Quarantine Writer's Guild

In Honor of St Patrick

2021-03-17T20:04:11-07:00

In honor of St Patrick's Day the crew woke up, shook off their stupor and produced the most horrific set of limericks to insult the English language.

For a pretty poem, write a sonnet
Of fields, flowers and summer bonnets
A limerick you see
Is always meant to be
A work most crude and coarse and honest

There once was a Filka named faun
Oh wait, no I said that line wrong
Well who gives a fuck
'Cuz we've all got a cup
So let's drink and party till dawn!

Marcus Benjamin Danube

I died but did not go to Hell
As they said I had done very well
Which didn't make sense
For I'd built a big fence
On which all of my friends got impaled

Marcus Benjamin Danube

He's choking, give him a heimlichs- NAW!
He's faking! The crowd of people guffaw!
He does it all the time!
What?! Swallow a lime!?
Well, he's the man with the limerickshaw!

Sir. Inkswitch Blackwell

I'm not a mind-reader, you see?
Not sure if you're all fine with me.
Who's asking? Why-
It's that damned All-Reply!
Well, dude, just go with a blind CC.

Sir. Inkswitch Blackwell

My genes claim I hale from County Cork
On this day I can look down and snort
I am the true Irish
though as much as I wish
At days end I am still a big dork

Billy Joe Fish

In a pub I ran into a dude
At first he seemed a prick with a bad attitude
Then I found he was Irish
Which is kinda stylish
Considering that he's not too rude

Antares W. Smith

Lil' Marty McGunne, he was a bit flawed
Needing quick cash, he dressed like a broad
He played some hoods for fools
And got stomped in the jewels
That's right, son: 'pon his nuts they had trod

Tset

T'was once a gymnast of ballistics who trained hard,
but he wavered in doubt to Saint Barb.
In heretical tumult-
he regressed to catapult
and was hoist by his own leotard.

Sir. Inkswitch Blackwell

Happiness is a goal most thwarted
Fleeting and fey, so it's reported
Just give me a tottle
From a whiskey bottle
I will be happily most retarted

Billy Joe Fish

A bunch of dumb farts hit the keys
To try to string letters, it seems
They clacked and they missed
Typing with their fists
And produced all these limericks you read

Marcus Benjamin Danube

The Rug Man Chronicles

2020-11-30T11:46:59-08:00

Life was hopeless. I was 20. I remember that strongly. I remember laying there under the heavy down covers of the bed I’d slept in throughout my childhood. It was summer and hot and the house never had A/C. I didn’t care. I could melt into a puddle and never be seen again. I was a total failure who had to move back home to his parents. Out into the big world and the big floppy boomerang back. It was a “head hung low, a return to open arms” and an invitation to four months of utter despicable laziness. I came back limping after my attempt at surviving alone in California and Florida. What could have been beaches and non-stop scantily clad girls and spring break responsibility turned out to be far more sobering.

Parents are a safety net for that I think; and from what I hear nowadays that’s fairly common with my generation. My parents were happy at first until I refused to show my face and go out and get a job. There was a fear I would see someone who would say “Hey Winston, are you just visiting or are you back home now a total loser?” After four months my Dad started to suggest me paying rent.

The house I grew up in is in the middle of nowhere in a place called New Hampshire- this is a place where most people in Florida and California assume is in England, and so when you speak to them without an accent, they can’t quite place if you’re playing a trick on them or not. It was easier just to lie and say Boston, but then why would anyone from Boston move to either of those wretched places? No. No.

People from New Hampshire once in a while get crushed under the stiletto heels of glitter and glam-rock or just office temp work.

I peeked out from under the comforter and saw the sun pounding through the window. The world was exploding with life and animals were breeding and singing. The wind was rushing and the verdant world was beckoning me to go join it. Open fields lay swaying untouched and ticks ready to launch out and become family with the dark parts of my body. So I got up and took advantage of my verve by changing into a new pair of boxer shorts. I tore open the wrapper and took them out. The old pair I think I’d been wearing for four days- I threw them down to where they shattered next to the hamper. I crept down stairs and avoided what conversations there could be and stuck to the darker parts of the hallways, but the floor boards creaked and I waited for either my mother or father to notice. Neither had, they were probably working or running errands- all I knew was the day of the week ended in a ‘y.’

I showered and put on some angry music cd from my youth and cheered myself up with a big salad bowl of “lunch-time cereal.” It involved a large spoon. I was starving. My skin was beginning to crepe and peel because I had not left the man-boy cave in months. Occasionally some friend would call and want to see me- but I refused to take it or remember who they were. I didn’t want to spread my disaffected mood- there was a fear that they wouldn’t recognize me in my Smeagal stage. My parents were already rounding the curve of their exciting-to-welcome-me-back-home and perilous disappointment and plunging toward emergency dunnage level. I think at one point my dad even called one of them and tried to do some sort of surprise-party intervention thing. I warned him that I would not see any visitors despite his good ideas of trying to cheer me up. I think I muttered that I had no back-off committing suicide in front of all my high-school friends who came to tousle my head. They got more worried about me as the days crept by. I threw tantrums but in a manly way.

I finished my cereal and felt bad about how much pantry I was cleaning out; this noble but obviously beset upon old couple was constantly reminded of my strange appetite. They had a new grocery list which contained suspicious food items that had fallen out of their memory during the two years I had left home- the break from me which they thought they had missed me during. They started refusing to buy the junk food. Perhaps my mom saw at a time I forgot to flush- a strange fruity-pebble studded dis-colored poo in the toilet which left her thinking that alien abductions were starkly possible.

Smartfood popcorn disappeared. Regular popcorn disappeared. And so went the saltine crackers, dry roasted-peanuts, dill pickles, ice-cream, and entire blocks of cheddar cheese. The key to food binging is circulating the palate. Salty, sweet, creamy, tangy, sweet, spicy, neutral, salty, etc.When I left I was bulletproof and brave and stupidly bright. Your probably disgusted with me for putting a poo reference back to back with some of the greatest snack foods of all time, but let me tell you- no one was worse on me than I was on myself.

I had become a human turd. Sort of like a children’s TV show host in a big bouncy costume- but one which gets cancelled after the third episode because it makes kids cry.

I wasn’t fat as far as I could tell- that would require looking in a mirror. I was fat inside, though. I found hollow solace in between internet porn addiction and original playstation RPG videogames.

The phone rang- which didn’t really matter. But somehow I was compelled to answer. It was Ned Oxeman. This‘semi-friend of the family somebody’ put a beam through the handset and compelled me to pick it up. I had misgivings at my instincts firing on the third ring. I was alone, so I figured my parents wouldn’t get hep to my newfound adventurism. Because it was just me in the house witnessing this miracle, they wouldn’t have a meeting in their bedroom, conniving with glee “I am so excited, honey, Winnie answered the phone, today!” “That-a-boy! I knew he had it in him! Things sure are going to change around here.”

Ned was excited, even thrilled to speak to me. The way he said Winston even made it sound cool. I found my hollow shell wanting the approval of this 50 year old wierdo. I don’t know exactly what he said, but somehow I agreed. In the back of my mind I remember my father threatening me to get a job or at least cut the lawn. I hadn’t found time to work on either of those. I found it odd to wear clothing again. But I wiped off the cereal and put on some jeans and a shirt and some flip-flops. I went outside and then remembered I needed a wallet and keys to drive the car that was still “mine” and not yet “rent collateral” out of the driveway. Oh, and I needed sunglasses, because my eyesight was shot. I had maybe 35 bucks in my Velcro wallet, which could have lasted me another 4 months if I never left the house. I could have asked my dad how far that would have gotten me, and he probably wouldn’t have taken it.

Ned had told me the address, so I newly went outside and passed by our judge-mental cat with a mapquest direction printed piece of paper. I was not entirely useless, apparently. The cat thought otherwise- he was such a dick. I decided not to leave a note of where I was going, it could have been irresponsibility or it could have been my sorrow wanting them to still worry about me- If they were going to celebrate the shedding of the cocoon, then they would do it in slight apprehension and a mystery that maybe I was lying dead in a ditch somewhere.

I hadn’t forgotten how to drive a stick shift, so that was another victory. And I hadn’t forgotten how to change a tape in the tape deck. So with Huey Lewis and the News’s album Sports- it was a very good thing. Us blue-collar squares were making history. I contemplated how I would tell Ned that I wasn’t going to work for him, or agree to anything. I felt I should make an effort to appear to look for work. This little trip could buy me another month in my bedroom alone, if I was lucky.

I drove the drive which was mostly instinctual somehow for about 40 miles for a total 45 minutes. Because taking drives that long is normal to everyone in the world unless you live in LA, where the distance is ten miles but still takes 45 minutes. I worked the clutch and ground my way up switch-back hills into an upper class New England suburbia- this means you can’t throw a baseball through anyone’s windows with how far apart everything is. This means also in the winter time you hired someone to plow that shit or had an underground heated driveway- or like an evil villain in an 80’s coming-of-age movie- you hired a neighborhood kid like me to slave away and sweat through his snow pants shoveling that fuckery for you while you ogled him through the window every twenty minutes to see if he died or earned his $20. Which was how I got a hernia at 11. I was lower class and under-privileged and I needed the money.

Ned Oxeman lived in a large pale yellow house with white trim overlooking lesser quality homes. It was built within the last twenty years and whoever gardened for him did a pro job. The way Ned ran his business gave him enough time to do the gardening and mulching himself actually. His garden shed looked bigger than our living room. I wondered if I could live in it and shovel his driveway. Ned came outside when he heard the gravel crunching from underneath my inflatable 1994 Hyundai Accent. He smiled at the sight of it like a ghoul. He probably knew I would take the job before I even hung up the phone- and at the sight of the rust spots on the frame, he knew he had me.

He took off the gardener’s gloves and tossed the muddy pair on the lawn. One of his large retrievers came and gnawed on it happily while he shook my hand in his sweat-wrung bear paw. He had a military haircut and Oakley sunglasses on his round pillow like head- sunglasses meant for someone half his age at most. He wanted to show me something- he had this special lime-green-arm-extension for throwing a tennis ball and he launched the thing 400 yards into the woods. His dog took off like a rocket and he just laughed like a nutcase. He then turned to me and the glint in his eye faded to serious as he intoned that “That bitch would return with the ball in a quarter of an hour. Not joking, Winston.” I smirked and Ned returned to grinning the whole time. He had already decided I was perfect for the job. He brought me inside his large breezeway through the garage and had me take off my flip flops before entering his palatial den and master kitchen. Ned was a self-taught chef. He offered me a beer, and I declined it, being under-aged. He drank it himself before sitting down to ply me with questions about how I had sunk so low in my station after fleeing home two years and four months ago. In a non-relatable story of success he bragged about his two sons out in the world, one was a business major and now a full time oyster chef in Boston- while the other was still a virgin but getting an engineering degree from MIT. His third child, his daughter was still in high-school but hardly home and with friends, while the youngest Hanna was 6 and an accident in the bedroom. He laughed far too loud about this before finishing his first beer.

He clapped me hard on the shoulder and then told me he had a pool table downstairs.

I followed him down into his man cave. He was sad at his boys being now out of the house- he was stuck with three chicks now. He had the table off to the side of the carpeted stairway. It was oxblood felted and nice. Sleek. Ned went to a mini-bar and poured himself a G&T- which oddly enough were the first initials of his sons names. I looked at an out-of-place DJ setup in the corner. He explained to me that his eldest son, the chef, liked to scratch-table, and that it was his. He then asked me if I liked “the boss.” To which I replied “yes.” I wasn’t sure who he was referring to but I knew Springstein’s voice when it came through. Ned began racking up and told me to go pick out a stick from the wall by a gigantic futon.

He explained the job and took a business card out of his back pocket. It was still damp from his yard work. He was known as “Ned the Rug Man.” There was a picture of him on the front of the glossy card wearing a corny super-hero costume. On the back was a list of numbers and faxes and a store/warehouse location and description. I squinted to read it while holding a bottled water as he broke the white-ball down the table like a bull. I jumped a little bit at the sound of it breaking. I lost three games out of four and got lucky when he scratched on a break. He cursed at his mis-fires all the while explaining what he had in mind. His teeth were very white in the fluorescent lighting he had rigged up down there. I had to pee the whole time but held it in. I thought of the freedoms of the job. I actually liked the sound of it.
When I went to leave, he had offered me to stay for “left-over bomb-ass Chicken Mole” and watch the Red Sox put a beat down on the Marlins. I had to go but he seemed pretty satisfied at the whole ordeal. His wife came home as I was leaving and was pretty pleasant to talk to. She had a wide swath of blonde hair and big tortoise-shell librarian glasses. I don’t think I ever found out what her job was but I know she did the accounting for “Ned the Rug Man.”

The next day I drove out to a parking lot in the largest city of New Hampshire. You don’t care, it’s called Manchester. There were some people around and it would have been much more exciting than the center of the woods where I was raised, however, I was still jaded from big city life and so it made the market potential slightly depressing. The lot was barren and the plot that was offered up in the contract had the tent situated in the remotest corner. It looked like the mall wasn’t ready to admit to their public that they allowed gypsy’s in and perhaps it was an uncoordinated hornswoggling. Little sprigs and tufts of grass broke through sections of paler concrete out there, where anything could happen. It made customers choose between walking a quarter mile across the sea of black tar or getting in their car to get a closer, slow, drive-by look. People were tentative in their approach sometimes. It is not often one is teased with giant banners saying BLOW OUT RUG SALE and EVERYTHING MUST GO! The circus was having a sell-off. Underneath the patchwork of massive colorful signs resplendent in tackiness and glorious un-refinement was The Giant Rug Tent. This 40 x 100 foot white whale had three masts spired upward. The entire big top was glowing in the sunlight above inky shade beneath. The dark underbelly of the tent was unknown to outsiders. The salesman within had barred a majority of the surrounding entrance panels with rugs hung up on tent poles and cross pieces. Little at the time did I know that this was a salesman gauntlet. One entrance at either end- like a Chinese finger trap. I didn’t realize this yet, I was a rookie then filled with GLF. (Ned would later call this, General Lame Factor and snort when he said it.)

The patterns were beautiful and ornate oriental alternating with awful and modern- spaced for variety. Ned’s humongous 4x4 white pickup with dual-rear tires was parked diagonally outside of an RV nestled in the back. A low hum of a generator was rumbling from somewhere- and from it ran an extension cord which hooked up to the string of construction light bulbs within the tent.I parked my tiny mackerel of a car where the few customers had parked. I got out and left the windows down and the car unlocked- I’d taken the keys. Neither the car nor anything within it was of value- except for my Huey Lewis tape.

I came around to the short side of the rectangular behemoth and saw the dark entrance. The morning still had a heavy outdoor brightness which contrasted anything not directly under it as a shaded area. There were silhouettes inside swaying around and on the backside of the tent a trailer had been dropped- it had a side door swung wide open and there was a man inside it who clearly saw me. He looked to be breaking 40- tan and tall yet thin. He was balancing as he stood atop a bunch of logs which were actually rolled-up rugs within plastic wrapping. He had on loafers and sunglasses perched on his head. He likened to an old time cowboy. His hair was charcoal grey and he said “Howdy!” The way he said it seemed metro-sexual. I half waved back and looked ahead into the dark. His eyes were unsettling but his face was friendly.

When I entered my vision adjusted to the hanging lights. Boy, was it festive! The first thing I saw was a plastic table setup in the front-entrance; it had an orange and red oriental rug on it like a table cloth. Atop it were coffee cups, a deck of cards, a giant thermos and a credit-card-reader machine along with a calculator and pens in a cheesy pottery made pen holder. There were a pair of foldout chairs at the table, too- which were ill matched in height to their companion.

There was a hunched old man standing nearby turned slightly away from me wearing one of those knitted taxi cab driver hats and a pale windbreaker. He had a long ponytail of stark white hair going down the back of his neck. His nose was hooked and massive. He was an early crude form of Lincoln pre-polishing at Mount Rushmore- he could have been Lincolns goblin uncle. He must have been about 107 years old- I only saw his profile but he was leering at the young mother he was talking to who had a pink swaddled child strapped to her chest in a harness. His smile was wide like a blade and he didn’t turn to look at me. Then as if he read my mind through the back of his head he turned and the pair of the palest blue eyes I’d even seen locked on to mine and gave a twinkle and a nod. He turned back having finished with me for the time being and gave all of his focus to the woman. It was eerie.

There were seven or eight other people within the tent and it looked like a happening scene. You couldn’t tell from the outside that there was wheeling and dealing being done, but once you were in there and talking to these guys, you were sunk. What was the first feeling of the salesmanship Ned had mentioned was that you never felt like you were being sold until you just ran up your credit card for a month’s salary on 100lbs of dyed and patterned hand-knotted wool.

“Winston!” I heard from somewhere within. “Get over here and flip these rugs for me!” and there was Ned the ring-master at his best. I jogged over and felt slight relief in that I wasn’t incorrectly dressed. I had on an old pair of cargo shorts and a plaid button down and a comfortable pair of sneakers- the jingling of my keys and wallet made me feel slightly awkward among the people within who now knew I was Winston. I was holding my shorts up slightly because I had forgotten to bring a belt. There was Ned grinning at me in his used car-salesman patina. I jogged closer but had another peek at my surroundings.

The lighting was warm within from the bulbs. The layout of the tent was large foundational patterns of wooden pallets. They were placed in a grid pattern on the hard ground and atop them were layers upon layers of rugs. The pallet quadrants were close set in a labrynth which I had to navigate to get to a good side to flip on. There was single-person walking room only, except the main aisle. There were around thirty to forty rugs per the stacks categorized by dimension and expense throughout the tent. I’d get a tour later from Ned but immediately I’d learn to flip.

As on cue I had my mouth shut. It was the first rule Ned had explained at his place. When I pulled up Ned was leaning back and smiling. He was wearing a moss colored golfing outfit with leather loafers. He turned to the middle-aged couple who were standing there at the foot of the pallet of 8x10 synthetic rugs. The woman was twitchy and smiled at me and the husband was looking around at the other rugs. The husband leaned down and tugged out a price-tag on the corner of a stack of fancier ones and frowned. He then stood back up and wiped back the sweat of his brow after taking off his ball cap for a second to reposition it.

Ned noticed the man’s concern and he mentioned as a matter-of-fact tidbit that those “over-there” were authentic hand-knotted oriental rugs- which was why they jumped from $899 to $3400 so quickly. The woman didn’t flinch at all. Ned winked at me when they weren’t looking. I stood there with my hands in my pockets until Ned told me to flip the lesser expensive stack to give them a preview.

See, the stacks only show the very top rug- so they have to be flipped back on themselves down through the pile. He came up to the side and showed me quickly how to do it. The key was to take the rug on the top of the stack and fold it back on itself more than half way, so the customer could see the medallion in the center depending on the design. It’s a lot of layers so you have to keep the stack you’re flipping back nice and tight. You keep flipping at whatever the speed is that the salesman directs- he’s watching their faces for approval or not. Sometimes the women come in with a swatch of cloth or a pillow they hug to their bellies, the men never do. Sometimes the women like to lean down and compare their little scalping from their furniture at home to the rug exposed for them. It’s a process.

Ned had explained back at his house the day before that a flipper is the low man on the totem pole. His first job is to keep his mouth shut. His second job is to stand there and listen. His third job is to do what he is told by the salesman. It seemed pretty simple. I was the “flipper.” When a salesman goes around the tent and meet-and-greets the customers, orients them to the layout; the flipper is there to take care of the displaying of the rugs while the customer previews them.

When a sale is made, he is the bitch-monkey who digs it out of a pile. “Oh-ho,” some customer, usually an elderly gentleman would say- and it was always a mystery- “how are you going to get it out of there?” I would then smile and show them the smooth ingenious move.
The rug that they want is selected by salesman’s pointer finger. “Dig it out, flipper!” He commands. And then the flipper kneels down and rolls the rug up from the exposed end. Now it’s half way in the stack rolled up. Then the rugs you have flipped half way back, are lowered back down on top of the rolled up half. Then your rugs are flipped from the opposite end of the stack. You’ll get down to that rolled up son-of-a-gun and roll him up the rest of the way and- voila- how the hell do we fit it in your Mercedes? The flipper learns to lift these 60, 70, 80 lb rolls on his shoulder and take them to peoples cars. He also knows the best way to shove it into the car- depending on the model. The number of cars with lowered down back seats is quite impressive. It’s almost like Ned had made friends with Ford and Chrysler and Toyota. You know, a little “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”Sometimes the rugs are floppy, like you’re carrying a big cold-cut from a platter by holding it pinched in the middle. I don’t know why I always felt like I was carrying one- it’s just the random thought that came to my mind. I also sort of felt like a dolphin being known as the flipper for obvious reasons.

