This Page contains many words. Please
allow it to fully load before making a selection. Published stories are indicated.
Facing Up … Sometimes we have to question who we really are.
'Gotcha' … Be careful. Don't let your guard down.
Home … Where
the roses never fade.
Second Chance … Never give up.
A Wild Ride
… A
turbulent tale of friendship found. (This story
was published in Pilot's magazine … August 2005)
Rankin Flight … A story of adventure in
A Bucketful of Noise … Ah, sweet youth. How did we ever make it to adulthood?
The
Chicken Express … Churchill
Daze at their best. (This story won an Honorable
Mention in the Spring 2003 Larry Turner Awards, and
was published in the Fall 2003 edition of the "Grist Mill".)
High Anxiety … What
is it about a woman that can bring a man to his knees?
Hot Pursuit … Fast
paced action in the dark of night.
The Actor … A
bit of a devious twist to "Second Chance"
The little
green and white Tri-Pacer moved quickly along the black asphalt strip. It hesitated
momentarily before it climbed freely away from the airport. I was airborne
again, and felt the familiar feeling of exhilaration that always accompanied
liftoff. Bill was sitting beside me in
the left seat of his airplane, but I was doing the flying today. As the
altimeter came up on 8000 feet above sea level, I pulled back on the throttle,
setting the RPM to 2300, and adjusted the trim tabs of the small high winged
airplane to ease the pressure on the control column. Before leaving the
Looking to the
west over the mountains, I could see some large buildups of heavy black
clouds. "Looks like a squall line
approaching," I said to Bill.
"I
wouldn't worry about it," he replied. "We'll be sittin'
on the ground in Springbank before that ever gets
near us."
I hoped he was
right. The clouds looked pretty ominous to me.
"What a
life." Bill's voice seemed to smile as he settled back in his seat for the
short fifty-five minute flight ahead of us. "How much better than this can
it get?"
He was in his
element here in his little airplane. For him this was about as good as it could
get. He didn't even seem to notice the rank odor of freshly skinned animal
pelts coming from the back seat. I did though. My nostrils were stinging and I
was having trouble breathing. Bill, or "Trapper Bill", as he was
known, was sitting back, totally relaxed.
He had earned his nickname a few years back when he had been working as
an Electronics Technician at the
"You'd
better take it Bill. I can't concentrate on anything with the stink in
here." It was pretty bad. I couldn't stop my eyes from watering.
"No
problem. It just smells like money to me."
Bill reached up and reset the trim tabs to exactly where I had set them
earlier. He now had the airplane.
This story is
about Bill. I suppose it's about me too, but I only play a supporting role. I
was forty-eight when it took place. Even though I had always worked hard at
trying to maintain a trim and youthful appearance, I knew I was losing the
battle. My glasses had recently been upgraded to bifocals, and it seemed like
every day a few more gray hairs presented themselves on my temples. My wife
told me the gray was distinguished looking. Wives say things like that.
I first met
Bill several years ago when I was transferred into his section at the
Bill was a
character you couldn't forget. His attitude to life was imprinted on his
face. He was craggy-faced, with deep
furrows running across his high forehead. His thinning gray hair was greased
straight back, making his face seem even thinner than it was. Bill didn't look at you. He glared. Large
bushy eyebrows shadowed his dark eyes. His aquiline nose jutted out like a rock
outcropping guarding the crevasse of his mouth that seemed to be frozen in a
constant scowl. He was a rebel, a free spirit. He didn't exactly challenge
authority. He just refused to acknowledge it. Most people, including his bosses
at work, ignored him when they could because they didn't know how to deal with
him. It was easier to just let him do
his thing, and that was fine by Bill.
For the longest
time we went about our business without too much to say to each other. He knew that I didn't agree with his some of
his work habits, but I kept my frustrations to myself. He was about fifteen
years older than I was, and I respected that. After a few months he began to
warm up a little. Maybe it was when he realized I was a rather private person
myself, and wasn't a threat to him.
