#6: Fire on the Flume

            The factory had been empty for as long as they could recall.  It stood on crumbling ground just a few meters higher than the surrounding marsh.  Rumor had it that in its heyday, the daily sewage had strewn moat-like into the tributary.

Now fall leaves coated the earthen causeway in a slick sheet offering a nose of acrid decay.  They were careful to skirt the edges for fear of spiraling into the chilled shallows.  The walkway extended from the city limits to the factory grounds surrounded on both sides by an abandoned and still flume.  No more were the deep grooves of bygone carriage tracks as they marched silently down the crowned path.     

Their hands occasionally brushed due to the forced proximity but they excused it in passing.  The tension of their impeding malintent supplanted any desires for small talk.  A nervous cough here and there peppered their walk.  Occasionally the faded red plastic tank he held in his left hand brushed her thigh, expelling gasses from the air vent spastically.  This marked the first time they had taken this trip together.  The day of the incident she had been on night shift at the hospital, so she had arrived first.  Now they replayed their separate haunted journeys over again. 

She stops short and drops to one knee.  Her eyes clinch shut.  “I can’t…I just can’t go back inside.”  The wind whips up off the flume and stirs her hair.  Brian noticed it growing thinner and more tousled with each day.  He takes a knee, setting the tank down, the weight crunching the dry field grass.

“Bea.  We agreed that no matter how difficult this was, we would see it through.  Think about how it will feel when it’s done.  We owe it to her.  Hell, we owe it to every kid in this godforsaken town.  Once it’s done, we will go.  Start a new life out west.  We’ve already discussed this.”  He pauses for a moment and upon receiving no reaction stands impatiently.  Turning away from her, his eyes fall to his shoes.  “I’m going.  You can stay here if you like.”

Brian bends to clasp the tanks handle but her hand clamps down preventing the hoist.  “Look in my eyes.  Brian.  Please.”  He complies.  “Look and tell me we’re doing the right thing.  Nothing we do will bring her back.  He’s headed to eternal damnation.  This seems an unnecessary risk and pain.  Tell me I’m wrong.” 

“You are wrong Bea.  I won’t ever be able to live in this town and I won’t be able to leave until this is done.  I remember you being stronger when we first met, your belly full of fire.”  The gaze is broken as she nods a tearful consent.  From the low marsh fog a heron takes flight and serenades them with its prehistoric croon. 

            She forces a smile, the upturned corners of her lips funneling and merging her tears.  “Sarah always was mystified when she heard that sound.  Said she proved the dinosaurs were still alive.  In a way she wasn’t wrong…”

            It is his turn to well up with sorrow, but he quells it and lifts the tank with sudden violence.  “C’mon.  It’s getting too close to sundown for my liking.”  Bea pauses and rises after a moment, a shiver retching her body. 

            She had been with a patient when the ER front desk attendant rapped on the exam room door.  Annoyed by the disturbance she apologized to the patient, who was suffering from an apparent innocuous rash, and answered the door. 

            “Can’t this wait?  I’ve only had a few moments with him”

The attendant swallowed and delivered the lightly practiced lines as concise as she could.  “The sheriff is on the line for you Bea.  I don’t think this can wait, it has something to do with Sarah.”  In a setting where chaos and muddled thinking could ruin a shift or a life, Bea answered monotone.

“Which line?”

The next few hours of her life she would never fully remember or comprehend.  The sheriff was exceedingly demure and cryptic with his instructions.  She repeatedly asked him what was the matter and how it related to Sarah.  His response was that she needed to come down to the station immediately, but that it was only precautionary.  Bea’s profession afforded her an ability to read people and she read through his orchestrated calm.

            Her first instinct was to call Sarah’s cell.  It went immediately to her voicemail.  A sinking feeling started to emanate deep from her bowels and her ears began to burn a shade of cherry.  She hung up and dialed Brian.  He would still be in bed at this early hour; it was merely four in the morning.  His cell rang the requisite number of times and she left a curt message instructing him to call her back. 

            After arranging someone to tend to the rash patient, she took off in her car still in scrubs.  Bea found the station bustling for a small midwestern metropolis given the hour. 

            “Where’s the sheriff?”  A paper pusher eyed her for a moment before flicking his head towards a large office in the rear of the building.  Her steps slowed as she crossed the station floor.

            He appeared calm, almost detached.  “Mrs. Ellis.  Sit down please.  I called you down here because we need you to identify a body.”  She didn’t flinch.  “We think it could be Sarah.  We found a car fitting her registered description abandoned with signs of a struggle near the old sugar refinery south of town.  The body was later discovered on the main floor inside the building.  We believe someone or multiple people took her there against her will and killed her.  We’re going to need you to come with us to the scene and ID her; again we are not sure if this is your daughter until you confirm or deny.  I am sorry for having to deliver this news to you either way.”

            “Well it can’t be Sarah.  She was in bed when I left for my shift and we keep a tight curfew.  There’s no way.  Someone, someone could have stolen her car.  Should I file a report, I mean –”

“Mrs. Ellis, that won’t be necessary right now.  If the ID is negative and you believe the car to have been stolen, we will deal with that then.  Please, come with me now.  The sooner we accomplish this, the better chance we have of catching who did it and we need to rule out Sarah’s name to move down our list.”  He knew her current state would render her cooperative but only momentarily.  Denial was a powerful perspective and when channeled correctly could embolden a suspect or witness to supremely horrid ends, or in this case, tasks.  He dared not lessen its intensity with tedious details such as the VIN being a direct match with the Ellis’ registration or that her ID had been found on her person.

            He rose and gestured for Bea to do the same.  She complied and discovered her legs unusually wobbly under her.  Balancing on her chairs arm, she took a few deep breaths and composed herself.  She had a few little tricks for dealing with car crash victims in the ER and she ran through them.  Stare at a distant object – his criminal justice degree.  Ok, now read a few lines.  Shift your weight in your shoes.  Last deep breath, but catch it on the way out.  Empty the mind of emotion or sympathy.

            “Please Mrs. Ellis, we really need to go.  I’ll meet you out front in my squad car.  Get in the back please.”

            The ride was held in silence.  Only the creaking of tired shocks as the car meandered down the uneven earthen causeway.  The sheriff elected to skip stopping at the car, as it would only render Bea hysterical.  His men had cordoned off the front door with yellow tape and planted white flood lamps about the ground floor, their beams angled down at the concrete. 

            “Bea, please follow me.”  She hesitated.  “M’am you’re a nurse right?”  She nodded meekly.  “Well you know how this works then.  You do it slow and the pain drags on.  You do it quick and the patient never knew what happened.  Same thing here.  C’mon.  There ya go.”