Ned didn’t leave me to myself yet, he helped me dig out the first rug. It seemed like it could get pretty busy. He was already engaged in a few sales with a sandy haired middle aged frumpy lady wearing a key-lime track suit and her son, a tall athletic college kid.He picked out what he wanted and you could tell he wasn’t going into his dorm room without a rug, as his mother insisted he live with some dignity in there.

I’d just took some initiative and hauled one out and to the customer’s car. Chuck had made a sale- he was the effeminate tanned cowboy I had seen in the truck earlier. He whistled me over and called me the flipper before he even knew me. After the sale was done and the customers were waddling out we shook hands and he was happy to meet me. He seemed like a level headed guy that would be happier riding off into the desert on a motorcycle or even going, and very pleased with the world, to a cooking show as an audience member by invitation. He had a temporary-hire look that I couldn’t shake. His handshake was firm but put on. Later I learned he changed his last name from Peebles to Steele when he was old enough to do so.

Without much notice at the time, I was surprised at the variety of people who had an interest in rugs. The couple he had sold a small living room rug to were very middle class; a pretty lady with bad highlights in her hair, a little on the heavy side with a thin mousy lanky dude with a mustache as her companion. Later Ned would comment on her out of earshot that he “wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers.” And wait for my reaction to his joke. The tent sort of has a feeling like a sci-fi discount store- one in the middle of a galactic crossroads where anyone can come and browse.

There were patterns I got used to: A husband and wife couple usually bought rugs as a team, meaning the wife or hubby would pay with the credit card and get Ned, or Andy, or Chuck’s cellphone, in case they wanted to return their purchase- In case they were dissatisfied with the colors in their “own lighting,” while the other half would usher the struggling pathetic flipper to the car and open it up for him to penetrate the hammy-floppy rug into the best suited place. The SUV was king in New England and so most of the time it was pretty easy- but once in a while, you get pretty offensive on the sedans.

My first few hours were pretty busy, and only when it died down around 4pm did I get to meet the guys. Ned was just there to help with the overflow on the weekends. Andy and Chuck were the team in need of a flipper- I was given the un-occupied space under their wing. The lunch times came at odd hours in the ebb and flow of the sales tide. People could see our signs from the overpass and would exit to come take a peek or buy. Location as Ned said, was everything in the game.

I was sent off to round up a giant philly-cheesesteak for myself in the mall when I was still drying from the sweat of hauling the rugs. Chuck did a lot of carrying too, but Andy was fucking old as shit and couldn’t lift more than a toilet seat. Funny enough, from the look of the bathroom in the RV- he didn’t do even that. Ned liked to point at stuff for me to lift, which made sense to me- he was paying me 500 bucks my first week- that was the agreement. It sounded like a lot of fun money at first, and it was more than I knew what to do with. I hardly left the tent. I liked the dedication of the thing and the opportunity to travel and mix myself up in the world. Looking back on it, what made the job most inviting was the long time away from burdening my parents. The tent, wherever it was in the country, was where I had to be dedicated to something for long hours of the day and night. I hadn’t mentioned it yet, but long hours was an understatement, flipping was a full time job. It just so happened that Ned picked me up an hour or so from my house on my first location. Smart bastard- he weaned me off from home.

That first day was exciting. I loved it. I got a work out, I got my butt moving. I had been a human turd and was now paying for it. But the pain was worth it. I don’t think I cared about the money- in fact I forgot about it until pay-day. I was paid in cash. When my parents saw me back home each night that week, they knew I was out of the house again. I hadn’t touched the left-overs in the fridge, I’d borrowed my mom’s cell-phone and answered it after dinner was too late to discuss my attendance.

The moment I met Andy, the ever-aging tree-bark faced Sicilian, was a defining moment in my young life. He snorted when he laughed, louder and more than Ned. I’d later find out sitting around the tiny pull-out RV table in it’s kitchenette that Andy was Ned’s boss a long time ago. Ned made cracks weekly how Andy looked the same for the last 30 years. They used to sell artwork and laser-photos and photo-frames and tee-pee’s out in Los Angeles before I was even born. Ned had his rug business and brought Andy on as he was dependable and adored by Ned. The rugs started out cheap when he got into selling them, but he worked his way up and never went back. Some of the sales guys he worked with would split off and go do roadside sunglasses or flags and things, but Ned moved up in the quality game and went big with the giant tents. Andy was a true gypsy in every sense. He lived out of his pocket and had done so for a long-ass time.

Andy was many things as you’ll come to know. But that first moment he was charming in a way you can’t find anymore. He had a creaky voice with a Brooklyn accent that he could honey down when he sang Sinatra. He often called total strangers “sonny,”“honey,” or “darling.” He spent a lot of time just talking to a customer and had a magnetism to them. He was physically unforgettable but even more so his personality burst at the seams. Ned said he could sell sand to an Arab- which was true, except he’d always go down on the price for the guy. I think what I liked was how much Andy liked me. I was nobody, but he definitely treated me like his best friend the moment I met him, and not in a corny way at all, he really meant it. It was like finding a lost piece of myself. It was like finding a ship in a storm when you were on drift wood and eaten half your arm. Things instantly were easy and calm with a piece of advice here or even just the way he’d acknowledge what you’d said. Andy was gold and the rest of the world was shit. He sensed what sort of a place I was in in my life and gracefully helped me find my own way.

I know you didn’t read this to hear how I fawned over a 76 year old goblin, but honesty has it’s place. There were a lot of times he pissed me off, I’ll tell you. In a way I can’t explain, Andy LaBue was the bestest friend I’d ever had.

I got the hang of the gig pretty quick. I had a friendly nature to me where I didn’t scare off any customers. Chuck sort of alluded to it that if you can appear stupid, you make an even better salesman. Chuck had a weasel-like face when he even remotely smiled, so that would scare off some people, he did better when he appeared tough and scrooge-like. There was some rule Ned made up where Chuck wasn’t allowed to have facial hair, stubble, pony tail or anything- because he would look like a sleazebag. They were pretty grave about this and the whole group nodded to me in their sagacious way, even Chuck. There was sadness in there, he’d look killer in a spaghetti-western mustachios. There were moments where I was given such pearls of wisdom that I found hilarious. If I laughed, I was ignored for my ignorance at stark truth.

One thing that I never understood was the Betty Boop rug. Andy and Ned were very serious about this. When they arrived to a new location, they picked out from a stack of cheap ones the best Betty Boop pattern. Currently in our tent, there was one of the little home-wrecker wearing a baking outfit with a tiny apron and fishnets, almost like she’d decided to cook something during a Halloween party. Her head was massively tilted and the tiny bakers hat was hanging on. She was pin-up posing over top of a giant pink heart and her imagined tears were oozing down. This rug was facing the freeway, it was the most ostentatious and tacky thing you’d ever seen. Somehow they swore it pulled people in- it was magic. There was a symbolic power to the white faced doll you wouldn’t understand. She was some pouty weeping sex symbol I didn’t comprehend. I made a blasphemous comment once about why in the world would anyone want to shag someone who was crying- Ned looked like he would fire me for that. The backstory was that Ned and Andy started selling the cheap rugs out of the west coast and the first one they had as a big seller was Betty. Somehow she fed their families and outsold everything else. That damned series went for only $100 a pop, so you had to sell an army of that thing. I think the actual cost to manufacture it in Bangladesh was $13.

It wasn’t bullshit though as time proved out. The most random people would walk in and buy her up. It was still a hot rug after 30 years. The first time I became a believer was when the Lord above gave me my own personal sign. I was an avid fan of GI Joe when a kid, stay with me on this. I remember sitting on a pile of rugs one day, picking my teeth with a toothpick when a spherical man waded inside wearing a big cowboy hat. He had a black wet and droopy handlebar mustache and had aviators on so I couldn’t see his eyes. He reminded me of Sargent Slaughter from pro wrestling and the GI Joe: Real American Hero movie when I was a toddler- except this guy was not wrestling anything but loaded baked potatoes since his retirement. The man didn’t speak a single word. He just walked to the middle of the tent and pointed to the four sides of the tent- like a compass. It was the famous wrestling point, you know- I am calling you out, terrorism.That one, that one, that one, and that one. They were all Betty rugs. He just gunslingered them out. He didn’t even ask the price- and when someone just wants it, you give it to ‘em. There is no haggling, you charge ‘em full pop, tax on top. I got off my ass quick to pull them down and roll them up. I don’t think he even said a word when he went to pay. Chuck was standing there looking like a wet noodle fumbling with the card reader. I loaded the four rugs into the Silverado and the man just tipped his hat to me and offered me a stick of Big Red. I took it, never chewed it. Holy Cow, Betty.

Somehow this was a big deal. That Saturday night in New Hampshire Ned planned on giving me an invitation to his inner sanctum, Andy and I abandoned Chuck in the tent and went out for dinner. As always, Ned was paying. It was policy for Ned: New location, go out and meet the guys, take them out to dinner, talk about the spot, provide morale support, by Sunday night- get the fuck back home to the minor account books, recliner and the golf game. I don’t know what kind of work Ned did but he was so gracious when he came to check up on us that I didn’t care. Something was happening with the new location. There was some type of initiation I had passed. There was something tribal I was involved in. It really hit home to me that this was a lifestyle more than a job. Somehow I had passed. I think I brought some life to the thing that was missing somehow. We went to a family bar and grill type place. Ned always picked it- he was fed up with lame restaurants, I think he liked coming to see us most for the wine and dine. I think he tried to order me a drink, he forgot I’d declined one at his house that first day. He had formed a new nickname for me besides “the flipper.” I had graduated to “Young Buck.”

The plan for me was such: I travel with them to the next location. Keep up the good work until Christmas break. Do three weeks off for vacation at home, the big Rug Man Christmas Party and a Christmas bonus- then after New Years and Ned’s hangover cleared, we’d see about re-negotiations. Maybe I could become a salesman, get grooved in a little bit. That meal started with endless appetizers for me and I learned about the lore of the Rug Man- the ages past and what empires had risen and been ripped asunder from personal enterprise and fracturing of personnel. I heard names like Jeff and Rod Sullivan, big Carpet Magic guys,both rivals to each other and to us whom were remembered fondly. I heard about Louie Dobbs who went to the Darkside and sold sunglasses for less than $15. He made a killing and did it all year round just following the weather with a white cargo van. I heard about the yearly Rug Man Awards, where the separate gypsy factions would come together for a truce and weekend of hotel debauchery somewhere on a solar eclipse and the Salesman of the Year Award. Ned had the samurai sword still, it was in his office back home. Each year a new sword was given. I asked Andy if he ever got one and Andy shook his downcast head imperceptibly. His eyes were in his brown ale. He was really more of a best-supporting-actor type of guy. It didn’t matter to me. Andy was better than those awards. He felt the real way of the warrior was by following the bushido of one’s inner salesman. He sort of looked like the long lost father of Carradine from the Kung Fu TV-series. His spawn were deadly. Andy had his own demons which I wouldn’t be privy to until I spent my own time with him on the road as a rookie salesman. I found out he had sired four sons actually.All of them had Sicilian names that sounded like they started with the letter G.

They swapped a lot of good stories that night and pried into my young life trying to get details about how I was with the ladies. I told them what little knowledge I had and they vowed to have me lose my “flipper cherry” atop the rugs when the right floozy customer came in for an after-hours visit. Andy had a twinkle in his eye at that- he was a ladies man in his own way. Apparently you weren’t much of a rug gypsy until you had some girl in there on top of a pile of 5 x 8’s. There was one pile which had a white shag rug on top, and every time I walked by it from then on I had my imagination flare up. Blonde, brunette, redhead, curly, straight, whatever. I was starting to see why the nick name Young Buck was being bandied back and forth. Ned often called me that in front of the young female customers, looking for a sign of their interest- hoping to farm me out like livestock.

Back to the restaurant for now. Ned used this moment of man talk and segued into the second point of my contractual negotiations. Once we left New Hampshire, they were going to need a Flipper who could double as Security for an extra $50 a week. That wasn’t so bad, actually, because you were either in the tent in a sleeping bag or in the RV listening to the Flight of the Valkyries come out through the kazoo of Andy’s nostrils. The cost of the collective rug inventory was more than a million bucks for sure. We probably had over 1,000 rugs under that tent. I knew it wouldn’t hurt to have the money, I’d had some bills and some savings to plan my unknown but likely strange future with. Chuck had told me one day while restocking the tent from the trailer that a man could put $400 dollars a week into an average interest bank account and have a million dollars pretty quick if he stuck to it. That sounded impossible to me, but one day I sat down and calculated it out and it wasn’t impossible if I applied discipline in the faces of the fast-food gods.

Chuck was currently the one holding the security job at night and he was getting that extra cash. He had some debts from god knows where he was chipping away at- something big because he was at it for years. He would buy pasta and cheap food to cook in the RV- he wasn’t into fast food demolitions like I was. My first year was eye opening, I’d saved my receipts as an independent worker and in tax write-off I spent over 4 grand in dining out while on the road. Ned had asked him if he’d let me have a go at the Security in the hopes of keeping me around when we traveled out of New Hampshire. The salesmen were bringing in 10% of the gross income to their pockets at the end of the week- they weren’t hurting. I think $1200 was what it worked out to be.

We did a stint of a month or two at each location, it really depended on the spot staying hot. It usually took a few days after arrival to warm up but you could tell when the demand dried up locally, that was when it was crucial for Ned to come back out and visit. He would sniff the air or something, rub sand between his fingers from a crouched position and decide if we would move or stay.

Ned had a whole day planned around a location move. 10 labor-for-hire guys would be scrounged up from the local unemployment support center. These guys were always a bit wild and desperate to please or be lazy. They’d come in their personal cars or ride share or a van would roll up in the morning around 7:00am. Ned would be there to supervise it. Andy was pretty good at running them, too. They didn’t like Chuck, he was too girly underneath it all. Ned paid the men $10 an hour through the agency, and if they worked hard, he would pay cash off the books for the last two hours of work. These guys had their bag lunches or didn’t eat anything at all. You could tell they needed the cash. Some smelled like booze and feet. Some I suppose had been released from prison within the past year. I remember one guy named Vinnie who looked like a Samoan-Puerto Rican with a long mane of curly hair. He wore a Greenbay Packers hat. I remembered as a toddler earlier wondering why so many homeless people cheered for that team? Big sports team winter coats were popular among the down-and-out, too.

The breakdowns of the tent started officially by the rolling up and carrying out rugs to the truck, where they got stacked inside in neat rows by size and type. This was just a whole lot of schlepping. You kept a steady pace and wore down one side of your shoulder. Two guys would be up in the truck taking the rugs from you and carrying them to the back in the dark. Stacking, hauling, pointing, laughing, telling stories and staying in motion. It was gallows humor. I was with them, I was the flipper.I lifted rugs all day anyways, so my body had gotten somewhat accustomed. Ned urged me to be the best at it to encourage the guys to move faster. Set an example. But Andy had them pegged better than that. When Andy told them to take breaks and go easy- they sped up. He winked at me because I’d seen what he’d done. The rugs were endless. The guys saw what progress they made and didn’t really have a problem doing the work. Ned sometimes sat in his truck or in the RV supervising. Andy would take out the bins and supplies and smaller items used for us. We had some rug books and notepads and things. Andy would be able to cut down the lights and price banners which we had strung up. He couldn’t do too much work but he did alright. One scrawny 40-something black fellow said thumbing over his shoulder at Ned that “That’s the boss, he can do whatever he wants, you know? He’s the boss.” But he said it with a reverence that changed my mind. We’d take a 45 minute lunch and get right back to it. I usually zipped off in my shit-box car or Andy would go pick up something. The guys that didn’t eat just laid down on top of a pile of rugs and rested for the time. Chuck was in good shape and so he’d supervise a lot of the lifting. He’d roll up the outside banners. I think Chuck didn’t want to be seen driving off in his cobalt PT Cruiser. Hideous- he just didn’t get it.

Whenever we had tent flags, you know, pennants, up top on the spires, I’d have to climb up there on top of a ladder and hope to god I didn’t slip. It was pretty nerve-racking- but I was the flipper and the labor guys thought it was a good show. I’d sit on the peak and shimmy down in the valley and back up. Three spires, three flags. Then I’d clamber back down to the ladder. Ned usually watched for some type of inspector when that happened.

The entire 18 wheeler trailer would fill up by around 3 pm. Then the pallets had to be stacked up. Those we just sold to some local guy who would buy them back from Ned. On setup tent day Ned would buy them at $5 a pallet for the month, then when we moved, sell them back at $4 or $3 if the guy wore him down. There was usually a flatbed that came by or a couple beat up pickup trucks. After that came my favorite part, the tent deconstruction. The 8 giant blue 55 gallon water barrels which held the corners down two at a time got dumped. The side panels got un-velcroed, dragged off and folded up. The center tent poles were sledge hammered out, then ant-carried off and put in the very top of the trailer. Lastly the ratchet straps which fastened the tent top to ground stakes were released. Then the wooden side 4x4 poles were pulled out of their eyelets and taken to the truck. Now the tent was supported by aluminum poles which acted like gables. The sides were lowered with the posts gone and you basically have a roof sitting there. Now Ned stood watch for safety inspectors, because “flipper” would get his ass up on a ladder and straddle it while taking the pins apart which held the panels onto the frame. Panels of the top were in 6 sections, they were un-velcroed and unlaced from their eyelets, dragged off and folded up. Next came the deconstructing of the frame poles which were pinned together at the joints. The slower type guys were handpicked to undo and roll up the ratchet straps around the perimeter. Now, you have to pull the ground stakes out of the pavement. This required a heavy ass stake puller- a pry bar which sits under them like a crowbar for giants. You knock the stakes around with a baby sledge until they give. Depending on the parking lot, they make you patch the holes, so a dude goes around with a bag of quickrete and lastly some black sand to fill in the tops of the holes. All this stuff goes in the truck. The white tent pieces are in gigantic white bags, and they take four men to carry them in as the last items. At one point we had a bigger inventory and those tent pieces had their own white cargo van, really weighs it down on the wheel-wells.

Ned had the last part of the symphony fade when he had a trucker come around from Rhode Island and arrive right on time as we closed the doors. He was always this one cool brother named Arvin, who looked like a boxer. He would climb down out of his cherry-red Peterbilt and ask if we’d be ready to close up the truck. Then he’d say “See you in…” - wherever we were headed next. Ned put his truck seal on the back doors and waved him off. He’d pay the labor guys and make the awkward farewell to them, see you later, but probablynever again. Then we’d do our own miniature pack up of the RV if we were heading out that night. The generator would snug inside it. The RV had a motor which collapsed it and made it road worthy. It was cool to stand inside and watch the shape of it change. The puke colored carpeting would brush against itself and the plastic walls would creak. Usually we were beat from the day and by that time it was around 5pm. So we’d hit one last good restaurant after a shower. Then crash all together in the RV or in a motel if Ned was feeling generous. The wine would flow at those dinners and the road trip absorbed the hangover the next morning.

I bet your wondering as much as I was at first how we’d shower. Well, I’ll tell you. Ned was definitely into using his charm wherever he could. Anything you didn’t spend- you made for yourself in profit. Wherever we ended up going, contract pre-arranged, Ned would have scouted out beforehand a local gym. Sometimes this was a chain corporation, like Total Fitness or Planet Fitness or 24 Hour Gym or something. I liked the bigger and cleaner ones, because they didn’t care if you used the facilities once they recognizedyour face. Sometimes they had free smoothie samples lined up. I’d shoot one back and flip flop my way to the Men’s. Chuck would always inquire whether or not they had a tanning bed. That dude was a cocoa bean, he couldn’t stop. I think he did it to make his teeth look even whiter than the bleach strips he religiously used, did. One time I got curious about the tanning bed and mis-timed it. I still had good skin since a kid for the sun, so I thought. The whitest parts of you burn pretty fast- don’t do this to yourself. Chuck was certain one could go in there naked and I thought it would be a good idea. I burnt my ass raw. It was excruciating. I winced my way around the RV that night. I even filled the little sink in there with two gallons of milk so I could sit in it and relieve the pain. Chuck felt bad but Andy and Ned wanted photos of me propped up on the sink with my pants around my ankles and my dork covered with my hands.