Maybe it was because I was also a pilot, and loved to fly. I don't
exactly know, but it made my life easier.
Bill had a
small plane, a Tri-Pacer. We often went flying together. He was most at peace
when he was flying. It was as if he had
escaped everything that was dark, and everything that was wrong with his world.
He was a different man up there, and one I enjoyed being with. It only lasted until we landed though. At that point he would immediately revert to
the unyielding, obstinate old grouch that everybody loved to hate.
When he
retired, after 35 years on the job, only a handful of his co-workers came to
his luncheon. I was elected to say a few words because I had been his partner,
and seemed to get along with him better than the others. When I finished, he
thanked me. He smiled at those who had gathered, picked up his gold watch or
whatever was wrapped up in that box, said goodbye, and walked away.
Now, here we
were, nine years later, sitting in his smelly airplane. I hadn't seen Bill
again until a few days ago when I had literally run into him in downtown
"What the
hell's your hurry, young fella?" he asked, as I
bent over to help him up.
I recognized
the voice immediately. "Bill, what are you doing here?"
I was happy to
see him, and he was obviously just as happy to see me. We went into the hotel
restaurant for coffee, and sat there for a couple of hours. He must have needed
someone to talk to, because he told me more about himself that day than he had
in all the time we'd worked together back in
"You can
fly the plane, and you'll get to see some great country at the same time."
That was enough
for me. "I'd love to see your
operation," I said.
It was quite a
weekend. We flew to
We checked
several traps that day, and had already set up camp for the night when the rain
started. We had just got the fire going,
and were cooking some supper when the drizzle turned to driving rain. It drenched our new fire sending us into our
tent wet, chilled, and hungry. We cracked a can of beans, and ate them cold
before climbing in to our sleeping bags for the night.
It wasn't much
better the next morning. Everything was
sopping wet. We couldn't get a fire going, so we ate cold cereal. Saturday was a pretty good day. We managed to check most of the remaining
traps, and were starting to get a pretty good load of dead animals in the back
of the truck. With only a few more traps to check the next morning, we were
able to make camp early that evening. The skies had cleared so we cooked steaks
and beans over the fire. I didn't ask Bill what kind of meat we were
eating. I didn't really want to know. Whatever it was, it tasted great.
According to
Bill we only had a medium load going back.
Of the forty-seven traps that he maintained, sixteen of them had
returned an animal. There were eleven
beaver skins, and five muskrat pelts in the two garbage bags in the back
seat. The animals had been skinned that
morning, and the pelts were still wet.
Even with the garbage bags to contain them, there was no way the smell
of the smell of blood and guts could be camouflaged.
I guess a
person can get used to anything. Bill was flying the plane, and I was enjoying
the scenery. I soon found that I was able to relax a bit and forget about the
raw smell coming from the back seat. The angry looking black clouds to the west
of us were getting closer now, and the ride was getting a little bumpier. We
were still in clear skies, though. In the distance off to the southeast I could
see the city of
Then, without
any warning, all hell broke loose. BANG!
… BANG!
"What
the!" Bill looked down at the instrument panel.
An invisible
force yanked me towards the cabin roof. My seatbelt was the only thing that
kept me from banging in to it. I looked over at Bill. His seatbelt had not been
tight, and his head was pressed against the roof fabric. The peak of his ball
cap was pushed down over his eyes. He
reached up and pulled the cap off his face. His eyes were wild. He looked
totally confused. I looked past him outside the cabin and then back to the instrument
panel. Our wings were level. We appeared
to be in level flight, but the altimeter needle was unwinding like a windmill,
and the Rate-Of-Climb indicator showed that we were dropping at twenty five
hundred feet per minute. At that rate
we'd hit the ground in less than two minutes.
I reached over
and pulled his seatbelt tighter. This brought him back down into his seat. Bill
reached for the throttle, slammed it forward to the stops, and hauled the
steering column back. Perspiration beads
had formed on his forehead, but he was focused again on what was happening
around him. Our altitude was now less than 6000 feet, only 2700 feet above the
ground. Even with full power on we were sinking fast. Bill looked at me
inquisitively.