            The funeral took place several days after.  Brian had eventually woken and headed to the crime scene.  He found his wife on the ground, unable to stand and his daughter slain on the dirty concrete floor.  Her head was bloodied in a roundabout fashion, lending her brow a Christ like appearance.  The police established there was only one perpetrator and they had used a pipe wrench to take her life. 

            Life for the Ellis’ went on.  They gave statements, made arrangements, and grieved.  Eventually they deduced that Sarah had snuck out past curfew in her car and somehow was lured to the outskirts of town by someone she knew and trusted.  Confirming their suspicion, an older man was arrested weeks later.  He promptly confessed to having been involved with Sarah for several months and that he killed her out of suspected infidelity. 

            The seasons changed and their daily lives became more bearable.  They still wept spontaneously when they absentmindedly laid out an extra dinner place setting or awoke from a pleasant dream which featured her.  The older man was convicted, sentenced to death and executed several years after the incident.  Armed with a slight sense of vindication, they continued to progress towards a normal life, albeit one featuring weekly therapy and a steady stream of antidepressants.  One morning, Bea refused to rise for her shift.

            “I think we should burn it down.”  She waited for a response - anything would have been comforting. 

            “What are you saying?”

            “You know what I am saying.  We’ll burn it down and move west near my sister.  They’ll never trace it back to us and even if they do, do you even care?  We’d get some lenience after what we’ve been through.  The place is a death trap waiting to happen again.  Besides, I’ve been having too many dreams about it lately…. I know you have too.  I feel it when you jerk around in your sleep.” 

            The notion was preposterous to Brian at first, but as they lingered in bed it grew on him.  They talked about how they’d buy a plot of land in the Dakotas, as it was cheap, and build a log cabin themselves.  Being so close to her sister would help them ease back into a normal social life and get them out of their hermit like existence.  She would take a job at the regional hospital and maybe, maybe one day they’d feel good enough to start a family again.  These notions became interlaced with the act.  It would force them to flee to start this new life and in doing so make their future.  A phoenix rising from smoldering ashes. 

            The rest of the walk is measured.  The sun cuts long shadows of the refinery stacks, imposing them on the glassy water.  They hesitate on the threshold of the entrance and it is Bea that leads them inside.  Gone is the tape and caged fluorescent lamps; they go about their business by natural light streaming from the high placed windows.  Brian douses the gas liberally as Bea strolls the floor impatiently, her wanderlust ready to ignite simultaneously with the fire.  Leaving a trail to light, Brian pauses before striking the match.

            “Any last words?” he addresses no one in particular.

            “Yea,” Bea answers.  “To hear the awful words ‘earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ as they fall upon our bruised and broken hearts like the clods that fall upon the casket below; that seems like appalling failure.  But God’s triumph is always in resurrection.  Book of Revelation.  Burn it Brian, burn the motherfucker.” 

            The match is cast.  They sprint away hand in hand up the causeway.  The inferno accelerates behind them, propelling them onward.

#5: A Cape Heart

He awoke to the thudding of rain.  Steel dawn light encased his bedroom curtains, many hours away from a full halo.  No alarm clock was needed; the routine had become sheer habit.  Reflective road clothes were donned, complemented this morning by a nylon rain jacket.  A quick protein liquid breakfast and he slipped out of the side door. 

The air held mist and raw salinity from the sea.  It entered his lungs and coated them with vigor, offering purpose.  This was the most serene part of his day; the only time his thoughts were truly his.  On this particular morning, like most, they fixed on himself.  He was a thirty two year old journeyman and this would be his thirty sixth professional fight. 

Artie “The Hammer,” Breedt was raised on a Western Cape farm, the youngest of five brothers.  Being the youngest, daily torment tempered his will and resolve.  Bailing wheat straw and chopping wood molded his features.  Wet leaves ahead on the shoulder, best slow up and preserve footing.  The road corkscrewed upwards through Cape pines.

He pounded the asphalt at a steady pace round switchbacks for a half hour.  Occasionally his right hand would flick upwards followed by a quick left shadow cross.  Gotta take away his jab, neutralize it with the cross.  Little traffic joined him in the premature hour but occasionally a car would pass and flash their hazards in support.  Artie saluted back with a raised fist and beaming smile.  I’m not anyone’s stepping-stone.  25-10 with five victories in a row, no bru, never anyone’s stepping-stone.  

The journey ended on the beach.  Past the white palisades of Cape Town holiday homes and onto the hard packed powder white sand of Hout Bay he tumbled.  His shoulders slouched from exertion and with hands held low, he sashayed and flipped his hips, running backwards at full steam.  This poor moegoe has got something coming to him.  Overrated green punk has never seen the likes of my experience. 

In the shadow of Table Mountain he careened past street urchins still intoxicated from the night before.  This one is dedicated to little Maggie, God bless her.  She deserves all the fruits of my labor.  Artie slowed to a brisk walk and started on the usual route.  It took him past corner bodegas where Afrikaners and Indians alike beamed with pride and shook their fists. 

“Beat the pants off that blerrie kid Artie,” they’d yell.

To which he’d respond with a simple “Ay bass.” 

He made a point to stop in at the same café every morning for a brief English breakfast and chat with a family member. 

“Hoezit boet?”  Sam, who owned the joint, was married to his cousin and reliable as an in-law could be.  He had acquired the business through hard work and Artie fancied him a quasi-spiritual advisor, always quick with pearls of wisdom. 

“Good.  Good Sam.  I’ll take the usual.  Tall glass of the orange juice as well.”  Highlights of the national rugby team’s, the Springboks, Test victory in Rustenburg the night prior flash across the TV screen. 

Sam glances up from the sizzling eggs.  “They are looking sharp this year, I’ll say.”  Artie half nods.  “Not as sharp a figure as you’re cutting though.  How do you feel about this one?”

“Ah…I feel good, all things being equal.  This is a good fight for me and him really.  He’s fresh off a kak hot amateur career and the pride of the Transvaal from what I gather.  All the promoters want a piece and figure Jean Ingram is the next great export fighter.”

“Do you buy the hype?”  The question is honest and not overly skeptical.

“Yea, I do actually.  I saw him spar way back when he was laaitie in Mitch Ross’ Jo’burg gym.  I saw talent then.  But he hasn’t had to go the distance in a pro fight and he’s never faced a slick southpaw with my skills yet.  I like my chances.”

Sam scratches his head before plating the fried eggs and tomato.  “You’re not such a spring chick anymore Art, nè?  If you find yourself in there, walking down a dark hallway, be smart.  You got a little girl to tend.  There’s no shame in surviving, not with the career you’ve had.” 

It’s mid-morning by the time he returns to his house.  A quick shower before crawling into bed.  He will sleep soundly for an hour and a half, giving his muscles time to repair.  As he drifts off, his arm lashes out sporadically and jolts him awake.  Christ, I’m like a sleeping dog these days. 

