me three weeks, but I’ve verified eleven of the deaths and their time and place. They all correspond with what Fitzgerald has written.”
Dr. Allen straightened in his seat, glanced at the papers in his hand, and looking Dr. Harris in the eye, forcefully said, “Preposterous! If there is any correlation, he read of the deaths in the newspaper or heard of them on the television.”
“Excuse me, sir, but Fitzgerald had no access to newspapers. He was denied them because they would agitate him to no end. And the only television he had access to was in the day room where the set is perpetually tuned to a movie channel.”
“That still does not give credence to this fairytale,” said Dr. Allen, waving the Fitzgerald papers in Dr. Harris’ direction.
“No, sir, it does not. However, there is one more thing I think I should make you aware of. My sister is married to a Russian physicist, speaks fluent Russian, and lives in Moscow. I called her about the last name on Fitzgerald’s list. She made a few calls for me and it turns out that Fitzgerald was dead before the body of the man he mentions was discovered. And just one more thing, sir. The man’s wallet was found in Fitzgerald’s room. I have it if you’d like to see it.”
Turning a color red that is not in the regular spectrum, Dr. Allen shouted, “NO! I DO NOT WANT TO SEE THE DAMN WALLET!” Then handing the Fitzgerald papers to Dr. Harris, he said with ice in his voice, “Burn these, burn them now. And if you value your position here at Oakwood, you will never speak of this matter again … to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”
Dr. Harris accepted the papers with a meek, “Yes sir,” and walked out of the room. When he was in the hall and by himself, he muttered, “I’ll be goddamned … the old bastard is afraid.”
But Dr. Harris did not burn the papers. He placed them, along with the wallet, in his desk drawer and locked it. He had some thinking to do. As he started on his rounds, a quote of Shakespeare’s kept repeating itself in his head. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
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You can get Resolution: Huck Finn's Greatest Adventure for only $0.99!!!
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Averaging 4.9 stars out of 5 on Amazon.
A few reviews:
"I was mostly on the edge of my seat - the action doesn't stop, but there is so much wit, love, and just plain fabulous life in this story, I loved it all the way through. Andrew Joyce is the real deal, and an awesome storyteller in his own right, right up there with Mr Twain." -- Jo Robinson, Feed My Reads
". . . it took me a couple of head shakes to be able to accept Huck and Tom as late middle-aged lawmen come adventurers but this book really made it believable. Fans of adventure and edge of your seat thrillers can't do better than this book. It's a superb read and very well written and one that will take the reader on an epic adventure with a beloved literary character who has grown up." -- All Things Books
"In each of his books, Andrew Joyce uses the setting as almost another character. We see the "Wild West" growing up, getting tamed by settlers, farmers, the railroad. We see Alaska just starting to face those same challenges. Despite its bare bones approach to sensory descriptions, the spare prose and dialog convey the overwhelming and impersonal power, beauty, and threat of the country as Molly and Huck make their way. if westerns as a genre are about seizing control of our own fate--the ultimate American-defining trope--then Huck Finn and Molly Lee's story is as American as a western could possibly be. Certainly, I think it deserves every one of those five stars."-- Barb Taub, Writing & Coffee
It's 3:07 a.m. and I am thinking of you, my love. I am also thinking, How did I ever get myself into a mess like this? I am hiding in a culvert—a cement pipe—under a farm road I found myself on; I am a hunted man. Still, my thoughts are of you. The water flows around my ankles, and it is cold. For the moment, I've thrown the hounds off the scent. I hear their barking and baying retreating in the distance.
Perhaps, my love, I should start at the beginning.
Do you remember the last time we saw each other? It was a week past, at the church social. You wore your pink gingham dress. You know, the one I like so much, the one with the purple and yellow flowers on it. And you had on the sunbonnet I bought you for your birthday. You sure were a pretty picture. Well, that’s where all the trouble started.
I reckon you wondered what happened to me that night. I mean, why I never came back when I went to get you some punch. You remember that fella that came up to us and asked you to dance and I sent him on his way, telling him you were spoken for? That was Jess Baker; he lives up by Big Gap. Him and his family been croppin’ up there since Ol’ Dan’l Boone was in Congress, before that even. The Baker boys are a mean lot; they don’t take kindly to a slight, real or otherwise. And Jess’ uncle is deputy sheriff up in that neck of the woods.
Well, my love, this is what transpired. I was standing in line at the punch bowl when Jess comes up to me and says, “Thar’s a fella outside running down your woman. If she was my woman, I’d let no man talk the way he’s a talkin’. I’d have to do somethin’.”
I should have let it go, but what Jess was sayin’ just got my dander up. So I asked him to point the fella out to me. He agreed to do so, and together we walked out into the night. As soon as we got outside, Jess says, “He’s over this a way,” and led me ’round the corner of the church. And, my love, that is the last thing I remember until I woke up tied to a hitchin’ post.
Standing over me was Jess, his brother John, and their uncle, the one I told you about—the deputy sheriff. His name is Samuel. They must have thrown a bucket of water in my face to bring me ’round, because the drops were still falling from my hair onto my face.
When they saw I was awake, Jess grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head back so I had to look right into his mean brown eyes. He said, “Us Bakers is a queer bunch, when insulted we just gotta do somethin’ ’bout it.”
When he had had his say, the other two laughed. I knew those words, and I knew the laughter did not bode well for me. The three of them then went into the house and that is the last I saw of them until the next morning. I was left tied to the post all night.