Ned would waltz into one of these places and at first play it cool, he’d ask for a trial membership. Sometimes these were a month long and bango, we had our showers locked in. We would be sent in separately through the day to ask if we could do a free trial membership. I felt like a spy even though I got sized up the least because I was the Young Buck. We sent Andy in last. The humanoids at the gym in their track suits and polos would eye Andy suspiciously for good reason. It was a risk letting a 120 year old dude enterwithin the palace of Apollo and slip and die in your shower- maybe you’d have to personally drag his wrinkly naked ass out like E.T. on life-support. Andy was Sicilian and Hollywood definitely made it seem like if he died, one of them would get whacked for it afterhours. If it got obvious to them that something was up, Ned would sell them straight. He’d ask for half price because we only wanted to use the showers. The manager usually didn’t care and since the manager was running a gym, he didn’t have much going on anyway. We’d walk in there with our shower bags in rotation from a few minutes drive from the tent. The flipper showered last, because he was the first to rise and shine and get the sides rolled up to display that we were open for business. I showered twice a day actually, because lifting the rugs on a busy day made me pretty ripe. Sometimes I’d do laps in the pool or soak in the hot tub. I had my bathing suit with me whenever I traveled as it was a family rule. We didn’t have a swimming pool so when one came in as an opportunity, it was idiotic to not have it, if there was a diving board and I wasn’t prepared, I was teetering on the cliff of the ever-indignant.

The first location I went to out of state was in an overflow parking lot outside Holyoke, Mass. The mall had it bought in case of Black Friday where their close-distance parking didn’t suffice. The mall was a 10 minute walk from where we were situated. The bonus was that if anyone was driving to that mall- they had to pass us and see the glaring tent asserting to them they were being ripped off buying rugs anywhere else. Holyoke was a funny area, a bit of a different demographic. The average household income was 110k a year. It was also the second highest Irish population in America outside of Boston. It was also the birthplace of, guess this, volleyball. Who in the world would have guessed that? I kept having strange dreams at night in that tent of immigrants pouring off of ships escaping potato famine and drinking their way stumbling into a tennis court- where they only had an inflated sheep’s bladder and came up with something eventually because they couldn’t find their way out of the fenced in court. Somehow it caught on.

That first night we arrived in Holyoke, before setting up the tent with the local Labor-Ready squad- we went out as the whole band of sales guys to a restaurant and bar. It was a cozy warm place with wooden wheelchair ramp access to everything. They had a pool table that was out of order at the moment. It’s so much easier to just have baskets on the pockets, guys. I sat up at the bar and ate a couple meals on Ned’s dime. He liked to see how much he could feed me, and I didn’t cost any alcohol tab at my age. Andy and Chuck were more expensive and way less entertaining. There was a heavy set girl with long black curly hair who worked there that was eyeballing me- somehow chicks can like a guy who eats a lot. Ned thought tonight was the night, so when I went to the Men’s, Ned must have talked to the female bartender about the Young Buck being for hire. When I came back with my hands smelling all perfumed from their cheap soap dispenser, this girl come over and sidled up to me while the three wise-men sat forward and pretended to be having an adult conversation. I navigated myself out of being this chick’s dessert. I gave her the impression I was less interested and in a set-up and she kind of went away dejected that I had standards. They thought this was so exciting until they felt I was a huge disappointment. Any of them would have been fine with the choice. I got street-cred despite their mewling and bitching. Sun Tzu says “he who decides the time and place for battle, claims victory.” I got back at Ned with a whole new order of buffalo wings. Bushido.

Ned was pretty interested in filling up the jukebox with maudlin and classic country songs, and the night wound down to sensibility towards a productive morning.

There were a few things about Holyoke that were strange. It was getting colder and fall was right around the corner. The temperature was going to drop big-time into the forties at night. Ned was over the moon about the location. It was kitty corner to a Barnes and Noble, and if I wanted to go use a bathroom during the day, I went there. We had an RV, sure, but I’ll let you in on a little secret about RVs:
Everyone wants one for fun once in a while- and nobody wants to empty that damned sewage tank. Ned showed me how to do it on a road trip the following year heading down to Naples, Florida. We even went to an RV world where they sell all sorts of crap for this type of vacationing lifestyle. The amount of things that exist in RV World will change your life. They have chili-pepper Christmas lights to collapsible refrigerators. The types of chemicals you needed to put into your own human waste to keep yourself from turning into a Ninja Turtle were unreal. There is a simple baby-blue hose you hook up to this tank, and when it starts to glug out into that ground receptacle, and you see that hose writhing with the weight of human feces like a digesting python- you just know you got it on you somewhere, and the smell is beyond ken. The hose is steaming twenty degrees hotter than the surrounding climate, your business has been decomposing with your pals and it’s ready to Ebola your ass. RVs sell all over America second hand, for one reason: That singular first time you empty the septic tank and you realize what usually flushes to Narnia with good old reliable plumbing can never be erased from your mind, nostrils or your hands. If you fuck with that procedure, you’ll get put in a mental hospital. You’ll never pay closer attention to how to stay alive. No one wants to die mishandling poo, my friends. Put it on your grave stone: He died because he couldn’t handle his shit. RVs are a mobile third world country. I never drank out of the sink in that thing. I bought 5 gallon jugs.

There was a lot of time to sit quietly on the rugs and reflect, as you can tell by now how my mind works. I remember driving up and down the strip there in Holyoke. It was my first stint away from home by the ever changing wills of the Ned rug circuit. It looked barren, backwater. It was not true, things happened there that taught me strange but valuable lessons in life.

We had arrived in a place where rug sales was not un-competitive. That’s an understatement, it was very competitive. Ned didn’t scout the place in that regard at all- we were caught unawares. We were wild crazy Americans with backbone and adventure and Table & Vine in our blood. We did not foresee having to circle the wagons at our tent. I was the Security guard. I was the Secret Service. I was a stupid young kid with a few martial arts classes under my belt and a familiarity with Bruce Lee movies from the dollar bin at Wal-Mart.

We didn’t expect to cross paths with a local rug mafia. I am not talking about small time crooks here. If you have ever been to a rug dealer’s showroom it sort of goes like this: It’s by appointment only. A man greets you with a turban and oiled beard outside his showroom and envelopes you with a sacred handshake which is more personal than a hug- it’s almost hand fucking, you and your wife enter having to dismount from your shoes upon a sacred tiny rug which belonged to his great, great, great grandfather who founded Holyoke. There is discussion of your health and prosperity. You are eyed by Persians with wide and soulful appraisal. They guess your household income and guide you to where they feel you are able to purchase from. You are the most important person in their world, you are family. Behind their backs are bejeweled-sheaths and wickedly curved blades which you cannot see. They have prepared within seconds steaming and pungent aromatic tea the likes of which you have never imagined. The air conditioning is adjusted to your liking, your coat taken long ago at the door. You are offered to sit on tall chairs covered in silkened pillows, almost like a child’s at the dinner table so that you may look graciously down upon the rug stack being flipped. Family portraits of rug czars hang above you on the walls and incense is burnt for your pleasure. A hookah offered, denied most likely, and the tea is exquisite to your taste from an ornate tray with a teapot on it that looks like Cleopatra- not Robin Williams will pop out of it. Three vestal virgins silently float out from behind beaded curtains and a ceremonial belly dance is performed, you do not look for your wife will kill you, having been relegated to a slightly smaller filigreed high-chair next to you. They are said to be the daughters of the lead salesman who does not speak but waits behind a pit of fire for you in a raised dais- pleasured by your pleasure. Only he speaks in the final transaction phase and then a sword dance from a bare-chested man wearing MC hammer pants and elf-shoes is done to the rattling and zinging of strange instruments. We pissed off some weird dudes. This was officially the first time I ran into rug terrorists.

They rolled up to the tent one day in dingy white rape-vans. No plates, tinted windows. Their cousins who got out wielded small knives and dark swarthy unflinching glares and shiny felt track suits. One had a pompadour like Arab Elvis. We were undercutting their business and Black Friday was about to become Black September. The guys were for scaring us- and it worked. I had to sleep in that tent knowing I could wake up tied to a car battery with my twig and berries duct-taped inside my mouth. I watched a lot of movies which preceded them in intimidation. I imagined them rolling up, like in that freaky scene in Back to the Future, where Doc steals the Plutonium for the Dalorian from the tablecloth headdressed Libyans and they roll up with AK-47’s and shoot up the parking lot. They could have even been the same guys from the movie. I didn’t have a time machine to outrun them, I had a Hyundai Accent that ran on babies sighs and chipmunk farts and maxed out at 44 mph downhill.

So I used my brains and the system which 70% of my tax dollars were going towards- the local police department. Except no cops came, they sent bigger fish. They sent in suits and black Lincolns with antennas for shooting down alien space-craft. A military built square-jawed guy with sunglasses took my story down and my cell phone. I was now deputized to alert my government about terrorism. It turns out that there was definitely some shady stuff going on with these Persians. Federal Officer J. Black was very intent on making sure I alerted him if they came back. No body fucks with America. I remember buying a lead pipe that night and charging my cell phone. If I was going to be the last man standing I’d do it my way. No guns, just darkness and the knowledge of my tent’s layout. Ned was impressed at my fortitude. He saw me not back down from the dudes when they rolled up in the van and he wanted to reward me in his own way.In the American Way,in which you reward your wranglers who protect the property.

The best thing going in that town was Cracker Barrel. I remember walking by a large family waiting to be seated. The youngest child was throwing up on the wicker. Have you ever tried to clean wicker? One of those little laser beam flashy drink coaster things sat dormant in the mature-est child’s hands. Ned took us there in the morning to see how I would do and he had reservations somehow- so we went right in. The amazing thing is they serve the entire menu all day. I think he ordered me every side order possible, so about 50 tiny bowls came around which restaurant people refer to as “monkey dishes.” They had baked apples, fried okra, mashed potatoes, straw fries or wedges, green beans, collard greens, lima beans, corn, bread rolls, hash, potatoes au gratin, baked potato, baked beans, hash browns, biscuits, sausage gravy, jambalaya, bacon, ham, you name it. I had my side of pancakes, my Belgian waffle, my French toast, my chicken fried steak- I was an international man. Not to paint a picture incorrectly you must know that I was not fat, but I should have been and it wasn’t fair to starving people in any third world country. My parents didn’t take me out often to eat and so I had been exhilarated with this type of treatment. Ned paid and I became that shift’s dishwasher’s worst nightmare.

Did the terrorists come back? No. But later Federal Officer J. Black did call me to say they made some visits and not to worry: the tent shouldn’t have problems any more. It didn’t either, not at that location.

Halloween was around the corner. Nobody buys a rug on Halloween and the kids won’t stand for it. Parents have work to do, they are out there being chauffeurs for the night. I remember giving concentrated hell to my mother at 4pm after school because we just hadn’t gotten out the door yet. She took longer to do makeup than I did to throw on a pirate costume in 30 seconds. I had everything ready in my room ahead of time, I’d stripped the pillowcase and a backup in case I reached by delusional goal of 60 pounds of candy. There is something wrong with marketing and holidays in our country in that kids are targeted with this stuff.

I remember making my first big sale then. I was flipping through a whole series for a couple and their kids were sprinting up and down the stacks of rugs. I remember the mom turning to reprimand the kids that they were going to be in big big trouble if they didn’t get off these men’s rugs. It was too harsh for me, so I violated the rule about keeping my mouth shut. I was feeling good being out on my own and employed. I decided to pipe in when Ned was out of earshot. I said to the woman before she laser beamed her children off the top of a towering stack of 4x6’s where the kids most definitely would have fallen into the lava “Oh, don’t worry about them climbing all over the rugs, if they weren’t in here doing it, I would be as soon as you guys left.” She thought this was pretty charming and let them play. The kids didn’t know I was their unsung hero, but it felt good to be an unsung hero. The Dad was there and he was flipping through a set of matching runners. They met in the center aisle and some sort of deal was struck. I remember them coming over and asking me what the total price would be. My ears were hot and I feigned a frown. I was faking out my first customer! The price was in my mind and I went over to the calculator all sly and shit, looking like I didn’t know the full-pop price- I did a little punching in and added the tax with the percent key. Then just showed them the calculator.The very calculator I had only hours before typed 55378008 into and held it upside down so that it said “boobless” to Andy. He thought I was a genius. I could do no wrong by him. The couple then looked at each other and did that married brain wave exchange thing. Then said “We’ll take the set. And is it true we can return them if there is something off when we get them home?” “100% correct. Here’s the company card, website, email, cell phones for Ned, and my own cell.” I took my stupid little blue cellphone out of my pocket and waved it like a Flipper would. They decided which credit cards to use and I rang them up. The kids were crawling all over the rugs and I knew my hip edgy humor was a secret weapon. I don’t know how many times I used that line on people, but oh man, did it work. Come on in, get lost in the stacks, take a nap, we are just a bunch of fun laid back guys trying to get rid of some overstock at manufacturer’s price. We aren’t even salesmen! How did we both end up here? What rugs?! When Ned came back with a mozzarella and tomato panini half in his gob, I showed him the receipt. He exclaimed with his mouth open and a triangle of basil on his bicuspid “Nice Young Buck! Full Pop!” Andy opened his eyes from his snooze in the foldout chair and smiled his toothy grin. No words. It was time for some wine in the RV.

In the honor of the holiday and the children who had become my favorite sign of good fortune- I was feeling like a humanitarian and decided to go buy a giant bag of candy from the mall. I’d put it in a salad bowl from the RV and the kids that happened by could take all they wanted if their Mom and Dad were down with it.

I walked that distance to the mall and went in yet didn’t accomplish my exact goal. I was a pro salesman in training. I was heading down the escalator wearing my warmer clothing and with the bankroll I now had I felt it itching for spending. I had sushi on my mind from the food court. I would buy so much of that stuff and tip graciously the man who made it. It was just a California roll with shrimp on it but I felt like making friends with the hardworking people of this wonderful land. He would smile and nod as I complimented him on his technique and his speed. He never sliced his thumb off while I was talking, it was impressive. He plastic-containered it and bagged it up with soy and chopsticks in less than 5 seconds. I didn’t need sushi to-go that fast, but I wanted him to know that I, too, am a working man who appreciates good service- good service similar to how I myself serve others! We were a team- me and Hakan. Hakan got a five-spot from me and I knew it would come back to me in spades. He perhaps didn’t know much English, but I felt like I could just talk to that guy. Chuck wanted me to buy him a gyro, because that’s what Chuck was like. Andy was fine with a quarter of a baguette, olive oil and cracked pepper, salami and a bottle of wine. The gyro counter was close so I went there and the register man started talking to me in Turkish. I had no idea what to say. I shook my head smiling, but you could tell how much of an impressive figure I must be with my dinged up leather jacket and a confident walk. He said I looked Turkish. I wondered if maybe this was the rugs or if this was the hat I was wearing on my head. Either way, I felt accepted and I tipped him too. I was Turkish. It was a good thing.

Now there is a truth that I learned the hard way. It was something on the order of the easiest person to sell to is a salesman. Lord almighty did I think I was bulletproof. I was such an amateur. I went up and out of the food court and felt the ladies eyes on me with this new aura of gallant success. I breezed by and grinned at women of all ages. I chucked some dude on the shoulder stacking up a display pyramid outside the footlocker. One shoe only, who steals one shoe, right? He just gave me the upward nod. I gave him the tilted peace sign and a double tongue click with the patented Turkish family wink. A few entrances later I stopped and bowed to the Asian massage parlor guy who stood at attention blinking behind his counter. He bowed back. I went in and laid down on an inclined table and got worked over by a doll-like woman with iron hands which melted me like butter. My face was chubbed sticking out of the little head donut they make you peer through for twenty minutes. I just stared at the food sitting on a chair in it’s white plastic baggie. I sang while I got my massage. Things were happening. I then took my bags and made my way back to the base of the escalator to head back up to the street level. Some voice came out of nowhere. “Hey! Sir!”

I was a sir now, wasn’t I? I turned, intrigued. There was a pretty girl with a burka on beckoning me to a kiosk with various plastic containers on it with gooey pastel contents. There was no sign of what was inside. What could be inside those containers was happiness. It turns out it was Dead Sea salt scrub. She proceeded to bath my hands in a basin right there before I could get out an audible sentence. Her hands were lovely and covered with intricate henna tattoos. She smiled and talked a mile a minute. She explained how the salt exfoliates and takes all the dead skin off, leaving your hands silky and smooth and enlivened with ancient earth wisdom. It was true, it felt like my hands were soap. I couldn’t believe the difference! I tried to touch other things to see if the feeling would change, and it did not! This stuff was magic! She told me how much the entire kit was. I could use it on my entire body (not the eyes,) for Christ’s sake! This did not seem out of the ordinary in this new and welcoming world of endless possibility. I was about to tell her “I’d think about it” and she fired a shot at me point blank. “You have black-heads.” I was stunned, she totally invaded my face. “I do not have blackheads.” I defended myself. She shouted! “You do!” There was no argument, and then there was a mirror inches from my nose. I did have them, indeed! There was an army, all cowering from the salt scrub, mustering bayonets and preparing for battle. “Give me the whole set.” It was $75 for salt scrub that smelled like cucumber. I’ll be damned though- If I spent that much, I was going to use in on my whole body. When the Young Buck was ready to lose his “rug cherry,” he was going to be a black-headless mink! She did not care what my job was. She did not care that I sold rugs. She took my bankroll and sent me on my way. Just as I got to the RV with my overwhelming purchases I wondered if she did not work for the mafia and was getting back at us through a backdoor.

Halloween night became stranger around closing time. I was in the tent and unfurling the side panels. You do this by walking on the rugs and undoing a little drawstring which has the sides tied up like festooned bunting. The sushi was battling inside me and I was feeling fresh and energetic. The night would potentially be spent sleeping on the rugs and watching a Redbox. I felt like getting a scary one, because I hardly ever watched them.

The tent was right near a sidewalk heading to and from the mall. A dark dressed teenage girl in nylon leggings and ripped gothic Halloween gear was walking backwards turned the other way. She had her thumb out. She was hitch-hiking? I squinted into the shadows. I was feeling generous, platonic and a good citizen with responsibilities to greasing the world as it turned. I yelled out before my enthusiasm could shut up“Do you want a ride somewhere?”The girl then turned and her black pigtails took the lamplight better. She slinked through the soft grass toward me and into the lighting of the tent. Her face changed and she wasn’t some young girl who was being unsafe.

Do you know when you see someone and you immediately like them and feel comfortable and safe around them. It’s a nice feeling, right? It’s stability isn’t it? This was not that.

She was an under-developed woman of at least 22 years. Her eyes were red and she had a twitchy look about her under the skin. She would have been pretty if she was sane. I don’t know what I had just done. She probably had a knife on her and was going to give me another bellybutton, use her big black boots to shove my crying and shaking form out of the car like a kangaroo into a ditch. Then steal my shitty car in order to quickly get to her moon ceremony on this hallowed night and les-out with her coven. I kind of liked the idea of being creeped out- adventure! Whatever she asked me to do- I didn’t really pay attention, I just remember saying “Sure.”She stood there while I lowered the rest of the sides. She kept rubbing her septum to make sure it wasn’t falling off. The tent was closed up so I told Andy I was giving someone a ride down the road. He snorted from inside the RV and waved to my new friend. Ned and Chuck were at the showers. I brought her over to my car and gave her a sidelong look to see her reaction. I was a little offended with myself that my car was the color of green gardening boots. Well, at least I had a car. She really didn’t care- I am not sure if she even knew what planet she was on. I opened it for her and she got in as if programmed to. Her black stockinged knees were sticking out from under her dark corduroy skirt. She held them closed tight while I walked around to the driver’s side. I got in and asked her where she wanted to go. She looked like a child then with the moonlight coming through the dashboard window. She lived somewhere in the direction of her skinny little finger “that way” and I started the car down a dirt road turnoff. Don’t worry, it wound back to a main road, thank god. The drive was maybe 5 minutes away and I didn’t turn the radio on, it would potentially have been weird. I didn’t have a goth-rock station preset, ever. I probably would have had Donna Summer come on with what I usually car danced to. When we got down to the next L-shaped plaza with a liquor store and a donut/pet shop and nail salon, she had me pull over. She then rolled her big creepy eyes at me and offered me oral pleasure- “for the lift.”

Are you kidding me? It was less than ten cents in gas! I was driving a Hyundai Accent which got 37 miles to the gallon. I think I said “I’m fine.” She then just opened the door and got out and walked away towards the pet-shop. I think she said “Bye.” But I am not certain. I cleaned my car with a loofah the next day soaked in Windex. My righteous good deed would protect me in the eyes of the Lord above.

Thanksgiving was coming and the location was a four week stint and a bit of a bust as the season wound down toward Christmas. We had one last shot with Black Friday coming and this was our big plan. We would put up tons of banners on that last week which we weren’t technically allowed to put up and rake in the sales. It took special permits and ordinance bla-bla city approval to get okay. Ned was crafty. That weekend could make the entire slow worth it. Potentially we’d get four weeks worth of sales in a few days.