Whap…whap…WHAP!  The right hook thuds home square on the mitts center.  Even though he wears heavy training gloves, the foam compresses satisfyingly on his knuckles.  It feels like if only he swung a little harder, he could go clear through.  Bending his knees he sweeps under his coach’s outstretched paw.  Keep the eyes up. Chin in, hands up and eyes up.  Need to see when he tries to shoot the right up the pipe. 

The thirty-second bell tolls twice and he ups his output.  Pushing beyond his minds limits he digs deep and fires combos.  Ratatat…Ratatat…Ratatatat, they go, echoed by hissing exhales.  The round comes to a close and he slumps on his stool.

His coach, a large Boer leans through the ropes from the outside and addresses him whilst wiping sweat and spittle from his face.  “Good round maat.  You need to lean more with your body on the right hook though.  Really dig and shift your weight.  This guy, he’s got a tight shell defense so you gotta really thwack him to break the guard.  The advantage to that though, is he’s slower on the counter and he doesn’t move much laterally, so you have a target to work with.”  Artie looks him dead in the eye to display comprehension.  “Don’t give him much time after the first round to get off punches.  Step in, smother and get back out.  Frustration will muddle this kid’s power and speed.  It’s also going to get him swinging wildly as the rounds go on, so there’ll be openings for you.  When you see one you gotta commit and step in, you got it?”

They had worked together for the past ten fights.  His uncle had coached him since he was a boy, but had succumbed to cancer a few years back.  Pieter de Bruin was the most well respected trainer on the Cape and Artie’s recent string of wins validated that. 

The session marches on to a well-known tempo heard only by fighter and coach.  It spans four hours and its intensity does not wane.  The final half hour is spent sparring with a new partner.

“Artie, this is Sam Debeza.”  They touch gloves.  “He’s going to give you some work.  Seven three minute rounds, minute breaks.  I want you both to go hard, get some shots in.”  They retreat to opposite corners. 

Pieter leans in close to Sam.  “I’ll give you six hundred rand if you get him down.” 

To Artie: “he is the closest thing you’re gonna get to Jean sonny; come-forward, aggressive and fast.  Get in there and do your thing.”

The opening bell sounds and Artie bounds forward.  He’s light on the balls of his feet.  His opponent advances with plodding steps.

True to his purported style, Sam wades in with a high guard and begins to bob and weave.  He’s looking for an opening on my flanks to land a body blow.  Artie shuffles his feet, double jabs and moves to his right.  None of them land, but they put his opponent on his heels.  Before Sam has a chance to re-set himself, Artie feigns a high jab, squats low and fires a hard overhand left at his chest.  The tactic works as Sam’s lead left had drifted away in a parry, exposing his middle.

The punch knocks the wind from him and he covers as he retreats.  Artie, sensing his chance, steps in behind another flicking jab and follows with a hard hook-cross-hook combo.  His opponent rebounds fast though and his shell defense deflects most of the damage.  And as Artie looses his second hook, Sam times it, rolls under whilst stepping in to his left and fires a quick upward hook to his exposed liver.   

He masks the expression of sharp pain that threatens to show, but his quick jabs and two-step recoil betray him.  Sam is on him with a flash of leather.  Artie’s experience lets him screen most of the punches and turn them away with his gloves.  He does misjudge a slip though and falls into a straight right, which stuns him.  This kid is bladdy quick.  I’m gonna have to show him who’s bass.

Sitting with his weight on his trailing foot, he picks off the last few of the onslaught before immediately lunging at his partner.  Straight left cross lands flush, followed by a body hook and left uppercut.  It is he now that is bobbing and weaving, slipping a few tired counters and slamming home vicious hooks.  Luckily for the newcomer, the bell trills.

The rest of the rounds are uneventful for Artie.  Sam is suddenly weary to let his hands go and risk a counter attack.  He jabs and stays away, satisfied with surviving, untempted by the bribe.  Artie tries to press the attack, frustrated by the caution.

Hunched on his stool he growls at Pieter through a deluge of sweat.  “If that’s as close to Jean as I’m gonna get bru, I might as well take the next month off and eat what I want.  Pathetic.”  Pieter smiles a reply of satisfaction.  

The next few weeks follow the trajectory set forth by Pieter and experience.  Runs in the morning are followed by long gym sessions with small meals interspersed throughout.  Any free time he spends with his daughter, Maggie.  He takes her on beach walks and reads her bedtime stories that often align with his own nightly curfew.  A few local newspapers and one from the Transvaal contact him for quotes.  Artie gives them little to work with. 

Everything is in place: his weight is inline with the 155lb catch and is he is in the best condition of his life.  The fight is a week away when he falls ill.

It starts with an innocent enough head cold.  It soon progresses to chills and a low grade fever.  He pushes on with training, hoping to sweat it out.  When that fails, he takes a respite and quaffs cold medicine in bed.  Three days before the event, Pieter pays a visit to his home.

“Artie, boet.  I’ve seen you in brighter spirits I have to say.  How do you feel, truly?”

“Good.  Good enough to give this a go still.  I think I’ve improved since yesterday, so maybe tomorrow or the next, I’ll be able to get back in the gym for a tune up.”

“Well we certainly don’t have to worry about you making weight.”  The two share a chuckle.  “Listen, there are going to be other fights round the corner, fights more advantageous.  There’s no shame in withdrawing when the deck is stacked against you and it’s not your doing.”

There is a slow silence before Artie responds.  “Baas, I need this.  This is the fight that will see Maggie through till womanhood.  There is no other way I can see.  Unless you have something to offer.”

They glare at each other briefly before Pieter concedes.  Give was not a trait the Hammer was known for; most had been tempered out. 

His dressing room contained the bare essentials and no fanfare.  Pieter wrapped his hands in silence.  The two had met for one final session the day prior.  Pieter had been frank in his assessment – his tank was three quarters full at most and his punches lacked their usual crispness.  They would have to press early and often and look for the knockout; something Artie had never been comfortable doing.  They had run through the gambit of scenarios and now silence seemed the appropriate course. 

Artie did not showboat per his usual ringwalk, despite the overwhelming local fan support.  A strange clarity overcame him – borne of medicinal side effects or focus, he couldn’t say.  The ropes and large box approached him down a narrowing tunnel, its juncture fixed on him.   

He toned out the ambient noise, the nags from Pieter, and even the referee’s instructions.  His sole focus was his opposition.  Noticeably a few inches taller and leaner, Jean Ingram had acquired the physique of a real contender.  His anthracite coal skin accentuated the features groomed by a youth spent in the gym.  The unstoppable force glared at this immovable object across the ref’s chasm.  Scheduled for twelve, he aimed to end it in the fourth. 