Natural to say I didn’t get much sleep that night. When I heard the Baker boys emerging from the house in the morning, I feigned being out. But through the slits of my eyes, I saw Jess pick up the bucket, walk over to the pump and fill it with water. He walked back to the post and threw the water straight into my face. I pretended to come ’round, and he said, “We got chores to do, you stay right thar. We’ll be back presently, then we aim to have us some fun.”
As they walked away, I tried for the hundredth time to free my hands. My arms were behind me, one on either side of the post, and my hands tied at the wrist. During the night, I had rubbed the skin from my wrist. It hurt awfully to continue trying to get free, but I knew other things would hurt even worse if I was still tied and waiting for the Bakers when they returned at the end of the day.
The morning drew on; the sun beat down on me, causing a powerful thirst in me. As the noon hour approached, I heard the Bakers returning, so I once again pretended to be out in the hopes I might get another bucketful of water in the face. I was hoping that this time I might catch some in my mouth. My head was hung down, and looking through the slits of my eyes, I saw Jess’ boots stop and stand before me. Then I heard his brother John say, “Not now, Jess. We gotta eat and git back to work. ’Sides, we promised Uncle Sam not to start nothin’ till he got back.” With those words, Jess kicked at the ground, hitting my chest and chin with earth.
After they had returned to their work, I redoubled my efforts to get free. The pain in my wrists was unbearable, and my arms had gone numb. But I persevered, and along about sundown, I slipped one of the ropes. I was frantic; I knew they’d be along anytime. I managed to slip the remaining rope, and I was free. My arms were still too numb to do anything but hang limply at my sides. But I needed water bad, so I got to my knees and flung my arms around the crossbar of the hitchin’ post. And using the crook of my elbows, I hoisted myself up.
Once up, I staggered, more than walked, over to the pump and knelt before it. I grabbed the handle with both hands, put my head under the spout, and pumped that cool water onto my face and into my mouth.
When I had quenched my thirst, I stood and listened—nothing. The sun was below the horizon, but there was still a little light and I still had a few minutes before they returned, I hoped. I went into the house looking for a weapon; about then my arms were beginning to get their feeling back.
It was dark in the house and hard to see, but after a moment, my eyes adjusted to the gloom and I saw an old-fashioned single-shot rifle leaning against the bricks of the fireplace. I went straight for it, lifted it, and checked to see if there was a cartridge in the breech. There wasn’t. I looked about for a box of cartridges but saw none. I had to move, they’d be back anytime now. I took the gun. I could use it as a bluff or at least it would make a dandy club.
As I was leaving, I saw the two brothers walking up the road. I darted back into the house and made my way to the back, slipped out of an open window, and ran into the woods. I knew that the moment they saw I was gone, they’d be after me. And I knew from talk that the Baker boys could track anything … some said they had Injun blood in ’em.
As I ran into the woods, I made my first mistake—well, my second mistake, if you count leaving the church with Jess in the first place. I had never been to the Baker place, and I didn’t know if I was north or south of Big Gap. Their cabin stands at the foot of the mountain, so I knew it wasn’t east or west. Then I thought that even if I knew my way into town, Sam Baker was the law, and if he saw me, he could haul me away before I could say a word. So I decided to go up the mountain.
My only advantage was that they wouldn’t know how long of a start I had on them. For all they knew, I could have been gone for hours. Or so I thought. As I was walking deeper into the woods, I heard, “Hey you, we know you ain’t far, the earth is still wet under the pump. As soon as we et somethin’, we’ll be a comin’ for ya.”
If they were going to give me a few minutes start on them, I thought it prudent to use the time to think, and not run. What was my plan to be? You know me, my love, I’m a city boy; stalking, and tracking is foreign to me. I’ve never hunted in my life, and now I am the hunted. I needed a plan to first of all get rid of Jess and his brother, and then to get to a place of safety, anywhere but Big Gap and Sam Baker.
So, my love, this is the plan I came up with. I would go halfway up the mountain and circle around to the east and descend, and just hope I reached a place of safety before the Bakers caught up with me. It’s just too bad things didn’t work out that way.
But I’m getting ahead of my story. By the time I decided on my plan of action it was full dark, so going up the mountain side was slow work. I ran into trees, hit my head on low lying branches, and tripped and fell over logs and large stones a number of times.
Just when I’m thinking that there was no way in hell that the Bakers could track me in the dark, I saw the light of a lantern below me, maybe three or four hundred yards down the mountain. At this rate, they’d be upon me in no time. So I did the unexpected, what only a man filled with fear would have done. I climbed the nearest tree and went right for the top.
You know, my love, sometimes the unexpected works. They passed right under me and continued up the mountain. I sat on my perch and watched the lantern grow dimmer and dimmer until it was out of sight. At that point, I decided it best to stay where I was until first light. Blundering around the mountain in the dark would only have brought the Baker boys and me together.
The next morning, I climbed down from the tree and set about trying to get back to you, my love. That is the thought that has sustained me throughout this week. Just so you don’t have to relive the entire week with me, I’ll just say that I got lost up on that mountain. The Bakers, with Uncle Sam’s help, brought in dogs to hunt me down.
Just know that I got lost on the damn mountain. I’ve gone a week without real food. Oh, I’ve had some grubs and some worms. Even found some berries yesterday. I’ve been licking the dew off leaves in the morning to quench my thirst. And for the whole week, the Baker boys have been one step behind me.