Sometimes it would pick up then, it was tough to tell. While I waited I kept myself busy. For fun- whenever I went to the bathroom at the B&N, I often would pick up a book. They had a big laminated orange sign asking customers not to enter the bathroom with books, it essentially said if you shit or pee near it, you bought it. Considering the niche profession I was in, it worked out for me to do so. I bought about 18 books at that location.There was a cute redhead cashier who saw me taking them in there who disagreed at first. When she told me I had to buy it, I said, “I know. It’s a great system for us. We are in a symbiotic relationship.” At some point she probably caught on that I worked across the street in the gypsy tent and then she found it fun. I always bought them and had to hold them up for the barcode scanning. I would nod to her that yes, this one too went in there with me. Barnes and Noble was my safe haven. They had a Starbucks too, so one day I even took a Chai in there with me. The men’s had a big stall fit for a king. There were no cup holders and I lowered down the baby changing table. I was shocked. Some dude had nicked a Penthouse and left it hidden in there and didn’t fucking buy it. I was annoyed by this. I felt like there were people out there giving us honest rug gypsies a bad name. There was an honorable way to use your literature in the Barnes & Noble bathroom and that guy, whomever the hell he was, was gonna wreck it for the rest of us. I imagined a dude going in there with his kid stinking up a diaper and trying to figure out if he could still do a change on that surface knowing what could have happened to it before he got there. What if Mom isn’t there to save the day this time? Way to make it easy on families during an already hectic season. It was probably Chuck.

Thanksgiving came. Chuck hung out with Andy for that Thursday and they ate Cracker Barrel. I went home to see my folks. I ate a ton and I took off that night all stuffed with a roiling hell of carbohydrates inside me. I drove against exhaustion and mazes of time through the few hours of blackness and potential executions from deer attacks. The plague of sleep is terrifying while driving. You know in every fiber you should simply pull over- but no, you can do it. It’s not that simple, is it? You convince yourself that you are fine, that it’s a temporary fog with bright alertness just a mile or two away. I went through the obvious idiot checklist: I slapped my face, the back of my neck, I poked my eyeballs. I cranked the entire Alanis tape of Jagged Little Pill. I sang it out loud and falsetto but snoozed between tracks and at the stop-lights. I splashed ice water on my face from partially frozen water bottles in the back seat. I dripped the melting down the back of my hoodie. I chewed on my cuticles. I rested my head on the steering wheel and looked through that little gap- you know what I mean. I pulled the hairs on the back of my neck the opposite growth direction. I slapped my face more and so on. After the 3 hours of rotational masochism I had made it! No naps! I got to the tent and hauled out my sleeping bag, I don’t remember preparing myself for sleep or saying hello to anyone. I remember flopping onto that shag rug stack with my pillow for a landing in blackness. In the morning I woke ready for anything. Black Friday came and it certainly was a Black Friday- because nobody showed up. I don’t know what happened.

There were a few more sales in that final week before the holiday break. I got to experiment on the innocent. The other guys sort of let me go at it. I think they were a little bit ready for the vacation and didn’t give a damn about making any money after the bust of Black Friday. Ned came out for the heavy traffic and when it was post-apocalyptic he went down the road to pick up some alcohol for the boys.

Sometimes the customers just want to have a look, and it’s best if the flipper looks stupid enough and shy enough and polite enough that he is an unassuming salesman- whom goes over and quietly offers to flip down through the stacks for people. I learned some smooth moves just watching these guys- I think Ned had bigger plans for me which I wasn’t aware of yet. My training wheels were still on but I was allowed to wear my floatie’s into the deep end. I was pretty happy with my greeting catch-phrases that “broke the ice.”

Customer walking in timidly (with support friend or family member.)

Young Buck: “Good Morning!”

Customer: “We’re just looking!”

Young Buck: “That’s okay, we’re just selling!”

Ned taught me that one, but I wasn’t a fan. Something about it setup a game between the two of you, which in the end I thought could sour the sale because you started off a smart-ass. Instead I made some of my own.

Young Buck: “Good Morning!”

Customer: “Just looking!”

Young Buck: “Me too, but I found this chair!”

Customer: “You’re so funny, Young Buck!”

Young Buck: “No, seriously, let me know if you find a decent salesman around here.”

And this one:

Young Buck: “Happy Holiday!”

Customer:(pauses) “What holiday is it?”

Young Buck: “Oh, it’s National Rug Discount Day!”

Customer: “Very funny. How much of a discount?”

Young Buck: “Well, what are you looking for?”

Young Buck arrives along-side and very interested in color swatch.

Or:

Young Buck: “Hello!”

Customer: “Just looking!”

Young Buck: “No problem, let me know if you need helping finding anything!” or “Ok, cool. I know this place by heart if you have something in mind?” or “Gotcha. If you know what you’re looking for, I’m the guy that can flip them back for you.” or “Go for it. No pressure. I’ll be right over here by the banana nut muffins.”

Nobody likes a salesperson from the movies who humps the main character’s leg- why would they like a salesperson who does it in real life? People like to be treated decently and given space to orient themselves. They come into this huge circus of possibility and need a second to breathe and realize you’re not Snidely Whiplash with a monocle and top-hat ready to tie them down to the railroad tracks, cackling.
So the trick is to be a decent human being- and believe it- and underneath it all deeper and darker then can be seen… you are Snidely Fucking Whiplash.

“Ok, Young Buck.” Ned looked down at me from his command platform atop the stack of 8’ round rugs, like a big pile of embroidered flap-jacks. “This is your introduction to the Car-Door Close!” I stared up and then closed my jaw as it was rude. Ned took one akimbo fist off his hip and pointed. Andy was nearby pretending to wear a scarf on his head like a babushka- which was frighteningly accurate. He was shuffling from the exit and off the side of Ned’s pickup parked diagonally outside the tent. “You wait now Young Buck. You wait for it.” And Andy slowly raised his hand to the handle, like a freshly hatching butterfly it fluttered to the truck’s passenger door. “Ma’am!”Blared Ned. Andy jumped a little and turned, mock curious yet slightly coquettish. “Would you take it right now, if I could save you a TON of money?” Andy stood there, awestruck at the discounts floating through his/her mind. His eyelashes were like windshield wipers. “Why, yes!” She was having hot-flashes at the sudden bargaining and desperation in Ned’s voice. “But. What. Is a TON of money?!” That was when Ned walked out into the sun-light, bathed in innocence and surrender. His face was slack, Mrs. Andy was killing his pocket on this one. “Look, if I knock off $100 and eat the tax, would you take it right now?! (before I die any further!)” Andy stands there, fanning himself. In the lagging thought and the leaning away from the door handle and this new plateau of power. Ned fires out. “AND, if you don’t like it in your home, you can bring it right back here, for a FULL refund?!?” What could Andy lose with that? “OK!” Ned then stepped forward all sweat-browed and saved from bankruptcy, wiping it away with his left arm and leaning forward with the right for a handshake. Firm. Relieved. Sealed. Done. Then the card machine better do it’s job.

I was feeling pretty frisky with my new moves. There weren’t many customers around though. I was done treating Andy like a woman with the drills. At one point he came on to me as a gag.

Ned had scheduled us for the big Christmas Dinner Bonus Handout Party at his house. He had gone through his cooking magazine subscriptions and found one that made him endlessly enthusiastic for the last week of the rug sales. He sat at the salesman desk with his reading glasses perched on his nose and the magazine folded behind itself. He was designing an epic dinner. He asked if we wanted truffle gravy, which I thought meant chocolate- I was in.

That day came where we broke down the tent and every year we did for the holidays. We packed up the truck and put it somewhere for holding over the period. I thought I was off for a while. Ned had other plans for me. I wasn’t in a position to say no. Ned sort of owned me at that point. My bonus figure was unknown as of yet.

It happened when I was at home laying around and avoiding the responsibilities of wrapping any presents. I went with the whole gift bag thing that year. I bought a ton of gift bags, sharpied the price-tags, and then shoved the items in and then put some stuffing on top that is green or red or white. My Mom didn’t like it when I wasted a bow on my bags, so I usually gave her a bag with 5 big bows on the outside, which she would preserve for the next year in disapproval. She would mother them carefully off the bag and then recover the adhesive with tags of wide ribbon. My gifts were wrapped in a matter of minutes and I was lounging in style with flannel pj’s and popcorn I was supposed to decorate the tree with instead of eat. I was a working man. I didn’t take orders. Ned called and reminded me shortly of who was the boss. I needed to be at his house the next morning and drive through the snow storm to get there. The Hyundai was feeling it’s oats and we did make it. I had forgotten there was the other 7 on the clock- which was when I arrived there. I had to wear some long-johns under my jeans and sweatshirt. I had my winter hat. You drive prepared then, because you die if you aren’t. I couldn’t really fit my car in Ned’s driveway. He had a giant U-haul there.

When I stomped off my boots in his mud-room, Ned had a breakfast ready. It was solid. It was a breakfast burrito- he knew my softspots. He told me our game plan for the day.

What our game plan consisted of slowly dawned on me as such: I left my car at Ned’s place with no way of escaping wherever we were headed. We arrived in this giant U-haul to the back of his ware-house. This was a pretty big building. It was in the middle of an open lot which was freshly plowed. The street side entrance had a showroom with a few stacks of rugs. The backside was storage. This was friggenmassive, bigger than the tent. There were racks and racks of rugs- well over 2,000 rugs. Three levels high, as tall as a man could stand. These racks were 10 bays wide. There were six or seven aisles of rugs all stacked in the bays. Ned had his truck there waiting for him when we arrived. He backed the U-haul up to the doorway and put it in park. A walk-way ramp like to the Millennium Falcon slid out by hand. It would be our draw-bridge. Ned then raised the back door and the warehouse door- one of those big sliders that goes upwards on a chain pulley.

It had been all talk of “we” up until this time. Sometimes you don’t get an eerie feeling that “we” really means “you.” He then handed me the truck keys and warehouse keys and told me I could find the bathroom easily and asked me if my cellphone was charged. I said it was. He then said smiling that crafty salesman smile that I didn’t want to be on the other side of “Call me when the truck is full.” Then he went and got in his pickup and drove off, white tufts of snow and exhaust billowing behind it. My heart sank. I slowly turned around and looked at what had to happen on “our” vacation week. I felt like I was being called out as a man-child. I know what you’re thinking, I went to the bathroom and cried for a little while. Well, you are wrong.

Fuck you Ned. Fuck you. I took off my coat, because this rug-monkey flipper-bitch was about to get sweaty.

I pulled those rugs out one by one and walked them up that rickety drawbridge, minded my footing in the snow-fall and packed them into that truck. It took about twenty minutes to get even a layer down in the back of there. I had ditched my sweatshirt and was simply wearing my long sleeved shirt. The steam poured off of me. I had a winter cap on and some warehouse gloves. I schlepped and schlepped. When I got to the lighter ones, even though they were 8 feet long, I still could carry two together at a time. So I adjusted my shouldering and did that. I was going to kill myself physically and see what would happen. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, really. It was a question I had never asked myself in my entire life. I didn’t even bother doing the math- math wouldn’t change what had to be done.I did not know my limits as a man. I did not know what it meant to feel the whip crack across me. I knew where I was months before in the cave of my bedroom and how I was dying in there. I wanted to see what I was made of.

The guy didn’t even tell me to bring more than a single water bottle. I started at 7:45 in the morning. I carried those rugs.U-haul? No shit. I swam in my sweat. I fantasized the settlers making log cabins, or the ancients building castles and those before them somehow moving giant pyramid blocks on timber. Then I laughed at the idea of one man doing that. Even the pioneer’s made their children carry timber. I felt those trapped in flesh before me demanded justice or deliverance from oppression. I was not going to let Ned beat me, I was not going to let men like Ned defeat the spirit of man. I was not going to be the lesser, the reduced. I had wild thoughts fly in that told me I would not continue, could not. Every bit of reasoning drifted in and mocked me and I carried onward. I knew it was a matter of one foot in front of the other. If I tried to think about the progress of efforts as a compounded whole, I would not make it. So I didn’t. It was one rug at a time. My mind drifted but I moved.

I went through varying vacillations of hating myself, Ned, Chuck, but never Andy. I went through ghosts and girlfriends and relationships and music. Where my entire life story imagined or recollected flooded in to protest where I now was- I just kept moving. I decided that no matter the protest of the mind, I would keep moving the body. And on it went.

Ned was no dummy. He knew his opponent. That Machiavellian tyrant! I would play this game. I would work all day alone, and for what? For money? No- this would never occur for just money- paper. This was for something better: For the pride of being able to stare back in those eyes and say “No, mother fucker, you did not break me.”

It was 11:35pm when the truck was full. I called Ned. My body was numb and hollow and all I wanted was to shower and to eat, but I did not dare mention it. Ned came back in his truck and closed the U-haul. I locked the warehouse, and we went back to his place. He didn’t say a word and I wasn’t listening if he had. There was a spot set at the dining table. I ate whatever was there. I drank 2 glasses of water. Ned showed me the upstairs guest bathroom. I don’t remember even the sensation of water being present. I don’t remember sleeping on a guest futon. I remember in the morning, riding silently back to the warehouse and getting in the U-haul. We went to a storage container facility with big maroon doors. Ned’s gall was not any weaker than the day before. He opened the storage container and the truck and turned to me. “Fill it up, Young Buck. Call me when you’re done.” He then left.

My body might have complained, I don’t know. But I know that week I emptied that warehouse and filled those storage containers. I know that I did, in fact, do it and that I’d done it alone. The back of the warehouse was empty and echoed my breath as I chanted my way to the eventual completion.

Ned was selling the place. Ned the Rug Man wasn’t doing so hot. Somehow he was bankrupt and hadn’t let us in on that fact, I’d figured it out. But Ned always had a plan, you can count on that. Like I had moved those rugs, Ned had worked through life day to day his way. He wheeled-and-dealed, hard- like I had moved those rugs. Life was an ocean for a guy like him and he wasn’t going to drown. If his nostrils were still above the water, then that was that. Another day made. Another system maneuvered through. If there was a window or a back-door, if there was a crack, Ned was breathing.

When the week was done, I had finished around 4pm. He then had me help him pack up any of his personal shit he’d left in there. Random odds and ends: Record players, a vacuum cleaner, tapes, a poker table. He let me take whatever junk he was going to just throw in a dumpster for myself. I didn’t need any of it, but I got a lamp I might need when my old one died. He helped me on those days. They were days of dictation and decision. We ended up in the final moments a few days before Christmas standing there in the last vestiges of a business he had built and collapsed.

Ned looked at me and said a sentence which changed me for forever. It was full of many things and I won’t tell you exactly what I felt- but you might understand on your own from what I’ve said. “Winston, I can’t pay you your bonus for all of this work- but you have earned it. I know this vacation time you might have rather been seeing your friends and your relatives”… I waited. “…and I appreciate the hard work you did.” I never broke my gaze. Ned sighed and continued. “I’ll give you an option. I can figure out what the labor should be for this week and pay you that as the business picks up… with the plan I have. Or, I give you $400 for the Christmas Bonus and we take a look at a stack of slightly damaged hand-mades- I have upfront in the showroom. They are the last rugs in the warehouse and they need to be packed up to go back to Hadeefa in New York. What do you think? Does that sound fair to you?”

I followed him in without answering him. I held my breath. We were in that front show-room. There was a single stack of 9x12 handmade rugs. It was the last of what Ned could have called his own. I think he was going to leave one off the books for my sake from the pile.

Where this matters is this, and it might not mean jack to anyone outside the business. Even a decorator or collector might not get the nuances of what this meant to me. The entire world of rugs comes from Persia. This is where entire families would live their gypsy lives, traveling and surviving the crazy weather. These nomads would have rugs as a way of life. They covered their tent floors primarily, then their walls, and pack animals with rugs.Hand knotted and hand-dyed. The process is special. It is a family business. The wool is gathered from sheep. It is shorn and collected and spun into thread. The gut of animals is used for the woof and warp of a loom. The wools are dyed in batches with bright colors made of urines, other natural chemicals and beetle shells and crushed flowers or plants. Anything that would dye, vegetables especially. The people who make the yarn dye, have their hands permanently stained. The rugs are begun. Usually the women do this, they weave all day and into the night by fire-light. Their hands are tying knots at 4 knots per second.Little girls to old women- all of them a part of this willful slavery society to their husbands. Some of the rugs are woven so tight that it is 200 knots per square inch. The rug is taken down off it’s stretcher bars and finished on the sides. They then give the rug a haircut. Usually a tiny man in the village uses a pair of scissors to set the length of the pile. This greatly affects the weight of the rug. He does this over days and days and the rug is wiped of excess thread pieces. No water contacts this art as the dye will run anew- but in a desert that is not such a concern. This rug is completed with it’s pattern as foreseen. Some of the rugs are as big as a palace floor. Some are as small asa welcome mat. They weave in their family “gohls” or emblems, often represented as a paisley or “burning leaf.” They have their own family symbols or that of a larger production done by a tribe. They trade these with dowry and the rugs last a long time for the family. The entire world survives off of this production and has for a long time. It is a miracle that they have come from a place which lacks so much but still makes space for such tireless beauty. It is an art. Even a family may spend months and years upon certain rugs. Today, the eldest son flies to America with one rug in his back-pack, the blood of his family, to sell door to door. It will sell for 4 grand. He will feed his family. The rug means a lot to them, and so it should to us when we walk on them. Plus, they tie the room together.

There stood this pile- maybe 12 rugs in all. They were beautiful blends in Blue, Red, Pink, White, and Purple. Each rug was one that had made a journey and never sold. Each one had an intentional flaw in it- for only Allah is perfect. Some imperfections were slight, but could be found eventually. There was water damage on some here or there, from where a rain leak occurred in the tent- and got by the watchful eye of a rug gypsy. I was not satisfied yet by the top layer rug. It was nice, gorgeous even, but not for me.

Ned continued to flip down and appraise them. They each felt a little off. Beautiful to someone, somewhere, but none stuck out. He was worried at the selection and that he might have to pay me honestly. He continued to flip and I continued to be unimpressed but barely show it. I saw the corner with the price-tags. They were fluttering by with prices in the $2,000 to $3,000 range. Ned was watching me carefully from the corner of his eye. I looked them over for quality, for appeal, for a certainty of what I felt.

I had lasted this long and not broken under Ned’s scheming, what was a few more seconds of humble service and patience? I had spent the last week quiet and to myself. When Ned arrived to expose the last rug, I felt an instant calling in my bones cutting through all the sore muscles and indignance I’d hid. There it was. This was it.

There lay a Persian hunting rug. Masculinity at it’s core. This rug had spiraling over it temples, grinning deer, vases, flowers, and a gigantic center medallion. This rug was epic. This rug was the most unique color combination. No pinks or purples, which are the most common, nor always predominant reds. It had black as a base, sky blue and slate blue next, terra cotta orange structural spirals and window frames, then highlights of cherry red, grey, and white with black outlines. This rug was made for me, this rug was made for this moment.

I said that I had chosen it with one glance. Ned looked at it’s obvious flaunted value and was perturbed at its thickness and tightly knotted workmanship. It was much more valuable than the ones that had rested atop it. He flipped back the rest of the sides and scanned for the eventual unsightly damage- of which there was absolutely none, and I mean zero. He then lastly went over to the price tag and frowned. It was $4,600. He sat there crouched, thinking to himself what had happened. We had already shaken on it. There was darkness under that gaze.

I had waited and yet still, I waited. I had won. He had to agree to this. Out of everything I went through, he had no other choice. After what seemed like an eternity, Ned glanced at my face turned toward the rug. And so he nodded and said nothing. We folded up the rest and left mine for last. Ned turned on the lights to give it one last look, then folding it up together, we put it into a small green Hyundai Accent that cost 7 times less than the antique Persian which we stuffed it with. Once in the back seat fully, we watched it sag on the wheelwells.

When I drove home through the storm, I drove like a granny. I did not even smile then. I was too proud to smile. I had well beyond made my bonus. I walked away with something more than just a rug. I walked away free.

I brought it home and my Dad was annoyed a little bit- I think one of them muttered that I was ruining Christmas. My parents felt my pride oozing off even though they didn’t get so much why. They liked things their way and weren’t too susceptible to change. In truth, the idea of some cataclysmic shift in decoration was met with frowns and sidelong glances. The rug was too big for anywhere in the house, except the living room. My mom had a south-western motif. The living room was currently under Christmas assault- meaning the pair of long-horns hanging upon the plaster wall above the brick fire-place were festooned with shiny garland. The old beam work ceiling had French horns dangling down and other odds and ends. There was a hat rack for Stetsons and a bird feeder made out of a cowboy boot that had a mobile with Swedish elves dancing next to it. I know you think that might be strange, but it kind of works when you see it. So now I added a third pallet to the room. The western rug with it’s green and red and black zig-zags went off to my parents bedroom floor, and the living room became a Persian hunting lodge. There were huffs and puffs and demands of why it had to be this way- and why around Christmas time, of all times? They became wary of the price tag- impressed and afraid. It became a room no one dared enter for fear of spilling anything on Winston’s rug. I think they stopped having people over. But the rug mattered. The rug colors weren’t combatant, but it made everything else look cheaper or unnoticed in the face of it’s flaunting testosterone. It tied the room together.