The first two rounds go uneventful, much to Artie’s chagrin.  Working off his jab, he tries nearly every trick to break his guard and get inside to do damage.  Apparently Jean had already seen that show as he manages to skirt his advances and jab out of harm’s way.  Like the sluggish puff adder, he conserves his energy in anticipation of a fatal strike.

As the second round draws to a close, fans begin to boo the pedestrian pace.  Artie’s punch output is high, but Jean slips and parries the damage.  He seems content to pace himself and does not fire many counters.  Right before the bells sounds though, Artie missteps.  He feigns a jab to the head, steps to his right and fires a heavy-handed right hook at Jean’s temple.  Almost as if scripted, Jean drops his lead hand to sucker him into the step and pivots to his left in unison.  By the time Artie’s hook lands, Jean’s left is back in position and it thuds harmlessly off his leather.  Without hesitation his right accelerates across his body and slams home on Artie’s unprotected chin.  Artie’s legs abruptly gel and he falls back onto the ropes.  He trampolines off and collapses to his knees, both gloves planting on the canvas.

The stage lighting had glared overhead moments before, but now they wax and wane.  A viscous dark encroaches upon the edges of his vision.  He opens the door of the dark hallway and it beckons him with black velvet.  Sam’s seer-like words from weeks ago permeate his memory but can’t bridge his corpus callosum to form coherent thought.  The round ends mid-count and standing on the precipice of the hall, he slams the door shut.  

“Fok Art.  You really hit a luck with that one.  Are you alright?”  Pieter’s concerned face looks in through his stabilizing vision. 

“Yea.  Fine.  Lovely, I’d say.  Kid is blerry fast bru.  What did he hit me with?”

Pieter responds as he sponges his brow.  “Straight right.  Caught you right on the button.  But if you’re fine, shake it off.  Keep pressing, keep hammering.  Fok it, hit his arms, his elbows, he’s gonna get tired, sore and drop his hands–”                 

“Excuse me.”  A pair of latex gloves poke through the corner ropes.  “Turn towards me please.”  Reflexively Artie squints at the blinding white pen light.  “Open them please, open!”  A few tense moments pass.  “OK.  You’re fine to continue, if you wish.”

“Bladdy right I wish.”  The opening bell for the third rings, but Artie is already at center ring. 

Jean extends his arm to touch gloves, a sign of respect.  Artie disregards the gesture and lands a jab overtop.  He slides in low on the balls of his feet and peppers his ribcage with hooks.  His weight screws violently from front to back and right to left as he snaps his hips.  While they land on his forearms and fail to score, he feels Jean wince and notices his elbows dropping.  He darts out and feigns a low flicking jab.  The elbows drop in anticipation and he lets his hands go up high.  Thu…Thud…THUD.  Left uppercut while stepping in catches his chin, right hook lands flush on his jaw and straight left up the pipes slams his nose. 

Game for a fight, Jean keeps his composure and counters in quick reply.  A double jab sets up a double left hook combo which Artie eats.  His legs sway as he slips a right, another hook and body shots.  His lack of stamina begins to take its toll and he clenches as much as the ref permits for the rest of the round.

“Piet – nothing seems to be working.  Body shots won’t put ‘em down.”  He labors for breath.  “I hit him with everything up top and he answered.  I dunno how much I got in the tank.” 

“You’re doing good in there Art.  Keep it up.  Got an idea though.  Clench up early and he’ll think you’re gassed.  Really cling good.  Wait till you’re breaking and get off a pair of uppercuts with everything you’ve got.  I gotta hunch he’s not giving you due respect.”  Pieter rubs a red spot developing over his right eye with petroleum jelly.  He knows he’s close to cutting.  Artie slows his breathing and nods in approval.

They meet for a fourth time.  Jean wears a sly grin of confidence and bounces playfully on his feet.  It is now Artie who plods.  They circle each other and exchange a few combinations, none of which land flush.  Jean manages a glancing blow to his temple and Artie senses his chance.  Stepping in abruptly, he smothers his opponent, ties up his arms and forces his forehead between his collarbone and chin.  He sags and the ref hustles to break them.  Artie ignores him and continues to hold. 

“Get out of there.  Get your hands free.  C’mon now,” as he butterflies them.  Jean, conserving energy too, lets him peel off like a slug, failing to protect his chin.  No respect at all.  He sets his feet, springs through his legs and drives home a left uppercut, followed by a right.  It is now Jean’s turn to answer the hallway door.

Artie swings a one-two combo out of habit, but they both miss.  His opponent’s head and torso, for that matter, drop to the canvas as fast as gravity allows.  He’s taking the long walk now.  All black velvet and silence.  The door handle shatters from a hammer’s blow, sealing him inside.     

The ref begins the count, but he’s already turned and headed back to his stool.  He’s thinking about summertime trips to Hout Bay with Maggie.  He’s thinking about picnics under African skies and finally taking her to a game preserve.  He’s thinking of his beloved uncle and Sam, and English breakfasts.  Love surges in and fills the void so long stretched and fouled by violence.  No shame in surviving, none at all. 

#4: El Balcón

He awoke to the buzzing of two-cycle mopeds forcing their way through the morning rush hour.  Still jet lagged, it seemed as good a time as any to arise.  The habitation was small, as dictated by the European spec, but rich in subtle style.  When he had arrived it had been the dead of night and he had scowled at the prospect of shelling out so much.  Now he could discern why. 

The walls were an off-white satin patina and the tall chocolate window curtains partitioned a full balcony that alighted above the busy plaza.  The particular plaza was located between Barcelona’s Barri Gòtic and Las Ramblas.  It afforded him easy access to several metro stops and came highly recommended in travel forums. 

George, or Jorge as he was temporarily called, was embarking on a two-month cultural sabbatical in Spain.  On leave from his employer, a small liberal arts school in the states, he aimed to pen several cultural anthropology pieces on modern Spanish society.  Particularly how the youth were coping with the barren job market.  His Spanish was so-so and his Catalan nonexistent.  Still, he hoped to conduct field interviews on the coattails of goodwill.

He showered in the closet stall of a bathroom and spent a few minutes on his balcony.  The plaza was modern by Spanish standards; a wide avenue ran circular around a mélange of palms, benches, and large central fountain.  Pedestrians marched like Pizarros embarking on the day’s excursion.  A few street performers played to the foot soldiers warming up for their main Ramblas acts. 

A quick trip to the continental breakfast and he was off.  He decided to hop the nouveau metro and head to the city’s unset crown jewel, La Sagrada Familia.  The walk to the underground station snaked him through several blocks of the gothic quarter.  It was as if the streets hemmed themselves.  Thoroughfares became alleys and each home shouldered in on the next.  Overhead they towered, their balconies intersecting at peculiar angles and heights.  The sun seemed more reluctant to capitulate to the day’s duties here. A victrola crooned from a balcony laden with white linen.  The dust kicked up from the stones fashioned a fog at which the sun’s columned rays futility beat.  