"I don't
know. I can't figure it out either," I said. I couldn't think of anything
we could do to stop us from crashing into the hills below that were coming up
fast.
Suddenly
…WHAM! Both of us were pushed down in
our seats. It was as if the airplane had been attached to a giant bungee cord
in the sky that had come to the end of its tether, and was now flinging us back
up. The airplane immediately began
climbing at 1500, then 2000 feet per minute, all the time with the wings
level. As I watched the altimeter needle
wind up, I saw that we were passing through 8000 feet, then 9,000. Bill tightened his seatbelt, pulled back on
the throttles, and pushed forward on the steering column to try to lower the
nose. It had absolutely no effect. We
were rocketing skyward, totally out of control.
And then … as
quickly as it had started we were out of it.
As the altimeter needle passed 12,000 feet, the aircraft suddenly
stopped climbing. It hung in the air for
a moment, and then started to descend again.
This time the descent was more gradual. Bill pulled back on the steering
column and applied normal throttle. The airplane was flying level again.
"Whew,
what a wild ride," Bill said, looking out at the ground that was now
almost two miles below.
I didn't know
what to think. Both of my hands were
grasping the little handle above and to the right of my head. I had been holding on for dear life, and my
knuckles were as white as new fallen snow.
At first Bill
was disoriented, and didn't quite know where we were. It wasn't long though, before he began to recognize
familiar landmarks and pinpoint our location.
In the last few minutes, since the unexpected roller coaster ride had
begun, we had veered off course by over ten miles. He pointed out
Bill began a
slowly descending turn to his right, and added
throttle to his little bird. We were at 11,000 feet in a block of airspace that
we shouldn't be in, and he knew he had to get out of there as soon as possible.
"I think
we just met a mountain CAT," he remarked. "Pretty
big one too."
I must have
looked confused, so he went on, "What I mean by CAT is Clear Air
Turbulence. Sometimes around the
mountains it can be pretty wild, especially if there's weather in …"
He had just
started his explanation when the radio came to life.
"Unidentified
aircraft, nine miles north-east of
"No
way," he shook his head. "Don't answer. I don't need the grief. I'll be doing paperwork for a week."
"Unidentified
aircraft, nine miles north east, you are in controlled airspace. Please squawk code 2100 on your
transponder."
"That's a
laugh," he said at me. "I
don't have a transponder." He turned
the radio volume lower.
"Unidentified
aircraft, nine miles northeast," I could still faintly hear a voice coming
through on the speaker. "We have
you on a westerly track. You have traffic
at nine thousand feet at
Bill wasn't
listening. He was intent on getting out
of there as fast as he could.
"Unidentified
aircraft, eight miles north east, you are in controlled airspace." The Air Traffic Controller in the
"Bill,
we'd better answer this guy," I said. "It's nobody's fault we ended
up here."
"Forget it, I'm not talkin' to
anyone."
"Unidentified
aircraft, eight miles northeast." The controller was shouting at us now.
"You have traffic at nine thousand feet at
"Air
I was getting
panicky now. I knew what was going on.
So did Bill, but he refused to acknowledge it. Both
airplanes were at 9000 feet. I quickly looked around outside the cabin. I
couldn't see the other plane, but I also knew I wouldn't until it was too
late.
"Bill,
talk to the guy! There's an Air
Bill seemed oblivious to the panic in my
voice. He stared straight ahead. We had
just passed through 9000 feet and were still descending.
"We'll
soon be out of here," he said to me calmly. "Relax."
WHAM! … It happened again!