My Dad developed a special tool to refill the Christmas-Tree-stand while protecting my rug. It involved a long PVC pipe with an opening for water and a funnel at the other end. He would hook it in there by looking through the tree. He griped that he wouldn’t dare be able to see where he was pouring in the daytime. So he had to do it at the darkest part of the night where the lights of the tree guided his path. He would stand outside the tree with his digeridoo once he had removed the new additional presents from his pathway to the stand. “Nobody put presents on this side of the tree, you have to put them around back on the other side!” He would call this out through the floorboards to no one in particular because we never got a public address machine- but I mainly felt he was referring to me. “Wouldn’t want to damage Winston’s rug!” Then on Christmas morning my Mom shuffled around the living room and collected up the tossed wrapping paper and ribbons while letting everyone know she was handling the trash and not to get any pieces of tape on the rug. Good Lord.

Ned called me a week after Christmas, something had gone wrong at another Tent where Dan and Kathy were working. I hadn’t met them yet but they were a husband and wife couple working out in Nashua through the holidays. They sold their home in Bakersfield, Cali to travel with the tent and be rug gypsies and handle their massive debt from getting their two kids through college. Their son was a decent baseball player and had a shot at the big leagues. He had a pitching arm and it was his dream. There was bad news down there in Nashua, they were just betrayed by their Flipper, Brad. The American Dream was becoming a nightmare. I didn’t get all the scoop until I showed up at Ned’s the next morning. I had packed a suitcase and some heavier duty clothes for the largest city in NH. My Flipper skills were needed- but more than that, my Security skills.

Ned told me with bitter resentment in his voice about Brad. He was supposed to be keeping security in the tent at night. One night, while Brad was “sleeping,” someone had come by and made senseless misspelled graffiti on the side panels. The side panels wouldn’t clean and they were a few hundred dollars. Brad didn’t fucking wake up, way to go Brad. Now the worse side of it was that Brad, like me, lives in New Hampshire. Brad, unlike me, had to go home each night instead of sleeping in the tent to bang his pig-faced girlfriend using the bosses U-haul to make the drive. Brad didn’t recall the U-haul had an E-Z Pass highway-toll mount-receiver above the dash. Ned caught him red handed running up the bill statement in the middle of the night, to and from. Brad was fired. He could go flip burgers, not rugs.

You may think that is harsh. But here is the deal. These were rugs. These hand-knotted, handmade rugs cost thousands of dollars- some tens of thousands per rug. They are in stacks of thirty to forty high. What stops a dyslexic graffiti artiste from spraying them and damaging them for forever- how far will his blind creative juices take him? What if he changes his mind about tagging and decides to steal some of the merchandise? Who pays for that? The insurance won’t cover jack-shit if hired security doesn’t guard them and they are stolen. The kind of thing the insurance covers is meteorites, flash floods, typhoons or the plague. It even covers man’s greatest enemy, the skunk. Why the skunk, you might ask? I will tell you. Not yet, but when you are further broken in on this life-style.

I also didn’t explain further, earlier, about Ned’s business going bankrupt. It had, and he had wheeled-and-dealed his way into keeping it afloat. Ned traveled down the east coast to Jersey and found the rug manufacturer of his largest supplier of machine-made rugs. He went inside with an exhumed neck-tie and proposed to these guys on his first introduction what he could do for their company. This company MatteCo had provided rugs to Macy’s, Wal-Mart, Home Depot, JC Penny, Pier 1 and many other giant chains of home industry. These guys were huge- they were rug America. I can even see him go in there all clean shaven and gypsy like. He had his tent business and this is what he told them: He would help them get rid of their overstock and prior seasons or styles product. He’d take it all off their hands and get them profit on it. They had plenty of the stuff still kicking around which they didn’t know how to get rid of it because the chains wanted the newest inventory to sell. That year the big colors were baby-blue and chocolate moderns and rather hideous if you ask me, but Ned could sell those, too. He would get out there on the streets and sling these things and give them what otherwise would be a total loss. He would sell ‘til he smelled. The tents were very little overhead to run. The generator used gasoline. The parking lot contracts were peanuts, too. Ned had to go meet with city officials who were picky about three things, really. Gypsies, signage and they prayed fervently we wouldn’t bring port-a-potties. Good heavens, we never even heard of such devices or people, we had class. To the big-wigs, Ned laid it out straight. I think he left off the gym showering and lied on Andy’s age, too. Ned had saved the business and took a massive pay-cut to keep his warehouse from killing him in the end. He had to sell that and get rid of his company and go to work for MatteCo. The board of directors solemnly stroked their beardsand did not reject the idea. Ned was being given a trial run to see how much he could sell and if the advertising and sales were even good for business overall. This year was vital, to make an understatement. Back to idiot Brad, the bane of tent-dom. How the hell could Ned handle a $100,000 loss because Brad couldn’t do the deed in 20 below freezing on a stack of rugs like a real Flipper.

Young Buck was the successful business model. Young Buck had stopped terrorism and saved the integrity of the sport of volleyball, in only a few short months. Young Buck had no pig-faced girlfriend. Ned wanted me in on this bad, and I felt for him and for all of our gypsy futures. I thought of that samurai sword hanging above Ned’s giant oak desk. It would have to be earned.

We rolled up to the tent and it was a slightly different style but also a 100x40 footer. The side panels had doll-house windows. Little white arch frames with once transparent panes made of plastic. Over time with the scuffing of weather and rolling up the sides, they were scratched to an opaque. Dan and Kathy had a little space heater setup in the center of the tent next to their table. They were smarter than Chuck, Andy, and I. I suppose I never wondered what it would be like to go into full-time rug selling with a wife, but there are elements to it that stand out like a sore thumb once you see it. These made for some interesting experiences.

I met my new superiors within a few minutes after a sale peak wound down. Dan was about my height, with a big grey brush of a mustache. Kind of like the Pringles guy’s dad. He had a real country boy sharpness to him that was completely covered in the dough of a child stuck in a man’s body. Dan was funny and very easy to get along with. I liked him. He talked a little like a kid, too. He liked to tell me bawdy jokes when Kathy wasn’t around.

Kathy, in obvious ways, was a good mom. It showed up in her salesmanship somehow. She really understood customers and had a great laugh. She was round and short and had blonde shoulder length hair. She kind of waddled a bit but she was very sweet until she got a gimlet eye. Then you better watch your ass.

I couldn’t really fail when Brad bit the big one like Judas. I was a breath of fresh air for them. That first day was simple. The weather was below freezing until the sun was out- there was thawing before noon. Crusty snow scattered the parking lot and the icicles were built up on the tent corners. It looked kind of pretty out there, sparkling and dripping in the mid-morning. We had people come up wondering why we weren’t selling Christmas trees despite the GIANT RUG SALE signs on all four sides. There were heaping snow banks around and shoveling was my favorite American past-time. So I did that to keep the paths open to the entrance and let them feel me out.

While I was new and not yet broken in on the selling standards of Kathy, Dan sent me out to get “Jack in the Crack”- his nickname for the fast food joint. He liked the mini tacos they had at 20 cents apiece. I ate anything they had which was standard menu fair. I didn’t try anything wacky and experimental on their menu- to me it looked like they were marketing to druggies. I would have never bought anything from that chain out of principle but Dan had a right to his mini-tacos. Dan liked to whistle- a lot, and also in Spanish mariachi tunes. So I always knew where he was. But Kathy was quiet and could sneak up on you- and her voice was clear and penetrating. The first time we sat talking in the tent she had so many questions for me about where I was from and what my hobbies and interests were. I opened up a bit, enough so she thought I was not some hoodlum, but in the back of my mind I felt like I was being interviewed and weighed. The feeling of untrustworthiness was there. I can understand that, she was a woman out in the pioneering wild. She had to change in that RV with three millimeters of flimsy plastic between us. Dan was excited, like he had a new friend coming over to hang out. Kathy wanted to tiptoe around and not ask if I had a pig-faced girlfriend.

Ned took us all out to dinner that night and risked the tent being left unprotected in order to have us bond as a family. The tent would only get messed with in the middle of the night, anyways. He seemed to think this was the best plan. Perhaps it was. We all got along pretty well but it felt a little social between us- some things were left unspoken between Ned and team Kathy-Dan. Ned had worked with them about 20 years ago, before they went off to have kids. Ned trusted them and it was a different relationship than with Chuck and Andy. Those guys were cowboys. Ned was more of a gentleman around Kathy. I think he was a bit scared of her. Somehow she had him on the ropes about certain subjects I didn’t care to deduce yet.

We went to a steakhouse. Dan and Kathy enjoyed their Greyhounds and Sangrias. Kathy warmed up and snuggled closer to Dan. I thought things were better between them when they drank. They could bicker easily, sober. But the day was forgiven when it was happy hour. Dan told funny stories, but he liked hearing them too. I told them a few but the floor was Ned’s mostly. There were a few stories about the adventures in the business, they had been to many of these Rug Man (& Woman) events. They swapped their stories while I ate my meatloaf sliders, sea-food Alfredo, and onion rings. At one point they were scaring me with an experience they all had battling the elements in Texas. Two years prior in Austin they had their tent setup in an endless parking lot 50 yards outside of a Saltgrass Restaurant Bar & Grill. They had rain barrels and tent stakes holding the tent down in preparation for wild weather. It came. It was a hurricane.

The tent whipped in the wind, billowing up and down and yanking at it’s supports. That storm tuned up to 80 mph. Around 60 the top starts to go and the side-panel Velcroripping as they take flight. The rain comes in and stings your face and flattens your clothes while your bowels try to fall through your shoes. These rugs are on stacks, so you have to flip a bunch over to hold them down like paper weights if you can’t get the prepared tarps dragged over the stacks and weighed down.

Dan and Ned were sprinting the length of the tent when they felt the hot air and cold air fronts swirl and lift up the edges of the carpets. Kathy had slid the administrative items and cash box into a container and headed to the Jeep they drove to move it to a safe position away from the tent. The sky pressure faded and the sunlight was overthrown by a churning grey monster. Particles of trash from trash-less freeways began to hurl by. Lightning danced in the distance and the sky broke and the thunder was so loud you had to close your eyes. A heavy gust found it’s mark and the entire top of the tent lifted off. The D rings on the corners bent like wet macaroni and the ratchet straps busted off like rubber bands. The top of the tent was lifted into the sky and gone, billowing out and down into the lot 40 yards away, it just blew off like a newspaper- a newspaper which ripped through saplings on its savage emergence into the world. They chased their rugs out into the lot that didn’t outlast the gusts. Entire stacks peeled away like loose copy before a rotating fan. You can’t stand on the effect side of the stacks or you could get bowled over by their flight, even killed- they hopelessly watched over 60 hand-made rugs soak in the rain and wrap around trees and cars. Each one destroyed. When the storm passed and their emergency tarps were in place and weighed down, they went to recover their dead. Thanks to Ned they were insured against the elements.

They all nodded in disbelief at the final statement about it being a long night. Ned ordered another tent at extreme prices- they had to set it up nearby the rug pallets and move everything under within a few days. From that point on they always had the rug truck on site.

The evening wound down with maudlin music as Dan and Kathy were huge classic country fans. Ned had picked it up from them seemingly. They wanted to see me eat something garish from the desert menu, so I did. It was a lava-hot blondie brownie the size of a land-mine, piled high with scoops of French-vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, diced walnuts, and drizzled in a lattice of chocolate and caramel- all in all it was the size of a human head. I made them eat some with long probing spoons but I did what was demanded of me. Kathy was a little disgusted but Ned and Dan thought I had divine powers.

It probably would have been best if I hadn’t because it took a team of restaurant staff and a wheelbarrow to extricate me from the premises. Ned tipped them handsomely for their services. It was my first night keeping security in 20 below freezing weather. They knew how cold this would be and were just trying to butter me up to the task. In all truth, it is hard work carrying the rugs around on a cold busy day- but even harder work is trying to sleep in weather like that. You shiver yourself awake every two hours. This wasn’t some boy-scout trip either; and even those made me wish I never signed up. This requires layers upon layers of protection. Getting ready took me ten minutes in the RV by myself while everyone else enjoyed the silly tipsy feeling and the heater of the Jeep.

First I put on heavy wool socks over top of my regular socks. Next I put on another pair of long-underwear, followed by some sweat-pants and then my largest pair of jeans. Then I put on a long sleeve shirt and my sweatshirt. Of course, I put on my first pair of thermal gloves, then I put on my winter gloves because those are the first little piggies that go to the frost-bite market. After all that, I put on my coat and winter hat. Then, because that’s just how it goes, I decided if I needed the bathroom or not.

I picked up my mummy-bag and pillow and waddled my way carefully down the dinky kickstand step of the RV and out to the tent. A mummy-bag is a type of sleeping bag which drawstrings around your face. I was careful not to get ice buildup from the edge of the tent on my stuff when I ducked under the side panel. How do you self-incase in a mummy-bag, you so astutely ask? You have to sit on the edge of the rug stack of resting and put your boots in, then zip it up part-way and squirm your backside in, then it’s sit-up position in the cocoon as you put the pillow behind your head and zip up the rest of the way. Now your hands have to come out of your gloves and work an inside zipper up to your chin and find a drawstring somewhere in the liner. Viola! There you lay, smiling through your own personal polypropylene anus, nothing human to the observer’s recognition but a nose running like a faucet until it freezes closed, while you’re praying for a fart that doesn’t smell but only warms. My dormant lactose intolerance and the brownie from outer-space were up to the task. My sleeping bag was the same color as my car, which was weird. And if you need a better picture, I looked like a big fat caterpillar. I fell asleep at some point after hating my get-up-and-go willingness to satisfy demands- which ordered mine occupancy of the collapsed castle of Brad the Leper.

*****

Then around 2:00am I woke to hear through my anal-pore the crunch of road salt and fat tires. My gloves came upward when my mind adjusted to where I was and worked the hole to let my right eye take in the tent lighting. Two spotlights arced around the side panels and pitched roof. Fuck. There was low whispering. Dan and Kathy were staying in a hotel room which Ned got them for the holidays. They weren’t closing up the tent for Christmas with nowhere to go. I was alone there. There were boot steps crunching. I could see a white pick-up through the eking mist of my breath and one of the translucent panel windows- it wasn’t Ned’s or the navy colored Jeep. The truck doors opened in sequence and closed. More steps. I passed gas when I sat up- I made a strange mental calculation of what little good it would do me now. I cursed myself and had to get out of my sleeping bag. Four hooded shadows grew upon the side panel that had been replaced from the graffiti. I was wide awake now and ill prepared to protect the tent. Ned was fucking right about needing the security. And then I was trying to unzip that stupid face hole with my fat gloves on. I wouldn’t be fast enough. I felt them scraping their hands under the side panel about 60 feet from me. The light was more adjusted to my eyes than theirs, but it was still shit. I had to get one arm out at least, and so an arm was born and my vision went black.

Then they were inside the tent. I was out-numbered. I rocked myself up in to an unbalanced standing position. My head exploded through the drawstring and I fell over unbalanced from the slippery footing. It was in slow motion. I had visuals. Not one of them came up to my caterpillar chin on level ground. I knew I had to dissuade them fast or intimidate them or do something. Before I landed on my side and toppled into the aisle, I bellowed the deepest war chant from deep inside- bile and ichor of the arch-angel brownie.“Holy shit! What the fuck is that!” I heard one yell.Waiting to surprise them would have been disastrous in my caterpillar form. I heard them moving fast, now surprised to see the giant tumbling shape of an overweight creature advancing in silhouette. There was a scrambling as they wound through the labyrinth. I was the minotaur. The tent would be an arena once I unzipped out of there..The butterfly of death had to emerge. I got out my second arm and shucked my thorax and legs, tripping as I lunged. “Get the fuck out of here!” I roared, knowing I had them scared shitless. I got my footing and kept my head from slamming into an upright pole, taking it in the shoulder and careening off towards my first victim. I roared it again before I found him. I thought I saw a spray can glinting as I turned my head. There was a lead pipe next to me or so I thought. They had come back to wreak more havoc. “Not on my watch, punk-ass bitches!” Then more yelling as I got him. My gloves were a poor grip, and I probably had 70 lbs on the kid, so I shoved. Hard. He must have been about 18 or 19. The dude went flying over a stack and into the gap with a cry of “Shit!”I was one ghost and there were three pac-men left. I moved across the center aisle to one trying to sprint by. He turned when he saw I had him cornered in front of a big stack. He tried to climb it. I got him with a bear hug around the legs and he fell forward onto it. I was yelling like a madman. He kicked out of it with the free leg at my head and hit my shoulder. “Stop!” He insisted, it was a mixture of fear and petulance. Were they younger? Perhaps only in spirit.I flopped him around. He raised the spray can for my eye but I swatted it to the ground and grabbed him by his foot and arm, I used my momentum and spun him across the shadowy aisle onto the table like a toy, he skipped the top and deflated against a pile of 6x9’s. I caught sight of one leaving thirty feet from me under the side followed by another. I heard from behind me a “Fuck you!” A thud stung against my back but not badly. One was brave enough to be protecting the fallen. I would have done the same in his shoes. I should have just run them out. Maybe they were only kids trying to cause criminal mischief. My puffiness absorbed the pipe across my back- he should have taken my skull. As I whirled there was the kid with the pipe bringing it up for the swing at my melon. I swung the crescent of my boot into his forward shin and scraped my boot rubber down as I closed the gap and fell into him before his arc came to power. I felt him flinch under the raking pain. Was he planning on thumping the rugs and getting dust out, while Brad was porking away? It was another crime-scene now. We were off balance as we fell but I was yanking him around to be under me, and my full weight knocked the air out of him as he flattened on the ground- and I instantly vomited three quarters of the contents of my dinner right in his face. Bushido.

I shoved off him and got to my knees, wiped my face with my forearm while laughing out loud, intimidatingly and a tad too evil. It was the grossest thing I had ever witnessed and I was surprised at my inner shade of barbarism. My adrenaline was through the roof and I was shaking and not yet finished. I was looking around for the other kid behind the table. I ripped off my outer gloves so I could get at my belt and staggered toward him. I threw the table aside, it was cheap plastic- this might have appeared like some sort of sexual dominance to them if they had been watching. I didn’t have anything to tie one of them up with for an arrest. I was going to get recompense for that side panel they’d tagged. It was not easy getting my belt off, it was under my coat and sweatshirt. I kept looking at them while I stood at equal distance. Both were scrambling to get out of there. I got the belt snaking out from the loops, and my body was still shaking. I was filled with the heaving fires of emotion and combat. Before I took a step to the one I thought was the easiest catch- I bent over and hurled the rest of the kitchen sink on the ground, making sure not to get it on the rugs. They got the fuck out of there. I laughed at the image that was in their minds. I could not help it. I heard them hop in the back seat of the truck as it peeled away, kicking up slush and scree sliding out towards the nearest lot exit and carved off a snow bank on the way. I kept laughing for a minute, relieved it hadn’t gone worse. I laughed even while I grabbed wads of paper towels from the bin I had skewed that was under the table. I rethought my method of orderliness and went to turn on the generator so I could see better- I didn’t want any puke to set into the rug stack where we fell. When the lights came there wasn’t much disorder really. It was strange. That had all happened only minutes ago. I knew the smell would be bad for business so I took the Windex and baby wipes after I got the mass cleanup handled with the roll of Bounty. I bundled it up in a Jack in the Crack plastic bag and put it into the big black one by the desk. I straightened the table and washed my jacket off with a handful of snow outside in the still night. I checked the exterior of the tent while rinsing out my mouth with bites of fresh snow. They hadn’t sprayed anything. I found the can where it had rolled to and the color was black, same color used in the first assault. I put it on the center of the table and then turned off the generator and recovered my sleeping bag.

First thing in the morning was Dan waking me up all rise and shine. He was in a chipper mood. I was too when I told him an underplayed story of what happened. He roared when I told him about the vomit. He called Ned as I put up the side panels. It was all hip-hip-hooray for a bit. Dan let me take the Jeep back to his hotel room to give it to Kathy so she could come out when she was ready- she took an hour longer than Dan. I was allowed to go use their shower so I could freshen up because we didn’t use a gym there with the hotel room available. I was glad to get freshly changed as it was pretty gnarly in all those layers. Kathy and I drove back to the tent. Ned wanted to congratulate me over the phone, Dan called him when we pulled up. He was so proud of bringing me out there. It was an epic first day with them in the end. Dan saved that evidential spray can for the next three locations the tent went to. Ned called it a trophy. When Ned had shown up mid-week to check up on us, he took us out for a celebratory Security breakfast and laughed hard about putting the food back in me that I had lost in the line of duty. Kathy had no appetite in our presence and took black coffee. She smiled, though.