Jorge found the platform crowded, a sea of unspoken cadence.  He marveled at the Spanish style du jour.  Men in tailored silk suits brushed against teenagers in absurdly tight jeans, graphic t-shirts and hair which seemed to be cut purposefully to tatters.  On the train, the impending station name crawled across an orange ticker near the ceiling.  He was quite impressed.

The unfinished cathedral was unlike any church he had seen.  Natural patterns flowed through elaborate marble cornices and tree-like pillars of flecked pepper and sand grafted to the vaulted ceiling.  He felt that its incomplete state was actually a more perfect reflection of Gaudí’s dream – nature in motion. 

He retreated a few blocks away for a light al fresco lunch.  He discovered a subdued microplaza ringed by several local haunts.  There he took in several cañas of beer from a wooden cask and a heaping pile of succulent fried anchovies.  Feeling content with his morning, he decided to return to his hotel for a well earned siesta.

Jorge slowly retraced his steps to the metro, basking in the early spring sun.  He loved the contrast between the bold warmth and the sublime subterranean cool of the platform.  He had planned his trip to end before the height of tourist season, but such a destination was never truly native.  Ahead on the platform two such tourists chatted amicably, their backpacks and walking shoes fingering them as such.  Jorge was about to glance away when he noticed something odd.  A young Spanish couple, seemingly innocuous, had drifted up behind them.  They held hands, but their furtive glances belied their innocence.  One at a time they carefully pecked at the backpacks zipper.  They alternated until they were able to peer inside and scan the contents.  Finding nothing of interest, they shifted to the other.  He contemplated taking action, but hesitated.  This was perfect field observation for his work.  The pickpockets in question were surely stealing out of necessity and he didn’t wish to disturb the natural order of things.  Before he could oscillate further, his train arrived.

The siesta was as fulfilling as he hoped.  He spent two hours in bed, the latter half switching between La Liga highlights.  Apparently FC Barcelona had lost against rival Sevilla the day prior and analysts painted a demure picture for the coming days.  He had purposefully chosen a hotel that did not offer wireless and it restrained him from logging on to field peer queries and the like.

Dusk rolled into his dwelling and stole the promise of day.  The off-white walls ceased to amplify the impression of space as they inched closer to the bed.  He changed from his well worn travel clothes into a collared shirt and sport jacket.  After inquiring with the hostess about a destination for la cena, he struck out in the direction of Las Ramblas. 

Jorge decided to start at Las Ramblas base and work his way uphill stopping in to peck at recommended spots.   The journey began at the city’s harbor.  An ocher moon fell upon undulating ripples, the water’s surface a sheet of molten gold.  He happened upon his first stop tucked away down a long street running perpendicular to Las Ramblas.  It was nestled between two far set lampposts, their light barely scratching the graffiti’d wall of the restaurant’s façade.  Inside flamenco music blasted from a bar crowned lengthwise by a chalkboard displaying the menu and price for both sizes – tapa y ración. 

His modest Spanish and hand gestures earned a grunt from the barkeep who set upon a wheel of Manchego with feverous knife skills.  Jorge enjoyed the rich, nutty cheese and washed it down with a dry Rioja tinto.  The clientele was local and blue collar.  His jacket suddenly afforded him less confidence than usual.  One table, occupied by several men, was paying particular notice to his presence.  He tried avoiding their quiet stares cast through plumes of cigarette smoke.   

Just as he was about to settle his bill, he felt a hand clasp his shoulder from behind.  A few gold-rimmed coins fumbled onto the pine bar. 

“You must be more careful with your cash,” said the man in a thick Catalan accent. 

Jorge’s first reaction was to spin around, but he thought better and calmly gathered his money. 

Turning his head at an angle he replied in his best Spanish.  “Why of course.  I was just making sure it’s real.  You can never trust the damn government.” 

The response drew a chuckle from the stranger, but Jorge detected an edge to it.  The hand and the man retreated back to the table.  He didn’t want to appear vulnerable, so he calmly finished his glass and strolled out the front door, taking note of the menial wall art. 

Outside he drew the chilled night air deep before heading directly back to Las Ramblas.  There he took solace in the throngs of groups and couples out on leisurely tapas crawls.  Something about the men’s demeanor gave him a squeamish feeling and he decided to call it a night.  He stopped at a small bar near his hotel and ordered a scotch to subdue his brooding thoughts. 

Not content with heading straight back, he diverged a few blocks and skirted the Barri Gòtic.  Now the passageways seemed to stretch, depthless in shadow.  All visible balcony doors and shutters were drawn and the place held an unsettling coolness.  The air seemed lighter in the very center of the street, but its margins proffered a weighty darkness that swirled his vision.

He made his way to his room without a glance at the expectant hostess.  Upon reaching it, he flung the balcony doors wide and collapsed face up on the comforter.  He lay for some time in the dark, letting the sound of rushing water from the plaza fountain roll over him.  Eventually he arose and ventured onto the balcony. 

The plaza was mostly dead save for a few people engaged in a quiet botellón.  The moon marched slowly over the roofline and the palms cast short shadows upon their own canopies.  Suddenly a ruckus broke out towards the periphery of the plaza, near his perch.  Jorge peered over the railing.

He observed two men draping a third between them while a fourth paced back and forth in front.  They were talking in hushed and hurried tones, but he could not discern the topic.  Abruptly the pacing man lunged forward towards the trio and the draped man went completely limp.  Jorge attempted to stifle his shock, but a trickle of sound escaped his throat.  Immediately one of the men glanced upwards.  Recoiling from the railing, he made several hurried lunges back to the room. 

Paralysis set in.  He didn’t dare close the balcony doors or draw the curtains.  Since he had been lying in the dark and neglected to switch on any lights, he couldn’t now.  The only feasible action was to bolt his door and be still.  He tested his room phone and placed it within easy reach. 

Jorge slept through fits of unease.  At times anxiety would push his heartbeat towards a perceived apex as he strained to hear anything from beyond his balcony.  Nothing but a few drunken chants and choruses reached him though.  He kept replaying the scene over in his mind trying to decide if the man had been in grave danger.  The upturned face had seemed vaguely familiar; he envisioned him as one of the men seated at the bar table.  It couldn’t possibly be, he thought.  He was merely confusing one Spaniard for another.  Eventually his jet lag trumped all and he fell into a listless, shallow sleep.

He awoke in the morning with a start.  Sunlight streamed in unimpeded and tacked itself to the walls.  The night’s events seemed distant and surreal but nonetheless hampered his thought process.  He resolved to check out of the hotel and relocate to another part of town.  He reasoned staying there would be madness.