This morning I finally made it down the mountain. I don’t know where I am; as I’ve said, it seems to be a farm road … wait … the hounds … they’re comin’ back this way. You know, my love, there is a time when a man has to be a man. I think my time has come. Know that I love you, and I would have asked you to be my woman if this had not happened.
The baying is coming closer. I will not be hunted any longer. I will not hide any longer, my love. I will stand up and be a man, or at least die as one. Please, my love, come walk with me, give me strength. I am leaving the culvert now. I see the men in the distance. It is my intention to walk up to Jess, or one of the others, and take a stand.
They are firing their guns at me now. Bullets are passing me. The ones that are close to my ears sound just like bees flying by. Stay with me, my love. I fear not when you are with me.
A bullet has just hit me in the shoulder, but has not knocked me down. Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt. I will continue my march of freedom. I will not stop until I am dead, or they turn and walk away.
I’ve just been hit. I know not where, but I am lying on the ground. I’ve tried to get up, but I seem to have no strength. Is it because of the wound, or the lack of food?
Things are nice now, I am at peace. I’m looking up at the bluest sky I have ever seen. And the clouds are so beautiful. Look, my love, you see that one? Doesn’t it look just like a dog?
It’s getting dark on the sides. I mean my vision is like I’m looking through a tunnel of some sort. And the tunnel is getting smaller. I can’t see all of the sky. I can see only that one cloud … you know, the one that looks like a dog. Now, I can see nothing. I think I am dying, but dying with you by my side is so sweet.
’Nough said … good-bye, my love …
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I have no idea where I was when this story started. All I know is I was north of Atlanta, somewhere in the backwoods of Georgia. I had been hitchhiking in from California, going home to Miami for a visit. I fell asleep in the passenger seat of the car in which I was riding, and the next thing I knew, the driver of the car was shaking me awake. We were stopped, and he said, "Here it is. I turn down that rural road. You wanna’ stay on this here county road. It’ll get you to 301, then its south right into Florida. Good luck.”
I didn’t say the obvious, like, Why the hell didn’t you let me off before we got to the boondocks? Instead, I thanked him for the ride, got out of the car, and watched him disappear in a cloud of dust down some godforsaken gravel road. So there I was. Where I was, I did not know. All I knew is that it was getting dark—and not a car in sight!
I thought I better scout out a place to unroll my sleeping bag before it got too dark. It looked as though I was going to be stuck there for the night. Just about then, I saw a pair of headlights coming my way—heading in the direction I wanted to go. So I do my part and stick out my thumb. Now if only the driver of the approaching car would do his part and stop. But no, the car sped right on by me. Guess you’re here for the night, Andrew. Might as well get used to it. These were my thoughts as I turned away from the road and went about my search for soft ground upon which to lay my head.
Because I was busy looking for a place to bed down for the night, I did not notice that the car had stopped about three hundred yards down the road. For all you folks out there who have never “hitched,” three hundred yards is not the normal stopping distance. When I finally noticed the car, I became a little apprehensive. I’d been hitchin’ around the country for a few years by then. And it’s been my experience that cars pass you by or stop relatively close to where you are standing. If a car passes you, and then stops further down the road and just sits there, it usually means trouble of some sort.
I’ve been involved in scenarios like this on more than one occasion. In the past, this is the way it played out. The driver was speeding to God knows where and he passed me by thinking, “Fuck him.” But in the back of his mind he’s thinking, “I may be able to make use of that guy.” By the time that thought enters his head, he’s a good piece down the road. But he stops anyway. His nefarious plan had not yet crystallized, so he sits there a moment or two before backing up, which always meant they had decided what they wanted of me. Those kinds of rides never picked me up to help me; it was always about them.
The majority of the time it was some poor closet queen. You must remember, this was 1970 and in the Deep South. Nobody in that neck of the woods, at that time, was out of the closet. And a “stop” like that usually meant a sexual proposition. However, there were times I had to run for my life. So what to do? If the car stopped for the former reason, then I’d get a ride, and the subject slowly broached. And by the time it got around to my polite but firm refusal, I’d be miles down the road. If, on the other hand, the car had stopped for the latter reason, given the locale and the fact no one else was around, then I was in deep shit. These thoughts were coursing through my mind while the car and I maintained a kind of Mexican standoff. We stood there looking at one another, neither of us making the first move.
Finally the brake lights went off and the car started to back up. Now it was my turn. Do I stand my ground, or run into the woods? The car had been stopped for an inordinately long time. But the percentages were with me that the man in the car was just trying to get laid. So with that reasoning, I stayed where I was and waited for the car to reach me. As it got nearer, I noticed that the lid to the trunk was missing, and that it was “army” green in color. I also saw that it was a 1950 V-8 Ford. The V-8 Ford of song and legend.
When the car finally got abreast of me, I was surprised to see that there was a family inside—a man, a woman, and two of the most adorable little girls I’d ever seen—and not the solitary man as I had expected.
I leaned down to the passenger side window and said, “Howdy.”
The man leaned forward, past the woman so I could see his face, and in form of a response said, “Need a lift?”
Now before I can go any further, I must convey something to you kind folks. And in this day and age, it should not be necessary, but it is germane to our story, so it must be stated. The family that had stopped to give me a ride was black. In 1970, they were “black.” Today they would be referred to as African-Americans. And good for them! It’s about time these people got a little fuckin’ respect. Please excuse my language, but I am passionate about the way people of color have been treated, and still are treated, in this supposed “Land of the Free” in which we live.