This time a
huge shadow enveloped the cockpit, accompanied by the loud roaring noise of jet
engines. Our little airplane was flipped violently upside down and then back
upright again. Both of us were hanging in our seat belts for a moment, and were
then slammed back down into our seats. The little airplane's nose was pointing
up at about a 60-degree angle, but I could feel us descending. Why couldn't I
see anything? Everything was black. I soon realized the reason for this. A
leaky garbage bag full of animal skins had come to rest on my shoulders and
chest. It was blocking my vision. I
shoved it into the back, and looked out the side window in time to see the tail
end of a giant Airbus moving away from us.
It had obviously just missed us, and we were now suffering the results
of its wing vortices.
"Bill,"
I yelled. "Bill, have you got
it?"
"I don't
know … I think so," he answered.
He pushed the steering
column fully forward to try to get our nose down. When he did this the airplane
immediately fell off on its right wing and began a rotation around it with its
nose still high in the air.
"We're
stalled. I think we're in a flat spin," Bill said. I've got to get the nose down."
He moved the
throttles fully forward to add power to the airplane, while keeping full
forward pressure on the column. Nothing
happened. The nose stayed right where it was. The airplane was falling out of
the sky in a right-handed flat spin with its nose in the air. I looked at the
altimeter just as its needle passed through 7000 feet. The ground was less than 4000 feet
below.
"Okay,
this could be trouble," Let's try somethin'
else." His voice remained calm and cool.
He pulled the
throttle back to idle, let go of the steering column, and pushed down his left
rudder pedal all the way. Almost immediately the spinning stopped, and the
airplane straightened out. At that point
he quickly took his foot off the rudder. The nose was still pointed up and we
were still falling out of the sky, but at least the airplane was no longer
spinning. As the altimeter needle passed
through 6000 feet, Bill did something I'll never forget. It went against anything that I'd ever been
taught, or even heard of. He reached down to the flap lever and put out two
notches of flap, applied full throttle to the engine, and pulled the steering
column back right into his lap.
"Pull back
as hard as you can on the column and don't let go 'til I tell you," he
yelled to me over the roar of the engine.
What happened
next was a blur. I grabbed the column, which was already pulled all the way
back, and held on to it for dear life. I remember the airplane going fully
vertical with its nose straight up. I
remember hanging by my seat belt for a few seconds as the airplane went over
the top upside down, and then heading straight down in a power dive. I vaguely
remember Bill bringing in the flaps, and pulling back on the throttles. At some
point I remember him telling me to release the steering column. And then …
unbelievingly … we were flying straight and level, and Bill was setting up the
airplane for normal flight.
"How's
that for a little excitement? " he said,
chuckling. "I wonder how many people have done a full front to back flip
in a Tri-Pacer?"
At first I was
speechless. I couldn't believe what he'd done. Eventually I found my voice.
"Bill, that was
amazing. I think what you just did is
impossible. We should both be dead right now."
"Yup, I think
maybe we were pretty lucky." He had a sheepish grin on his face.
I looked out at
the ground below us. The altimeter read 4000 feet, which meant that we were
only 700 feet above the ground. Bill brought the airplane back up to 5000 feet, and we settled in for what was left of our short
flight.
I could still
hear the
When they
replied, giving us a normal landing clearance I assumed they didn't know that
After getting
cleaned up in the control tower washroom, we called upstairs on the phone and
sat down to wait. Bill did all the
talking when the tower man came down. At
first the guy was really excited, talking like he was going to throw the book
at us. Bill just played innocent.
"What are
you talkin' about," Bill asked aggressively? "I don't know anything about a near
miss. We encountered some turbulence on
the way home, and got thrown around a bit. We ended up a little east of where
we should have been, but that's it."
"Didn't
you hear the
"Nope, … didn't hear anyone, … but I know why. When I tried
to call you for a landing clearance I realized I had no radios. The breaker had popped. Musta happened with the turbulence."
The tower man
looked exasperatingly at me.
"Don't ask
me," I said. "I'm just the
passenger."
He went on to
tell us that we had entered the Calgary Control Zone without authorization. We
had nearly collided with a commercial jet approaching
We had a quick
coffee in the cafeteria, and I gathered up my stuff. We said good-bye with a
promise to keep in contact, and I headed home to
The other thing
that hadn't changed is that life was never dull when you were around
"Trapper Bill". I'll tell you one thing. "He sure had got my
MOJO running that weekend.