He packed his belongings with haste. A quick policing of the room revealed no abandoned objects.  He donned his backpack and hesitated before making his exit.  The temptation to scan the plaza from his balcony for any clues was overwhelming.  Overriding it, he reached for the bolt handle, but a sudden flash of heat coursed from his shoulders through his toes, freezing him.   There on the ground lay a piece of white paper.  His hand shook with violence as he bent to grasp it.  Scribbled in blue pen was the phrase, “Lo Siento, Lo Siento.”

Jorge dropped the sheet as if it were white-hot nickel.  Springing the bolt, he rushed from the room.  Onto Las Ramblas he poured, seeking shelter in unadulterated humanity.  So self absorbed, he failed to take note of a young couple trolling close to his backpack. 

          

#3: Matted Youth

The car moved down the bumpy road in a suitable manner.  Suitable because it dampened just enough to check the occupant’s annoyance with the half hour journey.  No lights illuminated the road but the black chasm overhead contained countless stars. 

Far from the city, four college freshmen hauled down a back road.  Their cares were limited to what song was currently blaring, who had gum, and if enough beers remained to get them to their destination. 

Maple, willow oak, and plain oak lined both sides of the road in splotches.  One of the occupants, Samantha, slid deep in her seat and tossed her head back into the headrest at an angle.  Above, the bare branches sliced a full moon in quick succession, the journey a straw stop motion picture.

“Do you think he’s gonna be there?” she asked.

“Listen Sam.  You need to stop worrying about it, really.  He’s only in town for a week and you’ll only see him tonight, c’mon,” replied a female occupant in the passenger seat. 

One of the boys sighed irreverently, but she didn’t notice in the slightest.  Overhead the moon waned and slipped from the side window frame.  Samantha craned her slender neck over the rest and peered upwards through the hatchbacks angled trunk window.  There the moon lay at the top of her vision, constant and unobstructed by any branches. 

She drank in the pocked foam surface.  Though the car pitched and careened, she pressed her head tight until the image stabilized.  She took a moment to reflect on the present.  It was their first winter break of college and all were oblivious to the eventual dissolution of childhood friendships.  The present journey was to a farmhouse that several peers who attended the local college were house sitting.  Her aim was to bump into and at least flirt with an acquaintance she had known briefly in high school before he moved to an exclusive prep school.      

The moment held immeasurable promise.  Everyone she cared for presently was either in the car or at her destination.  Her soul welled until she was convinced she could transcend the glass and alight amongst the heavens.  The moon shimmered in acknowledgment.

The car approached the Victorian manor from a gravel driveway.  Its windows were draped in black curtains and white Christmas candles gave it a grand, deep appearance.  The owners were a retired couple that had two grown daughters and several dogs.  Samantha had recognized the last name from high school sports memorabilia. 

Strategically parking as to not block any other cars, they quickly disembarked and rang a side doorbell.  An external corner light held their warm breath aloft in the frigid night.  Through the haze Samantha could make out a close shoreline and hear water gently lapping against breakwater.  Although she was a country girl at heart, her semester in the city had lent her break a surreal gloss. 

“Oh. My. God,” shrieked her best friend Tina flinging open the door.  They embraced in a wide legged stance rocking side to side carelessly. 

Samantha pulled away and took in the home.  Several red velvet couches ringed a white stone fireplace.  A pair of golden retrievers scampered underfoot of people gathered at the kitchen island drinking.  

After shedding her coat and helping herself to a drink, she settled amongst her friends dispensing and sharing epic tales of a new life away from home.  At some point amidst a drinking game, she saddled up next to the acquaintance. 

“Ben, right?” she asked.  She framed the question upwards through lashes. 

“Yea….. Samantha?  Wow it’s been years.  I think the last time I saw you, we were on the river.”

She nodded and studied him.  He had grown into his lanky frame and his hair was longer than she recalled.  Dark curls hung loosely about his brow, framing hazel eyes.  She felt suddenly short of words and breath.

They monopolized each other's time for a while before he proposed a question.

“Do you wanna get high?  No big deal if not, I just thought you might like to.”  She hadn’t smoked in high school but had a few times in college and was beginning to enjoy it.

“Sure.  I’d love to,” she replied.  She meant it in earnest but she also wanted to seem agreeable.  Besides, he had broached the subject with such confidence she had to accept.  They went outside to the brick stoop and shared a small pipe.  Since much had already been discussed, they spent the majority of the time staring off into the night in different directions.  Their breath formed fast moving cumulus clouds in the light cutting through the slower cirrus pipe smoke.                

Wordlessly they reentered the house.  Samantha donning a slightly guilty smirk as she mixed herself another drink. 

“Someone seems to be hitting it off quite well.  And that perfume…yes I’d say quite well,” Tina offered.  “C’mon.  Let’s go to the bathroom upstairs and chat.”  The two bounded up the carpeted hardwood staircase drinks in hand.

“I think that you two would be a good couple Sam.  Really I do,” Tina stated while she applied more mascara. 

“You think?  I mean we do have some things in common, but the Midwest is awfully far away for weekend visits.”  She realized the absurdity of her comment.

“Jesus Sam.  You’re getting way ahead of yourself.  Just have a good time tonight.  See where things go.  You shouldn’t get high, it makes you too sensible.  See ya downstairs,” she said as she squeezed her shoulder.

Samantha closed her clutch and glanced impartially at the wallpaper.  Small aquatic creatures, mostly seahorse, were frozen in an off-white sea.  She reasoned that this must be the children’s bathroom for the low doorknob height and lack of toiletries.    

Instead of going directly downstairs via the hallway, she absconded through the connecting room, which she discovered to be a bedroom.  She flicked on the light revealing red walls complete with an alcove and recessed lighting.  Casually she glanced at some middle school portraits.  One in particular had her in near hysterics.  A midnight blue metallic background played host to permed hair, oversized plastic glasses and bandless braces. 

She moved down the line and witnessed the progression from awkwardness to beauty.  Like the daughter, Samantha was graced with high cheekbones and olive skin.  She felt slightly voyeuristic but compelled to stay.

Gracing the alcove’s built in shelf was a series of varsity letters and newspaper clippings.  She scanned them.  Samantha had been a stand out field hockey player in high school, but this girl was highly touted and had landed a DI scholarship.  The clippings had progressed from yellow and the edges were beginning to rust.  When she touched them, dust and pulp formed a singular grit. 

She gradually became aware of the rooms imperfections.  The window screen was frayed and loose in one corner, a cobweb strung across the ceiling light fixture.  In the corners of the alcove and on its shelves myriad ladybugs lay belly up, their nail polish red forever censored. 