Okay, back to my story. The man had just asked if I wanted a lift. My answer was an emphatic “Yes!” to which the man replied, “Then get in.” The woman, who I assumed was his wife, moved over towards the driver to make room for me. So there was nothing left for me to do but open the door and get in—after depositing my sleeping bag and suitcase in the back with the children.
Before I even had the door closed, the car lurched forward with a squeal of tires. One thing about those V-8 Fords … they could sure move when they wanted to.
As we sped down that lonely county road, the man said to me, “My name’s Lonnie. This here’s my wife Michelle. And the two in the back are our little girls, Anita and Suzy.”
“Glad to meet you folks. My name’s Andrew.”
For the next few minutes and the next few miles, there was no conversation. It was completely dark now. The Ford’s headlights lit up the road, and the only light inside the Ford was from the speedometer, which illuminated Lonnie’s face. As the car raced down the two-lane, I had a chance to observe my hosts. Lonnie was thin, about thirty, and a rather handsome man. I inferred that because his wife was a knockout. And I didn’t think anyone as pretty as Michelle would hook up with someone not in her class.
After a while, Lonnie asked me, “Where you going?”
“I’m going to Miami. How far are you guys going?”
“Hey man, we’re going to West Palm Beach to stay with my sister. We can give you a ride all the way there.”
I thought that was great news. But, as with everything else in my recent life, there was a catch. And man, what a catch this was. However, let’s progress slowly, and in the order of events as they played out. It’s more fun that way.
We had gone about five miles when Lonnie said, “I’ve got to make a little run first, then we can head south.”
I told him I was cool with that. After all, he was taking me practically to my front door. West Palm Beach is fifty miles from Miami, but when you’re coming in from three thousand miles out, fifty miles is your front door. And when Lonnie said, “run,” I thought he meant a short errand. No, he meant run as in a moonshine run.
We must have been way out in nowheresville because we didn’t see another car, coming or going. After a while, I turned to Lonnie and asked, “Where the hell … oops … sorry Michelle … where are we?” Lonnie answered that we were in Pickens County, halfway between Jasper and Tate. Thanks, Lonnie, now I know just where I am. Wherever the hell Jasper and Tate are.
Finally, Lonnie slowed and said under his breath, “I know it’s here somewhere.” He was looking out of the right side of the windshield. (I’m sure not many of you remember the particulars of the 1950 V-8 Ford, but the windshield was actually two pieces of glass separated by a metal bar in the center.) We crept along at twenty miles per hour for a mile or so until Lonnie exclaimed, “There she is!”
What she was, was a dirt road, and not a very pretty one at that. From the little I could see in the car’s headlights, she consisted of only wheel ruts in the earth. We pulled off the county road and onto the side road (well, it was more like a trail than a road). However, what was to come next would make this mess seem like the brick-paved road leading into the Emerald City of Oz.
After bouncing along that “road” for what seemed like forever, we made a left onto something that no man in his right mind would call a road. The car could make only about five miles per hour. There were tree branches that were windshield high, and holes eight inches deep. I don’t know if the 1950 Fords had lousy springs, or if the ones on this particular Ford were just shot, but every single hole was felt by each of the five occupants of this particular 1950 Ford.
At that pace, it took a while to reach our destination. Through the trees, and a little to our left, I saw three small fires about a hundred yards before us. When Lonnie saw the fires, he sighed and said, “We’re here, folks,” and pulled into a small clearing in the forest that surrounded us.
When the Ford came to a halt, Lonnie said, “Ya’all stay here. I gotta let ’em know about you, Andrew, and explain why I brought the family along.”
As I sat in the front seat next to Michelle, I saw three men emerge from the shadows, each holding a shotgun pointed toward the ground. They converged on Lonnie, and entered into what seemed like heated discussion. After a few minutes, Lonnie came back to the car, leaned his head in the driver’s side window, and said, “It’s cool. I told ‘em I’ve known you for a long time, Andrew, so don’t blow it for me. They don’t exactly trust white boys. Michelle, you and the girls are gonna have to wait here for me while I make the run. Come on, get out. I’ll introduce you guys around.”
I slid out the passenger side door and held it for Michelle. The girls wasted no time in effecting their egress through the back doors. They each availed themselves of one of the two.
With Lonnie herding the girls into our little collective, we moved as one to the three men who stood before the fires, looking somber, and non-welcoming.
Lonnie tried to put a cheerful face on things by lightly saying, “Boys, this here is my family and my friend Andrew. We’re all goin’ down to Florida after I make this run for you. Michelle, Andrew, girls, I want ya’all to meet Sonny Boy, Slim, and Peetie.”
Michelle said, “I am very pleased to meet you gentlemen.”
The only thing I could think of to say was, “Howdy.”
The boys—Sonny Boy, Slim, and Peetie—didn’t look too happy having a white boy, a woman, and a couple of kids in their midst. In case you haven’t cottoned to it yet, this was strictly a black moonshine enterprise. I was the only white face in the crowd. Man, how I did get around in those days.
The one called Slim raised his gun, and using it as a pointer, said to me, “You, white boy. Ya see them boxes over there? As long as ya here, ya might as well work. Them boxes go in the trunk of the Ford. Lonnie will help ya.”
Now that my eyes had become adjusted to the night, I could make out that the three fires I had first seen were firing three large vats with copper tubing spiraling down into five-gallon plastic buckets. What I was looking at were three very large stills. They are call stills because they distill corn mash into an almost 200 proof concoction of pure mountain dew.