It wasn’t the only time I had a run in on the road. There are a lot more adventures to share than that- that’s really only about a tenth of my experience. But that was a pretty big moment in climbing The Ladder of Rug Salesman Hierarchy for Winston. Did I make it to the top? Did I conquer my remaining demons? Did I arrive at an end of this “coming of age” chronicle a better lad? You may safely assume I had- but with what is to follow- you should have bet on“pretty far from not.” The story doesn’t end here, but for the time being, and like a pile of rugs sitting in the afternoon sun- it seems like a pretty damn fine idea to say that’s it for now and take a nap.

Zacharia Changes the World Part 1: Jacob Reads a Book

2020-11-26T09:40:09-08:00

This is my first book! I posted it up on Amazon here https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0896YGBKT

I have included the first chapter here, I might post the rest of the chapters later.

It was cold and clammy in the Tennessee mountains. A late fall morning, the time of year when the sun was a little more reluctant to pop up over the horizon with each new day.

Down in the valley in the pre-dawn gloom, lieutenant Jacob Clemens rolled over on his narrow cot, nearly tipping into the dirt. He woke and cast his eye about the tiny tent he called home. Not much to see, standard army issue moldy gray canvas dripping with dew. He often wondered if being in the army was a good idea, especially in the middle of the War for Southern Independence. He had been told many times a war can make a career, but it can also make a person dead. He was not so interested in being dead. To top it off, the war was not going well. Not that wars ever really go well other than in history books, with the killing and mud and bad food.

At least he had his own tent. It was small and cramped with a little drip just above his head. But it was better than sharing and it was just a small perk he was due as a general’s aide de camp. Another perk he appreciated was not having to go shoot at other men while getting shot at. That was the one he appreciated the most.

He roused himself up from his cot, tossing aside the gray itchy wool blankets, replacing them with a gray itchy wool jacket. He grabbed his black boots from under the cot, shook them out and pulled them over his frozen toes. As he was leaving the tent, the cold wind hit him full in the face. He grimaced at the blow, like a slap in the face with a wet fish. It was late fall, towards the end of October. Winter was coming. He pulled on his dirty hat and headed over to the small fire maintained for the sentries.

The remnants of the 55th Regiment of the Confederate Army had been hiding out in the Smoky Mountains for the last two weeks after a stunning defeat outside of Knoxville. It was no surprise to Jacob, the unit was good at defeat.

He huddled close to the meagre fire to bring some life back into his numb fingers. Sergeant Sam Myers looked up from where he was poking the embers, “Morning lieutenant, any plans for today?”

Jacob spoke slowly, trying not to chatter. “I was thinking we could head into Washington and have a sit down with this Lincoln fellow, settle this war. Maybe see if we could put an end to this hiding in the woods. I wouldn’t mind spending some time indoors.”
Sam chuckled, “Can’t imagine the general going for that. He would miss out on the glory. He wants statues and bridges and little boys named after him.”

“Don’t be saying that too loud. Go kick the cook, the men should at least get their gruel warm.”

Sam added, “I’m just kidding, he’s a good sort despite everything.” He moved off to start waking the camp.

General Zacharia Horatio Jackson looked out from his tent at the misty Tennessee morning, stroking his lovely whiskers. The morning mist was the best for shaping his rather substantial beard. It wouldn't do for the men to see him with "morning beard". He adjusted his gray uniform, held his head high and stepped out into the camp. Several horse apples met their demise under his heavy black boots.
He walked over to the campfire where the lieutenant was waiting. Jacob piped up "Morning, general, what are your orders today?"
The general responded with enthusiasm "We are going to flip the tides of this war today! I feel it deep in my bones! My exalted grandfather always told me there is no time like the future for getting off your rump and setting out for greener pastures!"

Jacob sighed. "Sir, not to be negative, but we hardly have fifty men after we ran aw.. um, did a tactical retreat to hide... regroup here in this forest. We are going to have to come up with some other plan if we are to have a hope of ending this war. I doubt the men can carry on much longer in these conditions. Not that they are complaining. They are a good bunch, as loyal as they come."

The cook interrupted at this moment to bring over the general's breakfast. He attempted a smart salute but forgot to remove the eating utensils from his hand first. The general peered closely at the blood trickling from the cook's forehead, then at the few drops of blood on the cook's hand. "Young man, you must get to the doctor immediately and get that hand amputated. No sense in getting gangrene! Go now - quickly!"

The general turned back to Jacob, "We will do the impossible! Merely doing the possible is for weak men of low birth. We will make it happen, the impossible that is, with grit, determination and greatness! After all we are masters of this world. To believe otherwise lowers us to the level of animals, like this mangy dog here eating my breakfast.” Zacharia stepped to the table, “I will demonstrate!"
The general spastically waved his hands at the dog as if he were trying to douse an invisible fire. The dog continued to eat the food, unbothered by the general’s gyrations. Having eaten all the breakfast, the dog jumped down and slowly limped away.

"See, I have banished this ferocious animal with my superior intellect and abilities. Cook! Get me some more food."

As the sun reluctantly began to glow through the trees and the bugler blew a few discordant notes into the morning air, the camp started to rise and greet the morning with all the vigor of a rotten melon.

Jacob heard a faint yell from the sentry just as a black charger galloped into camp. It was a magnificent horse, all muscle and foam. It was carrying an equally imposing rider. He was entirely covered in black leather, from his riding boots to his peaked hat. They were like something you would see in a painting, riding into battle leading brave men to certain doom. The rider pulled up, yelling out “General Jackson!”

Zacharia jumped up from the table, excited and agitated, flustered like a school girl at the rider’s sudden appearance.

“Are you from Atlanta? Henry’s Literature Emporium?” Zacharia blurted out.

“Aye sir, Henry sent me at a rush to find you. He found that book you were asking after. I have it with me now. He said this was of the utmost importance. I’ve ridden night and day to find your camp.” The rider dismounted in a swoosh of black leather. Zacharia offered him refreshment, more out of habit and decorum than anything else. The best they could offer was somewhat clear river water.

“Thanks, but don’t bother yourself. I have everything I need. Henry spoke of you in the most gracious terms, I see what he was getting on about. Though to be honest, I did not expect such a handsome fellow, and he didn’t say anything about that wonderful beard!”
Zacharia blushed, “Henry has always been the best of friends. I apologize for rushing you, but can we have the book? Please give it to my aide here!”

The rider pulled a package wrapped is old leather from inside his coat and handed it to Jacob. “I’m sorry I can’t stay. I would love to meet all your soldiers and make friends. But there is a Union army heading this way and I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever they have in mind.” The rider vaulted back on his horse, turned and tore out of camp.

Moments later the sentry came running up to Jacob panting, “Sir! An unknown rider is approaching the camp. What should I do?”

Jacob looked sadly at the young man, “Have some breakfast. We will be moving camp shortly.”

Zacharia was standing at the flap of his tent, beckoning Jacob over. He covered the muddy ground quickly with almost no sliding and ducked under the dirty flap after the general. Once inside, Zacharia turned quickly, reaching for the package in Jacob’s hand. Zacharia rapidly pulled off the worn leather wrapping to reveal a small ancient tome about the size of his hand. He looked up at Jacob with wonder and excitement, “Many years ago I heard of the possible existence of this book. I doubted it could be found but I held on to what little hope I could muster. This is the original account of the Roman defeat of the Gods, written by Pliny the Younger himself. According to the legend, the Romans played some trick and banished the gods from our mortal plane. There must be some information in this book to help us to gain an advantage and reverse out luck. I believe we can use this knowledge to turn the tide of this war!”
He opened the book with care, glancing at the first few pages then quickly flipping through the book, a look of disappointment on his face. “This is all in Latin. It has been too many years since I have practiced the language, I fear I will not be able to read it!”
Jacob spoke up, “Sir, I have studied Latin extensively, enough to be able to read the classics in the original tongue. May I take a look? Perhaps I can make some sense of it.”

Zacharia reluctantly handed the book back to Jacob as if he were giving up his only chance to make good in life. This was an exciting moment for Jacob. It is not often he had the opportunity to study any ancient writings and none in their original form. Despite the stains and smudges on the pages, he was able to make out the words and slowly began to translate the first page for Zacharia.

“This is the entire account by Pliny the Younger, written in my own hand of the infamous actions brought on by the Roman Senate, actions which have changed the very nature of this world and have left us to carry on with no hope of divine guidance.”

Jacob looked up. The general was dancing about the tent, knocking over his wash table and spilling his clean clothing into the mud. “Woohoo my boy! My fate is being fulfilled today! There will be statues and bridges and little boys galore! We are going to win this war! Stay here and finish translating that book.”

Jacob closed the book with regret, carefully wrapping it up and tucking it into his tunic. “General, while we have the best of the best retreaters of the Confederate Army in this unit, they will need guidance to move out of this area before the Union Army shows up. We need to get going now, we wouldn’t want this book to fall into the hands of the enemy. There is no time to spare for scholarly activities.”

Jacob left the tent, running to the center of the camp. He bellowed “Sergeant Myers! Get the men ready to move out!” The camp erupted in motion, not all for the good or even helpful in any way. Men were running to and fro, tents were knocked down and put back up. By some mysterious agency, three separate fires broke out, one in the center of a mud puddle. Sergeant Sam Myers ran from tent to tent, getting the men up and yelling at them to pack their gear.

Jacob grabbed him as he was rushing by, “Get a scout out there to see how far away these Union boys are. We don’t even know for sure there is anyone out there.”

“Yes Sir! Bawkins is already on his way. He is the best we have. There is a decent chance he will not be caught. If you don’t mind sir, I would like to ask how we will stop them from just following us as we retreat?”

“I’ll think of something. Just concentrate on getting everyone ready to go, quick as a pickle!”

Jacob watched as some semblance of order overcame the camp despite the general effort to create more disorder. Before long the men started to line up, rucksacks at their feet. Some even with weapons ready. It was a sad sight, many of the men were missing bits of their uniform, making do with what they could find. Through it all, private Singer somehow managed to always be wearing that bright green ball gown he found, always clean and smartly pressed no matter what befell the group. Jacob walked around the camp, collecting the rest of the men. Some were having trouble with their tents; others hadn’t been aware they were moving out.

The scout came riding back into camp at a gallop and sharply pulled his horse up in front of Jacob. “Sir, I found the Union camp. They are several miles down the valley. It appears they are just starting to break camp. From what I could see, they are not aware we are up here. I didn’t see any scouts or advance parties. We are safe for the moment.”

Jacob brightened, “Ok, we need to get a move on. Grab your gear and form up with the rest of the cavalry unit over to the east side of the camp.”

Jacob walked back to where the infantry was now assembled. He was thinking these men had to leave this valley without leaving a trail. He was not interested in having the Union boys chasing them all over the countryside. They were going to have to fade away without a trace, like a sleight of hand parlor trick. Better yet, leave a false trail for the Union to follow. He went to the front of the troops, “Alright men. We need to move out quickly and quietly. The Union camp isn’t aware we are here. We have caught a break for the moment. Keep the noise to a minimum and we will have the opportunity to leave without a fight. I want you to form up into small squads, no more than five soldiers to a squad.” He paused, waiting. The men stared at him. “I’m telling you to do it now.” The men shuffled about, forming and breaking groups like ducks swimming randomly in a pond. They settled out, the last few men making their final decision.
Jacob continued, “Next, you will drift off into the forest, one by one. Not as a group, one by one. Imagine you are going out to relieve yourselves in the forest. Once you have moved out into the trees and are well away from the camp, connect up with your squad mates and head for safe ground. Take a look at each other now so you will remember who is in your group.” The men glanced about, a few expressing obvious surprise about who was in their squad.

Jacob spoke quietly, “Do you understand?”

The assembled soldiers whispered in unison, “Yes sir.”

“Very good, before you go, take a look up there at that ridge.” Jacob pointed to the east, up the valley. The men started to look off in various directions, murmuring amongst themselves and pointing randomly. Jacob shook his head. “Alright everyone, look at me. You got that? Everyone!”

He now had the attention of all the soldiers. “Look at my hand”, he held his arm straight up. “Follow my hand and see where I am pointing.” He slowly swept his hand from above his head, moving it to the east. “Now, my finger is going to point at the ridge in question, look at it.”

Several of the men continued to stare at Jacob, like dogs who think there may be a treat in his hand.

“All of you look to where I am pointing. I want to show where safe ground is. See on that ridge, there is an outcropping. It looks like a turtle’s head poking up from a log.”

One of the men spoke out, “It looks more like a ferret to me. Are you sure you’re pointing at the right one?” Several others nodded in agreement.

Another soldier commented “I would say it is more like a tortoise, seeing as there is no water up there.” More chatter met these words and several of the men congratulated the speaker on his astute wisdom.

Sam stepped and in is best sergeant voice quietly yelled. “It don’t matter what kind of animal it is. You all need to turn your heads right NOW and look at that ridge the Lieutenant is pointing to!”

Everyone snapped to at his words, even the deaf fellow who got a bit too close to a cannon muzzle. Jacob glanced over at Sam and nodded, impressed at his ability to cut through the chatter.

“What we are going to do is fade away in all directions. Each team will meet up a couple hundred yards out into the woods and make their way to that ridge. Don’t all of you just go directly to the ridge, you need to fan out. But don’t forget to look up once in a while to see where the ridge is at. Otherwise you’re going to end up in Texas.” He looked over at the mounted men, “Cavalry, stay in position.” Putting his attention back to the crowd, “Infantry, move out now.”

The men shuffled off. Some holding their crotches as if they truly had to relieve themselves. Jacob thought amusedly these fellows would make a better acting troupe than they had shown to be an effective army unit. He thought with some amazement, after all they had been through, these are the ones who survived.

Jacob and Sam walked over to where the cavalry was waiting. They only had eight horses left, but they were well rested and had fed nicely on the late fall grasses. The General was mounted along with five others. Two horses were rider less, waiting for the two men to arrive. General Jackson spoke up, “Good job to you two men. Well done on getting the soldiers on their way and out of danger.”

“Thank you General. You should head on out, take two riders and head up the stream over yonder. You should walk you horses in the water where you can. When you find a spot where the bank isn’t muddy, head on up the ridge to the meeting point. The rest of us will lay in a diversion, giving us all time to get away.”

The general quickly responded “Yes Si... Uhm, I mean I will take your advice in consideration and as such, finding it to be a correctly estimated estimation of the situation we now face here as we are, I will order myself to ride up the stream in short order. Yes, as an order. Wilks, Parsons, you’re with me. Off we go!”

The general moved out, down the valley towards the stream, leaving the five soldiers to hold off an entire Union Army.

“All right, I have an idea of sorts that may get us out of this.” Jacob began. “We need to make it look like a large group of cavalry retreated up the stream in the opposite direction from the ridge. We are going to accomplish this by riding around, back and forth, churning up the soft ground. After it is good and muddy, we cross over the stream and do more of the same. We go as far as we can until we hit firm ground. Once we are in the woods, we circle around and head towards the ridge. We only have an hour or so before the Union scouts--”

One of the soldiers interrupted, “Do we ride around in circles or go back and forth? Can we come up with some interesting patterns, you know, leave some nice designs in the mud? I’ve always been a fan of Irish lace. I would like to try to reproduce some of the classic patterns. My gran was the best lacer I’ve ever seen, she taught me everything. There’s the Irish rose and the fleur de lis, though that is really a French thing. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at--”

Sam grabbed the rider by the arm, “That’s enough for the lace lesson soldier. Listen up, the lieutenant is speaking!”

“While you head over to the field, I will grab some tree branches we can drag around as well. Sam, mount up. Let’s get down to the stream. We don’t have much time to get this done.”

Jacob climbed up on his horse and took off at a trot leaving the rest to follow. He spied a small forest to the left and headed for it, directing the others into the meadow next to the stream. He stopped and dismounted by a growth of fir.

Grabbing a small axe from the saddlebag, he immediately got to work hacking off several sizable branches. He looped up the trunk ends with a piece of rope, jumped back on his horse and heading to the meadow, dragging the tree branches behind.

He was surprised to see the other riders doing a decent job of riding about, back and forth and circles as well. The meadow was well churned, giving the appearance of a hundred or more riders having come this way. He passed off branches to each of the riders so they could start dragging them through the mud, obscuring the hoof marks.

“Well done boys, let’s head across the stream up towards those woods there.”

Nearly an hour later they had finished all the riding about, and it really did look like a large cavalry had ridden off into the trees. Jacob motioned to the other riders to join him. “We need to catch up with the rest of the unit now. The Union boys will be here any minute. Johnson, take point.” He motioned to the other riders, “You two follow after him, then the sergeant after that, and I will follow in the rear.” At this moment Jacob brushed his hand across his coat the clean off some stray pine needles.

“Oh, for heavens no!” he cried out, “Sergeant, the book, it’s gone!”

Sam stopped riding, “Oh Mother of Joseph!”

Jacob exclaimed, “Oh, to all the demons of earth, how could this be?”

Sam hesitated, “Oh malarkey!”

“Malarkey?” Jacob laughed.

Sam looked down sheepishly, “It’s all that came to mind at the moment. I can try again. How about, ‘Woe is us, we are cursed’, is that better?”

“Never mind.” Jacob replied. He looked back across the field of churned mud, his face fell. “Damnation! How will I ever find it now? It could be anywhere under all that mud!”

The two men looked back across the meadow to where they started. It was easily more than half a mile back to the camp across the churned-up mud.

Sam asked, “When do you last remember having it?”

Jacob retorted, “Why does that matter? We had better get searching fast, there is a lot of ground to cover. We are going to need to search on foot. Let’s tie up the horses behind these trees.”

“Hold on.” Sam insisted, “I have a technique for finding things. It will save us time we don’t have to spare. When do you last remember having it?”

Jacob thought, “Well, when we mounted up, I definitely had it then. But since then I haven’t really been paying attention, I could have lost it anywhere. We need to get searching!”

Sam growled, “Hold on! Follow along with me and we will find your book. When you lose something, you get befuddled. If you weren’t befuddled, then the thing would not be lost. See? You would know exactly where it is. We have to clear up that befuddlement. Losing things involves the ideas of presence and absence, this is the important part. This is how we find it. You would have noticed its presence from time to time as you were riding about. It would jostle and poke you. The absence would go unremarked since it is not the usual thing for you to have a book in your pocket. See, you notice the unusual and don’t notice the usual. Now the absence of the usual is different that the unusual. You will notice the absence of the usual to some degree, but you notice the presence of the unusual much more. It’s just a matter of what you are used to. In order to find the book, we need to get the moment when you stopped noticing it. You would have lost it at that moment or soon after. Think hard, when did you stop noticing it?”

Jacob took a moment to think, “I don’t recall noticing it while we were riding about in the field across the stream or any time after that. The last time I recall definitely being aware of it is when we mounted up and headed for the mud field. I must have dropped it soon after.”

Sam prompted, “That’s good. What did you do right after we set out?”

Jacob thought back, “Well, first thing is we rode down and I went over to get some branches. I dismounted and was chopping at the trees, bending over and lifting. It must have fallen out then! Wow, you are an absolute genius! Where did you learn such things?”
“Well, my grandfather was a pretty smart guy. He taught me all sorts of useful knowledge.”

Jacob turned to the others “Johnson, take my horse. I will have to go back on foot. If the Union gets sight of a rider, they will chase us until we are caught. I can sneak back through the trees and go unnoticed. Meanwhile you all head over to the ridge and catch up with the troops. Once I retrieve the book, I can make my way to the ridge.”

Sam jumped off his horse, “I am going with you. You need someone to watch your back. This isn’t a job to do alone.”

Jacob dismounted. “Good idea. Johnson take these two horses and get going. The Union scouts will be here any moment.”

The two men crouched and watched as the riders slipped between the trees. They rushed over to the right to cross the stream and get into cover of the forest. They quickly and quietly moved through the trees, coming up to the top of the meadow where they would have to cross in the open. It was only about 50 yards to the stand of firs where Jacob stopped to cut branches. They did a quick look around, checking for any sign of soldiers. If they were spotted at this point, they were done for. Seeing nothing, they dashed across and stepped into the firs.

“It was just on the other side of these trees where I did the cutting.” Jacob whispered. Sam crouched down and got on his belly, crawling under the low branches until he was out of sight. Jacob waited, wondering what he would tell the general if they came back empty handed. Sam slid backwards out from under the trees and got up on his knees.