It occurred to Samantha that the parents had little use for this room anymore.  The pictures in the living room were of freshly minted families, another generation; the most recent photographs in this room were of high school.  She suddenly felt profound loss and confusion.  She knew she would return one day to her own room and find it in this state of disrepair and disuse.  It was as if her life had flashed before her and then she had moved on unwillingly.  She wanted to freeze herself in a candid newspaper shot, her being fashioned of crumbling sepia.

Samantha returned to the kitchen to a thinned gathering.  She mixed herself another drink for solace and inquired to Tina about Ben’s whereabouts.

“Sam, you were up there for like an hour.  He left ten minutes ago.  Got bored, I guess.”

That seemed a small tragedy to her.  She settled in with the rhythm of the conversation, her mind never committing.  It wasn’t that her friends were less pertinent; she felt she had discovered something unheralded.  Unsure of herself she coasted, wondering when, not if, the surreal gloss of home would set.

#2: A Baltimore Love Thing

“More coffee hon?” she asks.  Her tone is sincere, too sincere for this hour he thinks.  There’s also the matter of her judicious use of ‘hon.’  She had been using it from the initial greet to the presentation of the bill.  Maybe Baltimore stereotypes do hold water, he thinks.   

“No. I’m fine,” he replies with a guarded smirk.

He settles deeper into the plush vinyl diner booth.  The striated back soothes his backside, which is nearly numb from the trip.  Baltimore marked his fifth major city.  Every morning he woke with a start; eyes darting to every corner and window, his cerebrum slow to piece together his exact locale.        

Working in sales had its perks.  The expense accounts, free rental upgrades, the seemingly endless sushi.  Sometimes he swore he could tell exact temperatures of rooms from the mercury coursing in his veins.  Clients lack imagination. 

It also taxed.  He hadn’t had a stable monogamous relationship in five years and dealt with loneliness with hotel bars, tasteful suits and reality TV.  He avoided doing anything to excess; smoking and drinking claimed both his grandfathers before he was born. 

Overall he is satisfied with his trajectory.  Middle management seemed an inevitability once they put him to pasture from the road.  He calls a comfortable condo on Chicago’s north side home.  The furnishings had become less personal though upon every return.  The bourgeoisie and the hotels they frequent lack imagination.

For vices he gambles on sports.  Mostly professional, he fully embraces the country’s sports obsessed psyche.  It gave him an internal excuse to spend evenings engrossed at sports bars and chatting up anyone who would lend an ear.  Being in a town during one of their big games was definitive to his own story.  Without the incentive of winning though, he would enjoy it less.  Americans lack imagination.

The cab ride from the hotel to the diner had been soothing.  Outside a February rain fell, chunks of frozen bits lubricated the windshield but the wipers squealed protests. 

“New blades, huh?”

The driver bobbed his baseball-capped head slowly forward and back in recognition.

He chuckled to himself at the rhetorical nature of his question.  The blades tracked perfect convex lines that gave the impression the windshield was a huge turntable spinning two vinyl records in tandem.  He thought about tomorrow’s agenda.  Hotel breakfast, ten o’clock meeting with the in-house creative services team, eleven-thirty lunch meeting with the ad sales team.  Back to the hotel for a power nap and recovery from the several martinis sure to be consumed.  A rare phone check-in with his manager would proceed an early dinner.  Later he might find himself in a cab on the way to a diner.  He failed to notice his lack of imagination.

“You in town for like… business?”  The question forces his head and neck upwards like a heeling dog. 

“Excuse me?  Didn’t catch that….”

“Ya know hon, business.  You have that bleary-eyed look.  Your collar needs some starch and you’ve been staring at your check for quite some time.” 

“I’m a little tired yea, but I don’t want more coffee.  Could use some crayons though, ya know?  To draw on these pretty placemats.”

“Crowns?  Sorry we don’t keep those,” she turns back towards the bar.  It is only then that he realizes he is the last customer in the joint.

“Wait… I was just kidding.  I will take some more coffee actually.”  She glides back to his booth with pot in hand.  It is only then that he realizes she is somewhat attractive.  A knockout no; baby crow’s feet grace her temples and her makeup is tired from an all day shift.  Her plain floral dress snugs against the outside of wide, pleasantly pronounced hips.  God, he thinks, I lack serious imagination.

“To answer your question, yes I’m here on business.”  The pour hesitates slightly.  The response is unexpected.  “Are you some kind of psychic?  A psychic who moonlights as a waitress.”  A smile is earned.  Her forehead crinkles and crow’s feet flex.

“No.  I’m just plain Jane, serve ya coffee, serve ya sandwiches, Debby waitress.”

“So which is it, Jane or Debby?”  More crinkling as she brushes her black hair behind an ear. 

“I go by Sarah.  And you, what do they cawl you hon?”

The ‘hon’ makes him blush this time.  It disarms and no longer annoys.

“I’m Jonathan.  So Sarah, this place looks to be somewhat deserted.  Why don’t you put up your tired feet and share a cup with me?”  No sense in retreating at this point.

“Well gee golly whiz, plain ole’ me conversing with a fancy business man.  All, be.”  She flips her hair mockingly one hand on her hip, the other cuffed beneath her ear.  She returns with a porcelain cup and fresh pot.

“So Jonathan, what type of business are you in exactly?”  He can’t tell if her tone is coy or sarcastic.  She’s nervous and covering it, he thinks.

“Well, I sell advertising.  See that billboard over there?”  He gestures to the distant harbored cityscape glowing up through the window.  “Well you can’t see it from up here, but I have  a few products that I maintain around the harbor.” 

Sarah leans forward on her elbow places her mouth on her wrist and takes him in for the first time.  She makes eye contact.  She gives slight pause.     

“I hope it’s not Phillip’s.  That place claims they make the best crabcakes, but I know for a fact they use more filler than they would care to admit.  My ex took me there once – ” She breaks the contact and eyes dart to the black and white tile. 

“We all have skeletons,” he offers.  “No sense in parading them about, especially to people whom you’ve just met.” 

“I agree, no sense in p’rading.  Say, what’s your favorite color?”  The false air had been dropped and a forced cheerfulness squeezed through muslin arises to take its place, altogether as forged. 

This time he betrays himself with a gaze that peers away from her face to the neon of the harbor below.  She obliges a smile and they both draw upon their mugs.  Good intentions abound in the air. 

“I should start my shift work, it’s really getting on.” 

“Why don’t you finish up and we can continue this?  I’m staying just up the way.”

“What…. what’s ‘this’ exactly?”  They both mirror smiles.  He cocks his head slightly and in doing so, acquiesces first.  Without further word, she slides out into the aisle.  His lack of imagination startles him.  

For the next five minutes, he alternates between sidelong steals of her polishing and the bottom of his mug.  He doles out cash for the bill and leaves a precisely appropriated tip.  On go his coat, rich deerskin gloves and bowler.  He walks stiff and upright down the length of a bar with a measured gait. 