But first things first. Michelle and the children had to be taken care of. Lonnie told me he’d be with me in a minute, right after he got his family situated. It was then that I noticed there was a small shack back behind the stills, in among the trees. It was there that Lonnie shepherded his flock. When he returned, I was standing by the boxes that Slim said had to be loaded in the trunk of the Ford.
I asked Lonnie, “Will you please tell me what’s going on here?”
That’s when I got the skinny on the whole shebang. It seemed as though I had stepped … no, that’s not right … it seemed as though I had been picked up and driven right into the middle of a moonshine war. And to make matters worse, it was a white versus black moonshine war—in the backwoods of Georgia, circa 1970.
This is how Lonnie explained it to me, as we loaded his car with pure, 190 proof liquor.
The sheriff of Pickens County was a man by the name of Bob Cole, and he received a percentage, or a “cut,” from every illegal activity that took place within his county, from prostitution, to gambling, to moonshinin', even from the sale of marijuana. The drug trade was fine with Bob Cole as long as he got his cut and it was confined to the black sections of the county. Until the drug culture of the 1960s exploded onto America, and the children of the affluent white populace started doing drugs, every police department in the country knew of, and tolerated, drugs being sold in the black areas of their cities, counties, and towns. In those days police departments were made up of all white men. I believe they thought drugs would help keep the black population docile, and besides, Who cared if a few niggers became drug addicts. Not my thinking, I just report the way things were.
Man, I do go off on tangents, don’t I? Back to the story: Sonny Boy, who owned the stills, decided one day to stop paying tribute to Sheriff Cole. Believing he would be safe from the sheriff’s reprisals the further removed from civilization he was, he moved his operation to where we now found ourselves.
Now, Sheriff Cole and his brother-in-law, who was his partner, his enforcer, and his collector, have to make an example of Sonny Boy. To allow his revolt would only encourage others to follow suit. By the way, Cole’s brother-in-law’s name was Ed Williams.
The “shine” that Lonnie and I were loading as he was telling his story was to be the first consignment since Sonny Boy went independent. Word had gotten around that Cole was gunning for Sonny Boy, and anyone foolish enough to be caught with a load of his hooch would be in serious trouble. And I’m not speaking of trouble with The Law. No, this kind of trouble meant your next of kin would be shelling out money to the local funeral home. So Sonny Boy had trouble recruiting a driver for this inaugural run.
This is where Lonnie enters the picture. His V-8 Ford was the fastest car in the county. He had built the engine from the ground up. The car could reach speeds of over 150 miles per hour. There was nothing in the county that could catch her. Or so I was told.
Sonny Boy offered Lonnie a thousand dollars, plus the proceeds of the run, if he’d take the chance of running Sheriff Cole’s blockade. As Cole had a point to make concerning Sonny Boy, Sonny Boy also had a point to make concerning Cole. He would get his shine to his customers in spite of Cole’s best efforts.
Lonnie took the job because he wanted to start a new life for himself and his own down in Florida. Which was good, because even if he could outrun Cole and Williams, they would know his car, and he wouldn’t be safe in Pickens County for a very long time. Those boys, Cole and Williams, did not mess around, as you will shortly see.
As the trunk began to fill, I noticed that there were a lot more boxes than there was trunk space. I mentioned the discrepancy to Lonnie, who told me not to worry about it, just keep stacking until the boxes were even with the roof of the car. That explained the missing trunk lid. After we had everything stacked roof high, we filled the floor in the back (V-8 Fords had plenty of legroom) and the seat right up to the headliner. Then we put the last two cases in the front seat.
Just then the one known as Peetie walked up to us carrying a rope. He handed it to Lonnie without a word, turned, and walked away. Lonnie took the rope and tied one end to the rear right door handle. Then he brought it around the opposite door and looped it through the handle, and then back again to the other door. He did this a few more times, and with each pass, the boxes in the trunk became more secure. When he had tied off the end of the rope, he went back to inspect the boxes. He tried to shake them loose, but to no avail. He turned to me with a big smile and said, “That oughta hold ’em.” He continued, “Okay, you can stay with Michelle and the girls while I’m gone.”
My retort was, “Hold on just one cotton pickin’ minute. If you think I’m gonna sit with the women and children when I have the chance to go on a moonshine run in the middle of a moonshine war, then you’re crazier than I am.”
I had just finished speaking when Sonny Boy and Slim walked up. Sonny Boy said to Lonnie, “Ya ready to go?”
Lonnie replied, “Sure am, but this crazy white boy wants to go along.”
Sonny Boy said nothing right off, he just looked me over. At length, he said, “Why ya wanna go?”
“Because when I’m a grandfather, I want to tell the story to my grandkids of the time I went on a moonshine run.”
“This ain’t no game, boy. This here is serious business.”
“I know that, Mr. Sonny Boy. Lonnie explained things to me. But Lonnie’s my friend; I may be of some help. Hell, he can’t even see out the back window. I can spot for him, you know, tell him if anyone is coming up fast behind. You never know when two men might be better than one.”
“You ain’t no man, boy, but ya got spunk. Okay … you can go.”
Lonnie said, “If it’s cool with you, Sonny Boy, then I’d love to have him along. Let me go tell Michelle I’m leaving. I’ll be right back.” As Lonnie walked to the shack, the three of us—Sonny Boy, Slim, and I—stood there staring at one another. I felt uncomfortable with them just standing there staring at me. So I said something only a young kid who was out to prove his worth would say. “You know if I had one of those guns, it might prove useful if we run into trouble.” Both men still had their shotguns tucked under their arms and pointed toward the ground.