He whispered, “I see a scout out there. To make matters worse, he has the book and is looking through the pages. If he didn’t have the book, we could just distract him and get him to move on. But now that he has the book, we will have to deal with him. Luckily he is alone.”

Jacob stood up, checking he still had his pistol and knife. “Ok, I will go out there and deal with him. I have no other options. Stay here and keep watch for others.” Jacob moved silently through the trees in the direction of the scout. Quietly, he stepped out around the last tree, stopping about 10 yards from the scout.

“Hello” said Jacob, “I’m just out here looking for my book. Lucky for me, it appears you have found it. I will thank you to please hand it over so I can be on my way.”

The scout looked up at him, startled. “I don’t think I can do that.” He sneered, “You’re a Confederate boy. This here is my book now. You best just surrender before one of my buddies puts a hole in you.”

Jacob thought for a moment, this really was a pickle. “I understand your point. It makes sense to me. You appear to have me over a barrel. But before I surrender, I would like you to know that book is something special to me. It’s not really worth much but it means a lot to me. I really would like to get it back before consenting to surrendering as you prisoner.”

“Why’s that? It’s just a dirty old book filled with gibberish. These are not even regular words, not anything anyone could read anyway.”
“Yes, that’s true. It’s beat up and stained and old, but it was given to me by a dear friend who is no longer around. It meant the world to him and I don’t want to disrespect him by not taking care of it. It’s the last thing he gave me before ‘riding off’, as they say.”

The scout thought for a moment. “Well alright, you can have your book. I can understand about special things. See, I have this pendant given to me by my ma.” He fished a small necklace out from under his shirt, “I would hate to lose it in all this mud. She said I have to bring it back to her. It’s special to me.” He paused in thought. “She would want me to give you your book back. Take it.”

Jacob took a few steps forward to accept the book from the scout, putting it back in his pocket while retreating. “Thank you. You are a genuine fellow raised well. I’m thankful to your ma for raising you up right. Before we discuss surrender, I’d like to introduce myself.

I’m Jacob Clemens, from North Carolina. I grew up out Ashville way, son of a farmer. How about yourself?”

“I’m Brian Thompkins, from Connecticut. I was near done with apprenticing to a baker when I was conscripted into this war.”

Jacob moved closer. “I hear Connecticut is a beautiful state. I mean to go visiting up there once all this kerfuffle is over. Maybe I could stop by your bakery. Maybe even meet you ma and thank her personally for raising an honorable man like yourself.”

“She would appreciate that, and it would surely make her proud. If you come by you will be in for a treat, I make the best bread in four counties. People travel from all over just to get a taste of my work. I make a special croissant as well. It has chocolate inside and sliced almonds, best this side of Paris.”

Jacob leaned forward, holding out his hand, “Well then, I’d like the honor of shaking the hand of the best baker in Connecticut!”

Brian beamed, reaching out and firmly grasping Jacob’s hand.

Jacob smiled, “I look forward to meeting you again someday.” Jacob paused and his tone saddened, “But the thought of being in one of those prisoner camps, it’s possible I may never make it out alive to come visit you.” He hesitated, “Brian, it may be bold of me to say, but this is not our fight. Just some slimy politicians got all agitated and then look at us, just a couple of regular guys stuck out in the miserable woods in the middle of winter.”

Brian nodded in agreement, “You speak the truth. I want nothing more than to go back home to my ovens and see my ma.”

“Me as well. I’d really like to meet up again someday. But to do that we both have to survive this war. For me that means staying out of one of those camps and going back where I came from. So, I’m just going to step back to these trees, and we will see each other in better times.”

Brian smiled and winked. Jacob slowly slid backwards, keeping an eye on Brian until he was once again back behind the fir trees. He turned quickly, running right into Sam who was waiting at the edge of the trees. Jacob grabbed his arm and ran for all he was worth back through the trees, across the meadow and towards the higher ground of the forest. Once they hit the trees, Sam pushed down at Jacob’s hand holding on to his arm, “I can run on my own you know. No need to be dragging me!”

Jacob turned, “Sorry, we just need to put some distance between us and that army.” They continued to run through the forest, dodging trees, fallen limbs and rocks. After about a mile Jacob slowed to catch his breath.

Sam stopped to look around, “Where are we now? Tell you what, I’m going up that big tree over there and get a look, find the ridge with the aardvark on it so we know what direction to go.”

Jacob chuckled, “Very funny. See if you can spot the general as well. He may not have made it too far. He gets distracted by the native plants. He always wants to stop to take samples of some new species he’s found. He imagines himself to be like Charles Darwin, expecting to make a groundbreaking new discover.”

Sam climbed the tree with much grunting, finally getting close to the top. After a few minutes of peering about, he began to climb down and returned to the ground. “I see the ridge is over that way to the right and the general is just about a mile ahead in front of us. We should be able to catch up to him in short order.”

Jacob and Sam set off without another word, scrambling through the scrub oak undergrowth. It was early afternoon by the time they saw the general and his party up ahead. “Hello general!” Jacob cried out.

Zacharia stopped his horse and turned. A smile broke across his face when he recognized Jacob and Sam coming up through the woods.

“Ah, there you are! Did everyone get out in time? I seem to remember you two having horses. What happened to them?”

“It’s a long story sir. Just suffice to say we all made it out and the men are on their way to the ridge. It’s good to see you doing well.”
Zacharia dismounted, sitting down on a nearby log and gestured for Jacob to come sit. The general started speaking, “We need to move forward with the translation. I don’t want to wait another minute and we are safe enough here.”

Jacob pulled the book from inside his jacket. He flipped it open to the second page. He began to read. “Let’s see what we have. Pliny the Younger continues on, talking about his uncle Pliny the elder and the eruption of Vesuvius. He expresses sadness at his uncle’s death and anger at the senate for causing it. That’s odd, if I remember the story correctly, the elder Pliny died trying to rescue his friends from the eruption. I don’t see how he could blame that on the Roman senate.”

The general interjected “Yes, that is an interesting point. There must be more to that story. Keep going.”

Jacob continued, “Yes, there is more here. He claims the Senate precipitated the eruption, he wrote, ‘The rise of Jesus of Nazareth was the last straw for the Senate, they would not accept the continued meddling in their affairs by the pantheon’.”

The general smiled, “Yes, I think we are on the right track here. My father thought I was batty. Youthful flight of fancy he would say. Continue on.”

Jacob continued translating, “There is more about Vesuvius here, somehow that was the catalyst for what the Senate carried out. He claims they should have warned the islanders, but they had gone mad with their idea and the power it would bring. He claims there is a way to undo what the Senate has done. He says he was unable to carry it out himself. He writes that it would take a progenitor to be able to do it. I’m not sure what he means by that. We now think of that word as representing a parent, but in Roman times that word also meant the person who brought something forth. It would be the creator of a movement or idea. The person who came up with the idea on their own, you might say.”

Jacob continued reading, “Ah, I think I understand. He was unable to do it because he was first told about it by another. A person not of this earth, he says. He did not come up with the idea of undoing their work first himself, then find out how to do it. It was the other way around.” Jacob stopped, lowering the book. “That’s as far as I can get. The rest of these pages is all gibberish. It looks like words but not any words I have ever seen. I’m not sure what to make of it. Also, finding the progenitor could pose a problem for us, assuming what he writes is correct.”

Zacharia grinned, “Yes, we are definitely on the right track. It is beginning to come together. Now figure out what those last pages say. Once we have the translation, our path forward will be clear.”

Sam leaned over to peek at the page. “Ah, it looks like a cipher. At the time of his writing people would use what we call a Caesar Cipher. It is a simple transposition cipher. That’s where each letter of the alphabet is replaced with another. You can tell because the vowels and consonants do not appear in any orderly pattern, making them look all jumbled up. We just need to determine the repositioning of the letters to get back the original message.”

Jacob stared at Sam in amazement. “Can you do that? How do you know about this?”

Sam replied, “Remember I told you about my grandfather. He was a right smart man. First step is we need to look for repeated patterns. Small words are a good clue. Do you see any small words repeated often?”

Jacob studied the manuscript, “Yes, I am seeing ‘pf’ repeated in a number of places. Could that be ‘et’, the Latin word for ‘and’?”
“Great, that’s a good start.” Sam reached into his pack and pulled out piece of paper and a bit of charcoal. “Go ahead and write the message here, leaving a space under each line.” Jacob quickly transcribed the message. “Now put an ‘e’ under each place where you see a ‘p’ and put a ‘t’ under each ‘f’. Some other words may start to become apparent.”

Jacob did as instructed. “I see ‘pef’ in a few places, that could be ‘est’, meaning ‘is’!”

Sam quietly instructed, “Now put an ‘s’ under all the places you see ‘e’.”

“Ah, I get the idea. Let me finish this up and I will tell you both when I am done.” Jacob worked quietly, occasionally letting out a small exclamation as he conquered each letter. A while later he put down the charcoal and held out the paper. “I’m done! He says the progenitor must speak these words and by free will join with the gods by descending into the bowl. I’m not sure what the ‘bowl’ is, and he does not provide any further explanation. Once this is carried out, the gods will be free to mingle with mortal men. He further warns that the passage of the gods into the mortal world will be marked with a cataclysm of fire.”

Sam asked, “Do you have to say the words in Latin, like a witches chant?”

“No, no, it doesn’t say anything like that. I think it is just the idea that needs to be communicated. He again stresses that only when the progenitor speaks the words will they have any true meaning.”

“OK, so what do we need to say?” asked Sam.

“Let’s see, the idea is to invite the gods. I wrote them down on the back of this paper. It’s rather simple. He wrote ‘I beckon the spirits of the immortal realm to come to me and have dominion over the mortal world. I seal this desire with my agreement to join with them in their realm’.”

Sam looked around, “You spoke the words, but nothing is happening. I think it is a just a myth or a story.”

“No, that’s not it. Something about the writing makes me think he believed it is real. He mentions the person not of this world several times as providing this information. I think the problem is I am not the progenitor. As such, I wouldn’t expect anything to happen when I say the words. We don’t know who this person is or how to find them. There is nothing in the book to help us there. I don’t think we are able to do anything with this book today. Sorry general.”

The general stood, looking down at the two men. “When I was a young man, I spent more time than I should have poring over old myths and tales of the gods from many cultures. I had the opportunity to read first-hand accounts of the daily life of ancient civilizations. These are very different from the watered-down myths that are fed to school children. I was struck by the apparent interaction ancient people had with their gods. Taking the stories at face value, it seemed as if they actually spoke to the gods from time to time. Some writings have survived that give a hint of this, the Iliad and the Odyssey, the Old Testament. These all speak of a world where the immortal gods played a part in day to day life. Earlier when I mentioned my youthful flights of fancy, it was this idea. The gods are as real as these trees, not some ethereal fantasy. They rightfully belong amongst us and that some horrible tragedy in the past has kept them from our world. As a young man I confided these ideas to my father. I told him I intended to right whatever wrong had occurred in the past. He thought I was foolish. Secretly, I held on to this dream. Someday I would be able to set them free.”
The general straightened up, “I believe I am the progenitor spoken of in this book. Now give me the paper containing the words, my destiny is waiting!” The general walked into the clearing. With head held high he boldly spoke the words of welcome.

Nothing changed. The general continued to hold his position in the clearing. Jacob and Sam looked at each other, concerned for the general. Then they began to notice a quiet had descended on the forest. The birds stopped singing. The horses fell silent.

Moments later they could feel a slight rumbling from the ground. Like the gentle shaking of a house in a high wind. It built moment by moment until the trees were swaying and the very ground under their feet was shifting. Jacob struggled to stay on his feet. The general continued to stand straight, seemingly unaffected by the motion. Then the sounds began. The air was filled with the noise of rock grinding against rock, getting louder and louder.

In front of the general, the soil fell away from the shaking ground. A circular bowl three feet across opened up just before his feet. The shaking and noise suddenly subsided. All was silent as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for what was to come. The general looked back at Jacob. His face had an air of contentment and deep satisfaction. He thanked Jacob, then, turning forward again, he slowly stepped into the depression.

As Jacob and Sam watched, the general suddenly vanished! Moments later, the soil at the base of the hole flexed up as if it were being pushed from below by a steam bubble, then dropped away suddenly, leaving a pit with sheer sides, going down further than the eye could see.

Jacob and Sam looked at each other, then stepped back putting some distance between themselves and the gaping hole. Jacob turned to the two riders that accompanied the general. “Johnson, get over to that ridge and make sure the men get as far away as possible. We don’t know what is going to happen here.”

Johnson replied, “Yes Sir, we will take care of the soldiers.” The two riders jumped on their horses and quickly headed off.
The men continued to peer at the hole, not knowing what to expect. Jacob detected some movement deep in the pit. As he watched, a small human-like creature with green iridescent wings flew up out of the hole. It circled the clearing passing over the heads of Jacob and Sam. It continued to circle, then dipped back into the pit. A minute later it flew out again, came directly at Jacob and hovered just in front of his nose. It, or she as Jacob could now see, was a miniature person only 6 inches from nose to toes and dressed in some sort of light green tunic.

She spoke, “Hey friend, what kind of mischief are you up to here?”

Jacob could only stammer. Sam tried to hide behind himself, without success.

She watched Jacob for a moment, “Yup, I get it. You don’t think I’m real do you? Maybe this is some kind of dream or hallucination. Is that what you are thinking? Well, how’s this for real!” she reached out and poked Jacob right in the eye!

Jacob cried out, “Hey, that hurts!” He resisted the urge to swat at the creature. Who knew what kind of trouble that would get him into!
She started to laugh. “Oh, you should see the look on your face! For real though, you don’t appear to be up to no good. I doubt you are smart enough to be clever. Let’s do some introductions. You can call me Agatha. My real name is much too hard for you to pronounce so let’s leave it at that. And you my fun yet not quite bright fellow, are Jacob and the cute one over there trying to be invisible is Sam. Let’s see, what other questions do you have? Ah, yes. I came out here to scout out the scene. Some of the others are too scared. They think somebody may be trying to trap them, you know, capture them to keep as a pet or whatever. I volunteered because I’m too smart to fall for any silly traps.”

Jacob finally spit out, “Who, ah, what are you?”

“Wow, it really has been a long time since we’ve been gone! I am obviously a sprite, not a faerie! Don’t go calling me a faerie or I will char that silly look right off your face. I am a woodland sprite as you can see by my dress.” She gestured with her hands to indicate her tunic.

Jacob stammered, “How did you know our names?”

Agatha replied, “Oh, I just know things sometimes. Since I’ve decided to be nice to you guys, I’m going to give you a warning. Things are about to get exciting. You may want to think about vacating the area. Do a little ‘Hasta la vista’ action, if you catch my drift!”

Just then, a ball of dark fire shot out of the hole up into the air, landing hard on the other side of the clearing. They all watched as it began to change shape, limbs and scaly tails and fins jutting out one way then another. Forming in all directions and disappearing just as fast. After a minute, it finally decided on a form and appeared as a rather large ugly winged monkey dressed in a colorful uniform. It spied the men standing across the clearing and began to slowly march in their direction, grinning and laughing maniacally.

“Oh no you don’t” yelled Agatha. She held out one arm, palm facing the advancing beast. Zaaap! A bright green light shot from her hand, hitting the beast in the chest and knocking him on his backside. He struggled to get back up, wings beating hard at the ground. Agatha pulled her arms in tightly against her chest. Swinging both arms out suddenly and pointing at the creature, she cried out “Back to Oz with you!” A green ball of fire flew out from her body, engulfing the hideous monster. He writhed within the green flame, crying out in agony. The ball began to shrink. It became smaller and smaller, trapping the beast within. It reduced in size until the beast was just inches tall. The orb glowed brightly for a moment then blinked out of sight with a snap!

Agatha began to laugh, “Oh they think they can mess with me! I’m not quite so small as I look.” Two more balls of fire shot from the pit, hovering in the air. They resolved into two bright colored sprites with yellow wings, they waved at Agatha and flew off into the sky. Agatha waved, “Bye ladies!” A series of small fire balls in all colors began to fire out from the pit. Agatha told the men, “The sprites are always first. That’s because we are the bravest.”

From down the valley they heard a rumbling noise. It was getting closer and closer, sounding like an entire battlefield of cannons going off at once. A large machine on two wheels carrying an even larger man dressed in a tuxedo sped into the clearing. Jacob could just make out the words “Harley-Davidson” on the side of the metal machine. The rider slid to a stop next to the pit and looked in. Right at that moment, a large black ball of fire flew up from the hole. The man, moving faster than the eye could easily follow, reached out, grabbed the emerging demon by the head and stuffed the squirming creature into a saddle bag.

He held a hand up, looking at Agatha. He said, “Hey sweetgums, it’s nice to see you free again.”

Agatha smiled, “Thanks Vince! It’s good to be out after all these years.” Agatha turned back to the men, “Let me do the intros. She pointed at the two soldiers, “This is Jacob and Sam, they’re funny and cute. I think I’ll keep them.” Then pointing at Vince, “And this is ‘El Bastardo Vencedor’ but his friends just call him Vince.”

Agatha faced Vince. Speaking in a serious tone, she informed him, “There is another gate opening up where most of the baddies are getting out. It is way over to the west near a little Spanish village called El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles.” Vince gave a thumbs up, with a flick of his wrist the machine jumped forward, heading for the forest. The trees had the good sense to move out of his way as he came through.

Jacob stared at the forest where the man disappeared. “Who was that?”

Agatha turned back to Jacob. “As I said, that was Vince. No one really knows where he came from. He’s just been around forever. I haven’t seen him since we all got trapped. As far as I know, he’s been out roaming around the world while the rest of us were caged.”

“Why wasn’t he with the rest of you in the…”, Jacob paused, “the cage place, wherever that was?”

Agatha continued, “Well, he is different. Not really a god or demi-god or sprite or anything like that. All I know is he is a sweetheart and the bad gods give him a wide berth. Speaking of wide berth, we better get out of here. Remember that part about the cataclysm of fire? Well it’s about to happen!”

Two more large balls of purple fire and a dozen tiny balls flew out of the hole, spreading around the clearing. It was starting to get hot! Jacob and Sam ran over to where the general’s horse Thunder was tethered. They were lucky he was a battle tested horse and wasn’t fazed by all the goings on. They mounted up with no delay. Agatha settled into Sam’s coat pocket. “Riding is much faster than flying, let’s get going!” More balls of fire of every color were firing out of the ground, coming faster now. The trees near the pit were aflame. Hot burning gasses began to erupt from the hole.

They rode hard and fast down the valley, ash from the cataclysm filling the air. Lightning flashed and thunder crashed behind the group as they rode like the devil was chasing them. They made it down from the peak and out of the valley. They arrived into the cool air of the flatlands, not stopping until the horse was too tired to carry them any further. They dismounted and let the horse wander. Agatha popped up out of Sam’s pocket. The three companions looked back up towards the mountain. The sky was filled with unearthly clouds glowing bright red, spreading rapidly out from the peak. Large and small balls of fire in all the colors continued to fly from the burning mountain top, gods and demi-gods, sprites and spirits such heading off in all directions. Some to ancient homes, others looking for new territories.

“What became of the general? We saw him disappear, not fall into the hole but just blink out of sight.” Jacob asked Agatha.

“Oh, he will be just fine. He will eventually pop out somewhere. Though, being in the Realm can change a person in all sorts of ways. But I’m sure we will see him again.”

“I see. He is a good man. I hope he makes it out intact.” Jacob turned to Sam, “I imagine the war won’t last much longer now. Life is about to get very different around here.”

Sam agreed, “With the general gone, you are now in command. Should we connect back up with the unit or at least report into a nearby post?”

Jacob made a decision, “We have started something we need to see to the end. We do not have the time to go through channels, we need to take care of this ourselves. Johnson will assume we did not make it out and he will take command of the unit. The men are safe in his hands.” Jacob took on a formal tone, “As the current commanding officer of the 55th, I decree you are hereby formally discharged from the Confederate army. This war is over for us. You can start calling me Jacob now.”

Sam grinned, “Thanks, but you will always be the lieutenant.” Sam looked over at Agatha with a smile. “What are your plans now?”

Agatha laughed, “You guys are pretty funny. I think I’ll hang around. You two are going to need someone to protect you. I can stop you from getting yourselves killed or worse.”

Jacob smiled, “Thank you. Your help is truly appreciated. We have a hard task ahead of us, I have no idea how we are going deal with this new future. Regardless, it will be an adventure! Are you two ready to take this on?”

Sam and Agatha nodded in unison.