Back To Top
Rankin Flight
"Is this
it?" I thought. "Is this what it's like at the end?" I had
always assumed I'd be afraid, excited, or upset, but I wasn't. I was so involved in what was going on around
me I had no time to consider that I may never see my family or friends
again. Maybe I would when we hit the
water. It would be over fast, anyway. We
wouldn't last very long in the icy waters of
Everything had
happened so quickly. How had a flight
that had started so routinely turned into this nightmare?
I removed my
mittens, pulled my Government Identification Card out of my pocket, and used it
to scrape the frost off the inside of my side window. After clearing a spot, I pulled up my parka
hood, and pressed my face as close to the window as I could. Hooding my eyes to
peer outside, I saw snow dancing and swirling off the end of the knifelike beam
of the landing light. Beyond that, there
was nothing but the blackness of this starless November night. I certainly hadn't bargained for this kind of
excitement when I had joined the Public Service with Transport
I was
thirty-one when I made this major career change. After spending thirteen years in the rigid,
stand-tall world of the Canadian Armed Forces, I was enjoying being a civilian
again. I was also enjoying the relaxed northern lifestyle where just about
everyone wore a beard and their hair too long.
My hair was longer now than I'd ever worn it, and my trimmed beard was
beginning to show silver strands laced amongst the brown.
I stretched my
legs as best I could. Huddled into the front right seat of the small
twin-engine Aztec aircraft, even the slight movement of changing the position
of my legs offered some relief. There
were three of us in the six available seats of the airplane. Jim, the pilot sat
to my left. Ed, my co-worker sat directly behind me. All of us were wearing our parkas and heavy
arctic mittens in an effort to keep warm.
The other seats behind and beside Ed were stuffed to the ceiling with
electronic test equipment, parts, and tools.
The baggage compartment behind the seats, was
separated from the passenger cabin by a thin plastic wall. It was full of more
parts, a couple of frozen Arctic Char, and our suitcases.
"Climb!"
I yelled. "We're almost in the
water!"
Jim reacted
immediately, pushing the dual throttle levers
forward. The engines responded with a
roaring surge of power, and the aircraft stopped descending. It leveled out for
a moment, and then laboriously began climbing again. Pretty soon the water was no longer visible,
and Jim pulled the throttle levers back a bit.
There wasn't much left. The
levers were about 95 percent to the wall by then.
This was the
second time we had descended to the 100-foot level, and the second time that
Jim had advanced the throttles to gain more altitude. Things weren't happening as we had hoped they
would. The temperature hadn't warmed up
as we had descended, and with all the ice on the wings, the aircraft was barely
flying. The dim red lights of the
instrument panel highlighted the concern on Jim's face as he adjusted the
elevator trim for these new power settings.
I turned and
looked at Ed. He was several years
younger than I was, just two years out of technical college. Underneath his bushy red beard, his face was
as pale as the snow outside. His eyes
were closed, but I knew he wasn't sleeping.
His lips were quivering and his right eye was twitching. Maybe he was
praying.
It was
November, and it was already full-blown winter in the
We were two of several electronics
technicians based in Churchill whose job included the maintenance and repair of
the many government electronic navigation and communications systems located up
the West Coast of
The airplane
was a charter out of
We had taken
off from the snow-packed runway of
The sky was
clear for the first half hour of the flight.
As we reached our cruising altitude of 10,000 feet, we could see the
vast frozen arctic tundra of
Jim switched
frequencies on his VHF radio and pushed the microphone button. "Rankin Flight
Services, this is PA-23, CF-WAG. We are 50 miles east of Chesterfield
Inlet at 10,000 feet on an IFR flight plan from
The Radio
Operator responded, his voice coming over the cabin speaker. "Roger WAG.