“Green.  I’ve always been partial to green.”  She pauses half-hunched and wipes a lone drop of brow sweat with a backhand.  Her eyes loosely focus on the window with a view, neon fuzz growing and swelling until the diner itself is ablaze. 

“That’s nice,” she whispers.  Her gaze not breaking stride she delivers the colloquial epilogue reserved for all: “You come back now hon, ya hear.”

Jonathan glances at the empty whiteness of her eyes and advances quickly to the door.  He shudders deeper than the night dictates as he scans for a cab.  Suddenly the well-appointed hotel bar seems enticing; perhaps they will be showing a west coast game.              

#1: Old Bulls

A low-slung moon spills in the tiny window by the open shelves like a frozen case job. 

Bradley takes a short pull from the hexagonal glass, the legs of the dark liquor restless and long to settle.  Perched atop a folding kitchen chair from the 50s, his gruff, grey winter beard hides a deceivingly soft jaw line and tiny pock marks. 

“Martha, bring me my slippers when you come.  The floor is practically on fire!”

He realizes how bitter winter makes him, especially New England ones.  It has intensified with each of late; growing out his beard in the fall is an itchy chore and no longer pleasurable. 

He rises and approaches the kitchen potbelly stove.  Bradley slowly takes one knee, cocks his head and swoops low near the grated door. 

“Christ,” he says.  “Damn wood is whistling wet.  Should have known better than to trust that swindling excuse for a neighbor.  Tree was only fell since late fall.”

He opens the furnace door.  Straw oak peers at him.  Heavy smoke perforating every split and crevasse, upwards climbing towards the heavens like an ancestral signal willing its way through the narrow stovepipe, creosote pulsating and sparkling to the unfettered rhythm.  A few harsh pokes, a few exaggerated grunts and the meager flames fan.

He returns to the chair, slumps and takes a long pull from the glass extinguishing the contents.  His chapped lips burn as the liquid vapes.  He realizes that Martha is taking unusually long.  He realizes he feels spinning drunk – an intense stage of buzz that rarely lasts.  He wonders if she is actually taking long or if his sense of time is skewed.  His face is flush from the stove and scotch, his feet burn from the cold tile and mind throbs from the woodpile betrayal, and the scotch.

“Brad, again…. tonight?!”  Martha says as she gestures towards the suddenly debased bottle.

Bradley doesn’t wait to be told.  Slippers are snatched from clenched fists, stepped into forcefully, rifle is slung from the right shoulder and he stomps out into the night.  A few minutes are taken as his eyes adjust to the grey blue which blankets the farm.  Shadows reserved for the day are where they should appear, but more intense, the black deeper.

He scans the foreground.  Soft rolling contours of dirt pass for hills, latticed posts pass for western fences.  His property line extends out of eyesight from his current position, day or night, and abuts the Ramer plot on three sides.  Bradley’s means stem from a government pension, he served two tours in Southeast Asia in the 70s, and cold cash garnered from the slaughter house.  Two hundred Hereford head bray lowly and crowd to stave the chill.  His fence line used to extend further onto the Ramer land via a grandfathered right-of-way, but the eldest son quickly put an end to that when he took the reins this past summer.  It made for several weeks of painstaking post digging in the heat, not to mention the recent sale of a half cord of questionable firewood.

Bradley sighs and steps towards the closest fence line when an unmistakable sound grips the hollow air.  Deep on the westerly fence line, line of sight disrupted by a downward slope, frantic brays coupled with a gnashing of thick skulls and hooves on the frozen ground serve as a prelude to panicked yelps and quick snarls. 

“Damn cai-yote.  Poor timing,” he chuckles humorlessly.  He consciously left horns on a few of the biggest most senior bulls.  A nightmare for the slaughterhouse hands, but insurance against losing small calves and cows to the omnipresent menace.  On a usual night he would hear the combat from bed and rest easy.  On a usual night he wouldn’t be this drunk, on a usual night he wouldn’t be fuming from his wife’s grumblings or neighbor’s recent actions.

He walks to the near fence line, stops and backtracks his gaze to his house.  The small A-frame was built in the 70s with lent money from his parents who sympathized with his emotional scars from the war.  It was the summer of ’74 that he started raising cattle, the winter of ’76 he married Martha, and the bottle sometime during ’77.  The land and herd held all his equity, the house was in dire need of remodeling, but Bradley had no intention of undertaking that anytime soon. 

He pulls out a slender 100, fumbles with the metal lighter and inhales a few quick drags. 

No, the house wasn’t a priority, he thinks as he slides over the bottom rung of the interior fence.  Martha could consider it an eyesore in the face of the Ramer’s new log cabin and Bradley wouldn’t give a damn. 

Moving with purpose now.  The sound of the struggle still pitching.  Eyes adjusted to the steely ambiance, rifle un-slung and held under the crook of his shoulder.  The key was to approach from above, survey, fire a few warning shots and retreat victorious.  A chain-smoking, hard drinking vet of a Jesus, tending, always tending.

The struggle dies down.  He sees a few flashes of white horn in the light, one might have been stained red, can’t tell.  Two bulls, one horned, surround several cows and a calf.  There is no sign of the intruder.  They stamp nervously, pupils shine wide-eyed, but the threat passes.

He laughs a smoker’s cackle and pitches to and fro on uneven earth. 

“They knew better than to stick around,” he says to the group. 

The bolt action snaps open then closed, safety never on like a wily gunslinger; smooth large caliber brass rises into place the rim slamming against the barrel opening halting a premeditated skyward launch.  Two clicks of the trigger and pin send plumes of fire from the barrel’s end, the bulls’ sockets glare against the flare.  Quick snap of the wrist, forestock slams into outstretched offhand, shock against his gold wedding ring like a mini report, single fluid move shell ejected, spring advances, heel of his hand locks the bolt handle’s silver marble down – He exhales sharply through his nostrils, his trigger finger drifting off course. Something catches his eye beyond the exterior fence.

The main reason for the Ramer boy revising the property line was so their main farmhouse footprint could be increased via a deck addition.  A monstrosity of a thing, the porch was unscreened, yet fully furnished.

Despite being a couple hundred yards away, Bradley had the advantage of elevation.  He swore he saw something pass through his line of sight across the porch and obstruct an interior light.  Why this registers as his business, he can’t self-articulate, but feels an urge to investigate.  Not enough time would have elapsed after the report for someone to react and venture outside.  No, whatever it is had to have been outside prior and surely had seen the muzzle flash. 

Something inside of him tugs on his shoulders in the direction of his A-frame, back to the sputtering fire, the lamentations of his wife, the vapor of the dissipating bottle like a bottled apparition suddenly released.  He shoulders his rifle, crouches and moves to flank the porch from the north. 

Sometimes it is best to leave the horns on the patched and weathered ones, he thinks.