Looking Down

2020-11-23T13:01:11-08:00

The black cab chugged its way down the narrow lane, hedgerows laced with early summer flowers standing tall on either side. Thomas occasional glimpsed an old manor house through the gaps in the hedge. He thought of the old days of gentry and peasants, days long gone. He chuckled to himself thinking in those days it would have been impossible for someone such as himself to attend Oxford. The university did not technically give full ride scholarships, but consortiums of alumni set up various funds to allow third world students and the underclasses like himself an opportunity to attend. He considered it all very Noblesse Oblige when he was in a cynical frame of mind.

Sarah was beside him, his on-again off-again girlfriend of the last semester. He was surprised when she offered to take him to her parent’s home over the summer break. She never came across as having particularly strong emotional attachments and he secretly felt she had asked only to have someone around during the break besides her mother. She did not speak much about her family, all he knew was that her father had passed some years before, leaving only Sarah, her mother and her younger brother Nigel. Though she did seem to dote on her brother and spoke proudly of his accomplishments.

Thomas had no idea where they were going. Sarah just said it would be a surprise. From the train station they had passed through the local village and out into the countryside. She did not strike him as a farm girl. Perhaps she came from new money, the sort who would set up away from the towns to distance themselves from the working class. Or possibly her mother worked for the wealthy and had a live-in arrangement. Thomas returned from his reverie as the cab slowed and turned into the curving drive of crushed stone leading up to the expansive manor house. He could tell it was built from local stone and had been part of the landscape for centuries. Crenelated towers stood like bookends to the main house. The gray stone and dark slate of the roof gave it a dowdy appearance. The cab stopped on the loose stone in front of the main entrance.

He looked over at Sarah, “Are you serious? This is where you live?”

She gave a slight grin, “I know, this place is older than Jesus. I keep telling my mum it is time to upgrade but she won’t budge. She just goes on about generations and generations, blah, blah, blah.”

Sarah stepped out of the cab, “Thomas, grab my bags. Please.”

She shook her bag of caramels she had been snacking on the entire trip. He could tell by the sound there was only one left. She fished it out and shoved it into her mouth with a grin.

Thomas met the cabbie around back and collected the baggage as he pulled it from the boot. Once all the bags were out, Thomas held out a ten-pound note to the driver.

The old driver shook his head, “Not necessary sir, it’s all covered by the family.” He smiled at Thomas and continued, “If I may be bold, you seem new to this. Just a word of advice to a young fellow such as yourself. You are about to go into a world you have never seen, keep your wits and don’t let them put you down.”

Thomas gawped as the cabbie returned to the front. He closed his mouth and dragged the bags across the rough stone to the covered entry. He looked up and met the gaze of a matronly woman, hair just beginning to go gray. She wore a riding outfit and held up a riding crop in one hand.

“Don’t slouch, Sarah. It does not befit your station.”

Sarah, still chewing on the caramel, pointed at Thomas and told the woman, “Mm, dis iz Tmsas”, she swallowed and continued, “He is my boyfriend from Oxford.” Looking at Thomas she said, “This is my mum.”

The woman nodded and said, “Welcome to my home Tmsas. You do have an unusual name. Is it Gaelic or old Scottish perhaps? I hope it’s not Welsh. I just can’t abide those people.”

Thomas nodded, “Thank you ma’am. You can call me Thomas.”

“Nonsense! Be proud of your name and do not alter it to buckle to the will of the ill-informed. You can fill me in on your family history later. I have a horse waiting for me, must be off. We will talk again.”

She waved him off and turned back into the house.

Thomas bent to retrieve the bags. Sarah grabbed him by the arm, “Leave those. Someone will be along to bring them in. Let’s go get a bite, I’m starving after the trip. I feel like I haven’t eaten a thing in days!”

Sarah dragged Thomas through a maze of rooms, hallways and stairs filled with dark wood, heavy furniture and large paintings of severe looking ancestors. Finally, they arrived in an expansive kitchen, larger than the school kitchen where Thomas was required to work to qualify for his scholarship. Bright sunshine shown in through the western windows, giving the room a homey feel despite the size. A thirty-foot-long wooden table took up the center of the room, flanked by ovens, cabinets and endless sinks. At the far end stood a young woman kneading bread. Her bun of light brown hair bobbled as she pushed and heaved the dough.

Sarah called out, “Hi Jenny! I could really go for a sandwich. What do you have?”

The young woman turned, her simple country beauty stopping Thomas in his tracks. Sarah went for a refrigerator on the left, diving in and tossing various foodstuffs out onto the massive table.

Seeing that he was not going to be introduced, Thomas walked over to where Jenny continued to work on the bread. He stood and watched her work the dough until she stopped and turned to him, a vexed look in her eye.

He stepped back, “Ahh, hi. I’m Thomas. I came down from Oxford with Sarah. Sorry to interrupt, I’ll let you get on with it. I just wanted to say hi and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Thomas began to turn away. Jenny touched his arm with her hand, leaving a dusting of flour. She smiled, “It’s ok. Nice to meet you too. I can see you are not one of them, maybe we can have a chat over a cup of tea later when I’m not busy?”

Sarah had finished filling a large charger with meats and cheese, various breads, pickles and mustard. She motioned for Thomas to follow as she led out to a rear patio looking down on the gardens and further out to the endless parkland and forests.

They settled in on the patio while Sarah shoved slices of ham into her mouth. She pointed out towards the central fountain, “Who dat?” Chunks of meat sprayed the balustrade. She wiggled her index finger to indicate a young man, stripped to the waist, fishing muck out of the fountain. His broad shoulders were tanned from the sun, strong muscles rippled in concert with the sucking sound his shovel was making as he lifted the watery mud from the fountain bowl.

Jenny strode out onto the patio making a beeline towards Thomas. “Hey, I made this sandwich for you. I just pulled a turkey from the oven. I cut the best slices of the tender breast for you and added my special cranberry sauce. I hope you like it.” She bent over to hand him the plate. Thomas averted his eyes, looking quickly up towards her face. He caught the stink-eye she shot at Sarah and the word “pig” she muttered under her breath.

She smiled and said, “If you need anything else, just call.”

Thomas thanked her as she backed away. Sarah wiped some meat juice and cheese crumbs from her mouth with the back of her hand, “Who is that in the garden?”

Jenny stopped, “Oh, that’s Brian. He is the gardener now.”

“What happened to that old fellow? Forgot his name, Bob or James? Something like that.”

Jenny frowned, “Giuseppe passed in February. He’s buried in the chapel yard just past the woods, in case you would like to pay respects. Brian is the youngest son from one of the local farms. He’s lucky to get this position. As the youngest of six boys there was no future for him on the farm. It was here or off to a factory.”

Sarah grunted while selecting a pickle from a small bowl.

Thomas frowned, “Though I didn’t know him, I would like to pay my respects. Any man who can create such a beautiful vista is well worth what little honor I can bestow.”

“Thank you for such kind words. I can take you over any day you like. I can throw together a little picnic box and show you the grounds as well. It will be an adventure! I can show you all the secluded spots.” Jenny winked and pirouetted back towards the kitchen.

Sarah stood up. “I need to give directions on the flowers arrangements for the house. It’s hard to find anyone who can do a good flower arrangement. I will be back in a jiffy.” She stepped away from the table. “I may be longer than a jiffy. Why don’t you go find out when my brother is arriving?”

She skipped across the patio and down the stone steps leading to the garden.

Thomas watched her head for the strapping young man. He looked about, deciding he would like to see the view from the crenellations at the top of the tower. Picking up his plated sandwich, he headed up the stone stairs to the upper balcony. Entering the building, he wandered about until he found the round staircase leading to the top of the tower. Emerging at the top he found a small bistro table with two chairs. He settled down and ate his sandwich enjoying the view of the sun setting over the forests and fields of the countryside.

He headed back down the staircase and found his way to the front door to retrieve his bags. They had disappeared at some point during the afternoon. He turned back into the house only to be met by a man in livery.

“Welcome to Bransbury Manor sir. Your luggage has been delivered to your room. Would you like me to guide you there?”

Thomas nodded, “Yes, please.”

Without another word the footman turned towards the main staircase. Thomas followed him up and along a long hallway. The man stopped and opened a door. Standing aside he gestured for Thomas to enter. “This is your bedroom during your stay. Dinner will be served in room tonight. The lady of the house is indisposed and asked we not have a formal dinner. If there is a need I can help you with, just press this button here beside the door. Dinner will be ready soon. Would you like me to bring it without delay?”

“Yes, that will be fine. Thank you.”

Thomas walked into the room, closing the door behind him. His suitcase was nowhere to be seen. He opened the wardrobe to find his clothes neatly put away. He found a selection of books on a side table. Picking out a small tome, he placed it next to one of the overstuffed chairs. He was tired from the travel and decided to take a shower before dinner.

He emerged from the bathroom to find his dinner had arrived and was set on the desk. He lifted the silver dome to find a selection of the same turkey he had earlier along with some stuffing, cranberry and a glop of mashed potatoes formed in the shape of a valentine heart. A sprig of rosemary pierced the potatoes in a representation of cupid’s arrow. He doubted all the diners had the same presentation.

After eating he picked up the book he had selected and headed for the bed. Climbing in he opened the book and began to read. It was an odd yet enjoyable story of a civil war general and soon he was asleep.

In the morning he dressed and headed down to see about breakfast. In the main dining room, he found a silver service of coffee and several pastries. He filled a cup and headed out to the balcony to greet the day. Thomas found the lady of the house seated on the balcony. “Good morning ma’am. I apologize for not being aware of the correct address and title. Sarah did not inform me her mother was of noble birth.”

“Never mind all that, you can address me as Margaret. Titles and such are for servants. I would like to hear about your lineage though now that we have a moment. You have a familiar look, who is your father?”

“I do not know much about him. You see my parents passed while I was still quite young. I have no relatives I know about. What little information I have is he managed a mercantile in the Plymouth area. I have an old photo and a birth certificate. Not much else.”

“That is a sad tale and yet here you are. There must be blue blood in your veins for you to land on your feet so admirably. I do believe you have arrived here for a reason. We have an extensive set of genealogy references in our library. We will solve the mystery of your birth soon enough.”

“I had not considered such a thing.” Thomas mustered, “I suppose it is the secret dream of all of England, to discover one is a long-lost prince or princess. I would very much enjoy looking at your books to see what we can find.”

Margaret clapped her hands, “Well then let’s get to it! What is your surname?”

“My father’s name was Michael Cranford, my mother was born Theresa Morton.”

Margaret thought for a moment, “There is a Duke of Cranford. Perhaps you are the off-shoot of a younger son. Let’s go to the library!”

She sprang up, grabbing Thomas’ hand and dragging him back into the house. After several minutes of traversing rooms and hallways, they arrived at the manor library.

“Have a seat. First we need fresh coffee.” She strode over to an intercom set on a small table between two couches. She pressed the button and spoke quickly into the device, hanging up before getting a response.

“First we should look at the book of Lords. We can trace the heirs of the Dukedom and see if that turns up any interesting information.”

She began to drag a rolling ladder across the bookshelves. Thomas jumped up from his seat, “Let me help with that.”

Margaret positioned the ladder and pointed up, “See that set of green bound books up near the top. Get the one for the East Midlands.”

Thomas hurried up the ladder and retrieved the book. He slowly descended, holding the heavy book to his chest in order to maintain his balance. He placed the book on the reading table for Margaret.

She opened the book, flipping through pages, muttering to herself. “Here it is! We have the current duke, born 1958. He was the only son of the prior duke, born 1923. He was the oldest child of his father, born in 1892. Ah, here we are. He had four sons. The oldest naturally took the title. The second son born in 1925 went to the church. The third was killed in the war. Such a waste of good nobility was thrown against those retched heathens.”

She jabbed a finger into the book, “Here it is! The fourth son, born in 1933, took a commission in the Royal Navy. It says he settled in Plymouth. This book does not cover his children. We will have to dig through other records. Tedious work. I will have one of the servants find the information.”

She beamed at him. “I would say there is it a good chance you are a long-lost cousin of the current Duke!”

Thomas smiled. He was happy to see her happy. But he did know he was not the cousin of the Duke of Cranford. He was born in America, moving to England when he was barely a year old.

Thomas climbed the ladder with the heavy book, placing in back on the shelf.

Sarah burst into the room, “Mother, I have had it with these chilly rooms. We are moving!”

Margaret sat on the couch, “Well, if you insist. But before we move, we must start by finding some new furniture. We could never take the pieces from this house.”

Margaret stood suddenly, “Sarah, get your laptop. We are going shopping!”

The two women hurried from the room talking excitedly to each other.

Thomas stayed in the Library, spending several hours scanning the rows of books. He would pick out one or another, flipping a few pages before putting it back. He could get an Oxford education and more just from reading a fraction of the books in this room. He was starting to get hungry and wandered from the library towards the dining hall. The breakfast items had been cleared but there was no sign of lunch. He decided to find the footman to find out about mealtimes. He moved through the hallways towards the main foyer. He arrived to find the footman receiving a hug from a teenage boy. Thomas assumed this must be Nigel and went over to introduce himself.

Nigel caught sight of Thomas as he walked over, “You must be Thomas. My sister told me you were coming. It’s a great pleasure to have you in our home. She told me were bootstrapping your way up the ladder. Very admirable.”

Thomas held out his hand, “Thank you. I do my best. She has talked about you as well. I secretly have been looking forward to meeting you, Sarah has said such great things about you.”

Nigel gave Thomas’ hand a firm shake, “Let me get settled in and we can talk over lunch. Is that fine with you?”

“Yes, of course.”

Nigel walked off, heading up the main staircase. Thomas turned to the footman. Before he could speak the footman informed him, “Lunch will be on the patio. When the weather is good, lunch is always served on the patio. If it is uncomfortable outside, lunch is served in the solarium. Dinner is in the main dining hall unless the Lady of the house has deemed otherwise. I will let you know in such case. Afternoon tea will come to you, as long as you are in the house. If you require a picnic lunch or snack, just ask the cook.”

Thomas thanked the man and headed out towards the patio. The women had decided to have lunch in town, so Thomas waited for Nigel to come down.

The door opened, Nigel striding forward to where Thomas was waiting. “Hey, so my mom called me earlier. She was rather excited; said you were the cousin to the Duke of Cranford. I hear they have quite a place over by London. Have you ever been?”

“Ah, no. Actually, I think she might be mistaken. I’m pretty sure of it. I don’t know how to tell her, she seemed so happy when she figured it out.”

“Just leave it. She really loves all the old nobility stuff and who is above who. She can tell you the royal succession order down to the 100th person. She’s like those kids who memorize PI to a thousand decimal places.”

“Even so, I hate to leave her with a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, posh! It’s not like you are running around claiming a seat in the House of Lords. Let her have her fun. Here, let’s get started on lunch. By the way, nothing is impossible, she may just be right.”

Thomas shrugged as Nigel pulled him over to the table. “After this we can go out for a ride. We have some nice ponies that need their exercise.”

“I’m going to have to turn you down. I’ve never ridden before; I don’t know how.”

Nigel laughed, “Seriously? I’m just going to have to teach you. It will give us something to do over the break. Why, I think I can make you such a good rider you will be a shoo-in for the polo team when you get back!”

Later that afternoon Thomas took his first ride on a horse and much to his pride and amazement he did not fall off once. When they returned the women were back from town.

Margaret beckoned Nigel to come over, “Nigel, your home! You are just in time. I have some news, we are moving!”

Nigel looked perplexed, “Moving? Where to?”

Margaret paused, “I don’t know.” She brightened up, “Doesn’t matter, I have begun to order new furniture so we will just have to find a place to put it. We found the most gorgeous Louis XIV bedroom set. I suppose we will have to find a place in France.”

Nigel shrugged, “Great. Let me know when to pack.”

Thomas, happy to be excluded from the discussion, wandered back in the house. He heard a noise coming from the main foyer and decided, having nothing else to do, he could spend the next several hours figuring out what it was. He walked towards the front door, hearing the noise coming from outside. Pulling open the door, he was greeted by a sweaty middle-aged man in an off-color linen jacket and a young Russian couple in track suits.

The malodorous man stepped forward, grabbing Thomas’ hand, “Hello! You must be the master of the house. I heard rumor around town that your great family was moving to Australia. I just happen to have this couple who are in the market for a manor house. When I described the place, they were just ecstatic about the opportunity to have their very own piece of English history.”

Thomas glanced over at the couple. The woman was tapping at her phone with her long nails, grimacing while trying to compose a text message. The young man was picking at his dirty nails while shuffling his foot, building and knocking down small piles of stones in the driveway. He paused for a moment to get her attention, speaking softly in Russian while making crude gestures at the back of the agent.

Thomas looked back at the grinning man. “Well, I’m just a guest for the summer. Perhaps if you wait here, I can find someone to answer your questions.”

Thomas turned back into the house, heading for the patio. He stopped suddenly while crossing the foyer. In his mind he could picture what would happen if her were to bring Margaret and Sarah to meet this group. And by God, he would not see such a beautiful Manor fall into the hands of some uncivilized and boorish Russian mafia family. They would likely have monster truck rallies in the great hall. He turned back towards the door and marched right out, facing the agent square on.

“Sir, I am sorry to say you are mistaken. This manor is not for sale and will not be so in the future. Take a lesson to disregard the idle gossip of the ill-bred. I stridently suggest you take yourself and your ‘clientele’ from these lands and do not return!”

Thomas turned back to the house, closing the door with vigor. He felt energized. It was time to put all this silliness behind. He marched himself directly to the patio.

“Lady Margaret, Sarah, Nigel, listen up now!”

The three immediately stopped their discussion of France and furniture, turning to face Thomas.

“We are not moving! This manor contains the history of your lineage. It is not to be tossed aside in favor of some boring box of a house. I will not allow it!”

The women were in shock. Nigel, on the end, stealthily shot him a thumbs up.

Margaret was the first to recover. She looked away from Thomas and stepped over to the balcony. After a moment, she straightened her back and turned.

“I have a confession.”

She looked over at Sarah and Nigel, “Children, I am sorry for not telling you this before.”

Steeling her nerve, she faced Thomas. “I cannot sell this manor. You see, my husband, their father, was not of noble birth. I am the younger daughter of a family of two siblings. When I was just a girl, my elder brother left for America with his young bride. He settled in New York but soon disappeared and was not heard from again. When I married, an agreement was made with my father that my husband and I would act as custodians for the manor until my brother or his heir returned.”

“His disappearance was kept quiet. There were rumors he was involved in some nefarious activities, but they were just rumors. It is difficult to know what to believe.”

Thomas collapsed into a nearby chair, his face gone white. Sarah rushed over to him, “Thomas, what is the matter?”

Thomas began quietly, “I too have a confession.”

He found his strength and stood. “I grew up an orphan as I said before. There is more. I don’t know all the details other than what was provided to me upon reaching adulthood. I was summoned to Scotland Yard a few days after my 18th birthday. I was told the true nature of my parents and how they had died. My parents had come to America from England just after they were married. My father had somehow gotten himself involved with a gang of thugs operating in the New York mafia. One day things went wrong, and his wife and infant son were threatened. He made the decision to turn informant. After the unpleasantries, the entire family moved from New York back to Plymouth when I was barely a year old. A mole in the FBI had provided the information of my family’s location to a mobster and my parents were killed. For my protection, my name was changed, and I was put into the foster care system. No attempt was made to find any relatives here or in America.”

Sarah looked at Thomas, then her mother, “Is this true, could he be?”

Margaret nodded, “Yes, it all fits.”

Sarah stepped back, a look of distaste crossing her face. “So that means – we are cousins?”

A look of horror overcame her, “Eww! That’s gross!”

She waggled her finger at Thomas, “We are done! I am breaking up with you!”

She ran to the house, her voice trailing behind, “Oh God oh God oh God.”

Nigel came forward, “Do we need to do a blood test to know for sure?”

Margaret smiled, “I know it’s true now. When I said you looked familiar, it is because you look just like my brother the last time I saw him, just before he left for America. You said you have a picture? Bring it out and I am sure that will settle the matter.”

The summer weeks passed. Thomas and Nigel became best of friends. Sarah spent many hours with the gardener discussing the arrangement of her flowers. Thomas and Jenny went on their picnic. The heat of August faded, and the students began preparations for returning to school.

Thomas carrying a blanket, walked out into the evening air with Jenny on his arm. He stretched out the blanket and laid down next to her, looking up at the stars.

“In my physics class we learned there is no concept of up or down in space. It is all relative to how you look at things. I’ll give you an example. If you were to drill a hole from where we are straight through the earth and come out the other side, the closest land is named Antipodes Islands? When we look up at the stars, the people of those islands must be looking down and when they look up, we are the ones looking down.”

“Just imagine yourself held to the bottom of the earth, gravity the only thing stopping you from falling off into the cosmos. Now look at all the stars and envision you are looking down at the universe while it looks up at you.”