Jim thanked
him, and turned to us. "OK guys,
you heard him. We're now about thirty
minutes north of Rankin Inlet. The
weather is starting to close in. We can
land at Chesterfield Inlet and wait it out if you want, or we can carry on.
It's up to you."
The two of us
thought about it for a few seconds, and agreed that we should give Rankin a
try.
"Okay,"
Jim said, as he switched channels on his VHF radio. He called the
"Let's get
this bird down below the freezing level."
Jim pulled back on the throttles, and adjusted the elevator trim tabs to
nose the aircraft down into a slow descent.
The farther we
descended, the thicker and heavier the clouds became. It was snowing now. By the time we leveled
out at 8000 feet, we were flying in zero visibility conditions. It was dark outside, and snow was pelting the
windshield furiously. I reached over and
moved the tuning knob of the ADF receiver to the Rankin Inlet radio beacon's
frequency. The ADF receiver's job was to
decode a ground radio beacon's signal and provide direction, in this case the
direction to the Rankin Inlet beacon.
All Jim had to do was keep the ADF needle on the instrument panel
directly in line with the nose of the aircraft and we would home in to the
When I dialed
in the Rankin frequency, I was surprised to see that the needle on the panel
was wandering aimlessly. I turned up the
audio so we could hear Rankin's Morse code identifier. We could only hear a
background hiss. I double-checked the
charts, thinking that perhaps I had made a mistake on the channel selection,
but the charts confirmed that I had been right.
At that point I dialed in the Chesterfield Inlet Beacon. The speaker beat out the Morse code
"YCS," and the needle swung immediately to our
"The
Rankin beacon doesn't appear to be working." I said.
"Leave the
dial where it is," Jim responded. "Hopefully it's just the weather
and we'll pick it up as we get closer."
"What was
that?" Ed remarked from the back
seat. "What's that noise?"
Thousands of
little shards of ice were flying off the left propeller, shattering on the side
of the fuselage.
"Ice,"
Jim said. "Look at the
wings."
I did. The
leading edges of both wings had a thin coating of ice on them.
Another icy
shower hit the right side of the fuselage.
I noticed that the altimeter needle had started a slow counterclockwise
rotation.
"Are we
descending again?" I asked.
"
We're descending,” Jim replied, “but not on purpose. We're losing altitude because of ice buildup
on the wings."
Jim edged the
throttles forward. The needle stopped its rotation. "That should do it," he said. "We'll make up for the loss of the
wing's lift with more power. On second
thought, let's keep descending. It should
be warmer as we get lower." He pulled back on the throttles, and the
altimeter needle started rotating counterclockwise again as the aircraft
descended.
He picked up
the microphone and advised
"Roger
WAG,"
"That's a
laugh," Ed exclaimed from the back. "We are the technical staff from
Churchill."
"Good luck
with the ice," the
"Don't we
have deicing equipment on this aircraft?"
Ed asked. "Can't you just
turn on the deicers?"
"All we've
got are hot props," Jim replied, "and they're turned on. That's why you hear the ice hitting the sides
of the aircraft. It's melting off the
props. This model of the Aztec doesn't
have deicing boots or thermal deicing on the wings."
"Great,"
Ed said excitedly. "Why are you
flying an aircraft with no deicing equipment? Why doesn't your VOR receiver
work? Why isn't your NDB receiver working? What’s the matter with you? What’s
the matter with your company"?
"Cool down
Ed," I turned to him and said. I
was just as frustrated, but at this point, I didn't think we should be getting
Jim upset as well. "Try to figure out why we're not picking up the Rankin
beacon."
As we reached
the 4000-foot level, we could see that the ice had built up even more on the
wings. The windshield was now covered
with ice, as well. The defrosters had stopped working, and a thin film of frost
had coated the inside of the windows as a result of our heavy breathing in the
cabin. Even the instruments in the front
panel had started to fog up. Jim reset
the trim and power settings to stop our descent. The aircraft leveled out.