Again, Sonny Boy looked me over as though he’d never seen a twenty-year-old white male before. He then turned to Slim and said, “Give him your gun.” Slim made no movement to comply with Sonny Boy’s order. After a few seconds, Sonny Boy said to Slim, “Look, he don’t talk like us, he ain’t from ’round here. He ain’t one of Cole’s stooges. He might just help git this load through. I got a feelin’. And Slim, ya know my feelin's ain’t never wrong. Give him the gun.”
It took a couple of seconds, but Slim slowly raised his gun, and though it wasn’t pointed directly at me, it was pointed in my general direction. And he spoke for the second time that night, “If’n anything goes wrong, I’ll know who to come after.” With that cheery thought, he turned the gun around and handed it to me butt first.
Sonny Boy asked me, “You ever fire a shotgun before? You look kinda city to me.”
“Nope, never have. I reckon I just pull the triggers.”
“Ya might want to shoot just one barrel at a time so you don’t shoot ya load all at once. And it might be easier if’n you pull the hammers back first.”
So that was it. I was now officially riding shotgun for the Sonny Boy Express.
When Lonnie got back, he did a double take at me holding the gun, but said only, “Mount up, we’re ridin.”
As we got in the car, I had to arrange the two cases in the front seat so I could get my butt in there too. Lonnie saw me fighting with the cases while holding the shotgun and jumped out of the car. He walked around the front to the passenger side where I was still doing battle with the cases. He tapped me on the shoulder, and when I straightened up and turned to him, he politely, but very firmly, took the gun from my right hand.
“This, until it’s needed, if it’s needed, will lie on the floor. Please do not touch it unless I ask you to. I’ve got enough problems with Cole and Williams. I don’t need you blowing my head off because we went over a bump in the road.” He laid the gun on the floor of the V-8 Ford, the business end facing me—of course.
All that took place with Sonny Boy and Slim watching. They said nothing, but I could tell they were mentally shaking their heads. Now that the gun and the cases were taken care of, Lonnie and I got into the car, and he turned her around so that we were facing the direction from which we had come not so long ago. To me it seemed a lifetime ago.
As we started down that non-road road which we came in on, I said to Lonnie, “How the hell are you going to get your booze out of here without breaking every damn bottle?”
“Well, Andrew, first of all, they’re in jars, fruit jars, not bottles. And we came in at five miles per hour, but we’re going out at two miles an hour. And don’t you worry. I can’t afford to lose even one jar. Right now, it’s my shine, and I get $15.00 for every jar I deliver intact.” Made sense to me, so I just sat back and enjoyed the tortuously slow pace we were making.
Eventually we got to the county road, and were my kidneys glad. Once on the smooth surface, Lonnie showed me what his V-8 Ford could do. Within a very short time, we were cruising down that road at a hundred and twenty miles per hour. I couldn’t see the speedometer, so as we accelerated, I had to keep asking Lonnie how fast we were going. I think my constant asking annoyed him a bit, but he was so proud of that car he put up with it, and told me every time I asked.
Now, my dear friends, we come to the crux of the story, the place where we got to meet up with Ed Williams and friends. In my hitchin’ career, I’ve been in a lot of scrapes, but I must admit, this was one of the better ones.
We stayed on the back roads as much as possible. But then we pulled onto what seemed to me to be a main thoroughfare. So I said to Lonnie, “Is this cool? Maybe someone will spot us on this road.”
“It can’t be helped. We’ve got to cross the swamp up ahead. It’s this road, or a twenty-mile detour down south. And I’m itchin’ to get this over with and get my ass to Florida.” Well, as it turned out, the detour would have saved us time after all.
We’re haulin’ ass across this swamp. I mean, it was pitch dark, but you still knew there was water on both sides of you, just from the spread of the headlights out to the sides of the road.
Then we saw it, a car across the road up ahead. Lonnie and I saw it at the same time. I said nothing. Lonnie said “Shit!” There was no way we could go around it, so Lonnie said, “Hold on, I’m turning her around.” Just then, and I don’t know why, I stuck my head out the window and looked back, and I saw headlights coming up fast. I told this to Lonnie and he said the bastard must have been tailin’ us with his lights out, using our taillights to light the way for him.
The obvious question was, What do we do now? And you want to know something? That’s the very question I put to Lonnie. His answer was not very reassuring. “I don’t know. Let’s play it by ear and see what happens.” He saw that I was reaching for the shotgun and added, “No, not now, maybe later.” As he said that, he brought the V-8 Ford to a halt about twenty feet from the car blocking the road.
Lonnie and I sat in the Ford, while two men came out of the darkness to be illuminated by the Ford’s headlights. They both carried shotguns. The bigger of the two ambled over to Lonnie’s side of the car. The other one was going to be my date. Before they reached us, I asked Lonnie, “Are these the bad guys you told me about?”
“Yes, I recognize Ed Williams; he’s the big one.”
“Alright, Lonnie boy, I’m getting an idea. Don’t pay any attention to anything I may say. Just keep your eyes open.” Who said that? I’ll be goddamn … it was my twenty-year-old self that said that!
Before the men could reach us, I opened my door and sprung out of the car. They both raised their guns at this unexpected motion, but before they could think to fire, I said, “Thank you, thank you! That crazy nigger almost got me killed. He was goin’ over a hundred miles an hour. I asked him to slow down but he wouldn’t. I was just hitchhiking and the son-of-a-bitch picked me and wouldn’t let me out.”
I guess because of my age, and the fact that I was white, was the reason I didn’t get my head blown off, coupled with the fact that I had called Lonnie a “crazy nigger.” I hate that word. I don’t even like using it now, and believe me, if it wasn’t for what I perceived as a matter of life or death, I would not have used it that night.
As I was going through my little act, the car that was following us pulled up behind the Ford. Only it wasn’t a car. It was a flatbed truck with wooden slats on the side, but not the back. Of course, I didn’t know any of this at the time. The only thing I knew at the time was that the headlights shining from behind the Ford gave more emphasis to my performance.
The man closest to me lowered his gun a bit, not by much, but just enough to show he had bought my act. The other man, after hesitating to review my dissimilation, continued on to his objective, which was Lonnie. Then a third man came out from behind the Ford. He was the one who had been driving the truck.
The big man, who was Williams, said before he reached the driver’s side door, “Keep an eye on the kid until we know what’s goin’ on. Put him in front of the car, and keep him in the light.” I had ears, I heard what he said, so without being told, I walked over to the hood of the Ford and leaned my butt against it, facing out into the darkness.
When Williams got to the left-hand door of the Ford, he peered in and, upon seeing Lonnie, said, “Okay, boy, outta the car.”
In no time at all, both Lonnie and I were ensconced between the headlights of the 1950 V-8 Ford.
Once Lonnie was next to me, the three men congregated in front of us. Williams was obviously in charge, so he spoke for his little aggregation. “What have we got here? An integrated, illegal moonshinin’ outfit?”
That was my cue to continue with my Oscar-winning performance. (I’m not putting the TM after the word Oscar. If the Academy of Motion Pictures, or whatever the fuck they’re called, wants to sue me, please go right ahead. My next story is about those assholes.)
As I said earlier, it’s hard to keep me on track. Let me try that again.
Williams alluded to an integrated moonshine ring. And as I said, that was my cue. So here’s what went down:
“Sir, you got this all wrong. I was just trying to get home when this here nigger picked me up. Hell, I’d ride with the devil hisself if it would git me back to my mama. She’s sickly ya know.” At that age, I could play the mother card quite effectively. It worked every time, except in one hellhole of a town in Louisiana, though that’s another story.
Man, I tried, but Williams was a hard audience to crack. He only said, “Hold on, boy, we’ll git to you in a minute. Right now I got me some questions for the nigger here.”
He asked his questions without, I might add, waiting for a reply. “What’s in the boxes, boy? Why did you feel it necessary to kidnap a white boy? You got anything to say for yourself?” He might have gone on in that vein if the guy from the truck didn’t say, “Hey, Ed, let’s git the shit transferred to the truck, then we can have us some fun with the nigger.” Ed thought that was a great idea and said to Lonnie, “Git loading your illegal liquor onto Jim’s truck.” Oh, so that was the asshole’s name … Jim.
But ol’ Ed Williams wasn’t forgetting Yours Truly, no way José. “You, boy, you help the nigger. You two hand them boxes up to Jim. Jim, you git up on the bed and arrange ’em so they don’t fall over. Don’t stack ’em. Keep ’em all flat on the bed.”
As Jim climbed up onto the truck to await our deliveries, and I stood next to Lonnie as he untied the rope, he whispered to me, “Man, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were King Cracker.”
Whatever the hell that meant.
Before we were joined by the two original assholes, Ed and What’s-His-Name, I had just enough time to tell Lonnie, “I’m going for the gun first chance I get.”
I noticed that Jim didn’t have a weapon, and if the other two kept close together, as they had been, I might be able to pull something off. They might, after the booze was loaded, relax their watch over me. I knew that no way in hell was Lonnie going to get a chance at the gun.
We loaded the moonshine onto a vehicle for the second time that night, all the while under the watchful eyes of Ed Williams and company. When we had finished, we were told to go back to the front of the Ford and get between the headlights. It was now time to assert myself. I rehearsed my lines, and then went upon the stage and spoke so those in the cheap seats could hear me.
I addressed myself to Williams, “Sir, if you’ll just loan me your gun for a minute, I’d be happy to blow this here nigger’s brains out all over his car.”
“Calm down, boy, we don’t do things like that hereabouts. No, we have our own way of doin’ things. When a nigger gits uppity like this one here, we use a rope. We ain’t had a decent lynchin’ in I don’t know how long. But we sure as hell gonna have us one tonight.”
Okay, from his demeanor towards me and his speech, it looked like I was winning Williams over. So I asked an obvious question. “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t see no trees hereabout, how are we (notice how it has now become we) gonna lynch the nigger without no trees?”
“We’re gonna take him to my brother-in-law. He’ll want in on the fun.”
Quite abruptly, he said, “Time to go. Hey, boy, can you drive the nigger’s car? You follow us. You’ll be between the truck and us. So you cain’t pull nothin’. And if you try, we’ll have us a double lynchin’. We’ve lynched nigger-lovin’ whites before.”
“Yes sir. And I’d like to be the one that puts the rope around his goddamn neck.”
“Okay, boy, just stay with us and maybe you can.” Then Williams turned to Lonnie and said, “Come on, boy, it’s time to meet Sheriff Cole … and your maker.”
At that instant, the three assholes were surrounding Lonnie, and the sons-of-bitches were really enjoying themselves. I was momentarily forgotten. I’d been waiting an eternity for this moment. I ran around to the driver’s side door, which was already opened, leaned down, and grabbed the stock of the shotgun. I had it out before anyone, including myself, knew what was happening. I yelled, “Lonnie, move.” I think he was expecting something because he was out of the line of fire before the others even lifted their heads to see what was going on. I trained the shotgun on all three of ’em. Their guns were pointed earthward; hence, they were no good whatsoever in a situation like this.
I said, “Gentlemen, if anyone is going to meet his maker tonight, it’s gonna be you three assholes. So, how do we play it? You want to die now, or do you want to lay your guns on the ground and live for a few more minutes?”
If nothing else, you can say definitively that racists are the biggest bunch of cowards on the planet. The two with the guns meekly put them on the ground. And I could see that all three were shaking down to their BVDs. I told them to move back, and when they had gone far enough so as not to cause any mischief, I asked Lonnie to pick up their guns. What a waste of breath. Before I had finished speaking, Lonnie was beside me, holding a shotgun on our three friends.
So now that I’m the hero and saved the day, I didn’t know what to do next. I turned to Lonnie and asked, “What now?”
He says, not to me, but to the three assholes, “Gents, if all of you can fit into the trunk of that car that is blocking the road, you’ll live through the night. Anyone not able to fit in, we’ll just have to shoot.” He then addressed Williams. “Where are the keys?”
“Fuck you, nigger.”
I think that was the wrong thing to say to Lonnie at that particular moment because he discharged a round of buckshot into Williams’ leg. The son-of-a-bitch crumpled to the ground with a yelp of pain that I am sure was heard in Jasper, wherever the hell Jasper is.
Lonnie then asked the other asshole that was not Jim where the keys were, and you know what? He received no smart mouth in return. He was told that they were in the ignition. Lonnie told me to go fetch them and open the trunk. When the trunk was opened, Lonnie told Jim and asshole number two to pick up the big piece of shit that called himself Ed Williams and put him in the trunk. When they had done that, Lonnie said, “Now you two climb in after him, and remember anyone not in the trunk will find himself in the swamp … and dead.” Somehow they managed to fit themselves in, though I don’t think they were very comfortable.
As soon as the lid was shut and locked, Lonnie grabbed the keys and got into the car. He started it and backed it off the road. After throwing the keys as far out into the shallow water of the swamp as possible, he asked me “Can you drive the truck? I’ve got a little brake problem, so I’ll have to drive the Ford.”
“Yeah sure, but where are we going?”
“The drop is just a couple of miles from here. We’ll give ’em the truck and the liquor. We won’t have to wait around for no unloadin’. We’ll just get our money and vamoose.”
So that’s my story. We dropped off the booze, Lonnie collected his money, and we hightailed it back to pick up Michelle and the girls. When we left, we had one shotgun, but when we returned to the clearing in the woods where the stills were located, we had three.
As we drove up, Sonny Boy, Slim, and Peetie came out to meet us. Before any questions could be asked, I got out of the Ford carrying the three guns and walked up to my old buddy, Slim. I gave him all three, and said, “I don’t remember which one is yours.” Then I went back to the Ford to await Lonnie and company. The look on Slim’s face was worth everything I had gone through that night.
Of course, we couldn’t get out of there until Lonnie gave the boys the highlights of the evening. When he had finished, Slim walked over to the car and stuck out his hand saying, “White boy, you is the first white person I’ve ever stuck my hand out to and meant it.”
Well, with a preamble like that, I had to shake hands with the man. In fact, I was glad to do so.
Just then, Sonny Boy walked up and said, “Did you remember to pull the hammers back?”
“No, sorry. I forgot.”
“That’s alright, son, you done good, thanks.” Without another word, he and Slim walked back to tend the fires, as they had been when we drove up.
Lonnie came back with his brood and herded them into the car. And off we went—Florida bound.
The only other thing of interest is that when we got to West Palm Beach, rather than let me off on the highway, Lonnie asked me to stay with them until we got to his sister’s house. He said he would see to it that I got back to the highway alright.
When we got there, and after I said good bye to Michelle and the girls, Lonnie turned to me and said, “I want you to have this car. The papers are in the glove box.” I started to say something, but he cut me off. “I’ve got no more use for her. You saved my bacon back there and no way around it, you’re takin’ her or you’re walkin’ the five miles back to the highway. There’s just one thing, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but every time I put on the brakes, I have to pull the pedal back up with this here rope. He then showed me something I had missed entirely. Lonnie demonstrated the mechanism for me. He depressed the brake pedal and then released it. It did not rise as brake pedals are wont to do. He had to pull it back in place with the rope. He had become so proficient at applying the brakes, and then pulling the brake pedal back into place, I hadn’t notice a thing the whole trip from Georgia.
I’m getting tired, so the short version is that I humbly accepted Lonnie’s gift.
One last point of interest:
A few weeks later, I found myself on I-95 in Miami, and traffic was stop and go. Well, I stopped, but couldn’t get the brake pedal up right away. I fumbled with the rope, but because I didn’t move the Ford along fast enough, a semi-trailer plowed right into me. He hit me hard enough to give me whiplash to my neck for a couple of weeks. But you want to know what damage my V-8 Ford suffered after being hit by an eighteen-wheeler? None! That’s what. Not a dent! They just don’t make cars like the old V-8 Fords anymore.
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Do you remember the last time we saw each other? It was a week past, at the church social. You wore your pink gingham dress. You know, the one I like so much, the one with the purple and yellow flowers on it. And you had on the sunbonnet I bought you for your birthday. You sure were a pretty picture. Well, that’s where all the trouble started.