I had turned to
Ed and was discussing the Rankin beacon, when Ed's eyes moved, looking past me
toward the instrument panel. "We're
descending again," he said.
I turned back
to see that the altimeter's needle had started moving again. We were down to
3500 feet. More ice was hitting the
sides of the aircraft. It was getting even colder in the cockpit. I had never
taken my parka off, and now I put my large fleece mittens on. Ed did the same.
Jim leaned over to adjust the throttles again, and then changed his mind.
"Heater
inlets must be plugged," he said.
"I'm going to keep descending for a while. It's got to warm up pretty soon. We've got to
get rid of this ice."
I turned up the
volume again on the ADF receiver. This
time we could faintly hear Rankin beacon's Morse code identifier
"YRT" on the speakers, but the needle still drifted aimlessly in
circles We had to be in range of it by now. Based on
the charts, and the direction we'd been flying, we should have been only a few
miles from Rankin.
"So why
aren't we getting any directional information?" Ed asked, more to himself than anyone else.
"I can hear it, so it's on."
"Look at
this," I exclaimed, as I rubbed the frost off the airspeed indicator. It was reading zero instead of the 180 knots
it had been reading a few moments ago.
"What's going on now?"
"The Pitot Tube on the wing must be covered in ice," Jim
responded. "The airspeed indicator
system relies on the flow of air against the Pitot's
head to indicate airspeed. It's a
pressure differential thing. I'll
explain it to you sometime, but until it unplugs we'll have no indication of
how fast we're moving. I hope you both
said your prayers this morning, because we're in a little bit of trouble."
"No
deicers on that either, I suppose," Ed said disgustedly, shrinking back
into his seat.
It was pitch black outside, but
the cockpit windows were white with the snow and frost that now covered
them. Between this and the reduced
lights of the frosted instrument panel, an eerie glow was cast throughout the
cockpit. We were flying blind with no
visual reference over the ice filled waters of
Coming back to
reality, I heard Jim talking to
"Never
mind the altimeter," Jim answered.
"See if you can scrape the frost off your side window. Let me know
when you can see the water. I'll try to
keep us at least 100 feet above it."
Jim turned on the landing light hoping it would help me spot the water
before we hit it.
I scraped my window as clear as
I could get it, and pressed my face to it.
I then pulled my parka hood over my head to block out any ambient light
as I peered out into the blackness of the night. It was still snowing. The combination of the
speed we were moving, the driving snow, and the brightness of the landing light
was hypnotic.
I felt Ed brush
my back and looked back into the cabin. He had leaned forward using his mittens
to continually wipe the instrument panel and keep it clear of frost.
"Keep
looking outside!" Jim's voice was a little higher than it had been before.
"I need to know where the water is."
"OK,"
I said. "Sorry." I hooded my eyes again, and looked out. Almost
immediately I could see the water "There it is. I'd say we're about
100 feet above it."
Jim moved the
throttles forward. The engine increased its RPM. The water began to
disappear. We must have been climbing,
but it was hard to tell.
"Hey,
we've got the beacon!" Ed said loudly, "Look, we've got a lock."
The needle of the ADF meter was pointing to the
Jim put the
aircraft into a left bank, held it there until the needle was pointing directly
ahead, and then straightened it out. I looked out again. The water was right
there. We couldn't have been more than fifty feet above it.
"Climb,"
I yelled. "We're almost in the
water."
Jim reached
over immediately and pushed the throttles forward. There wasn't much throttle
left. The engines revved higher, and we
started to climb again. The water
gradually receded. It was no longer visible, but we all knew it wasn't very far
below.
"I' don't
know what our airspeed is, but I'm putting out some flap," Jim said. "Hopefully we're not moving too fast to
damage them."
Seeing the
confused look on our faces, Jim explained that the flaps would provide us with
more wing area, and some extra lift to make up for what we had lost as a result
of the ice buildup. The problem was that
if we were moving too fast when he put them out, they might rip right off. He
reached down and pulled the flap lever up to the twenty-five degree mark. The
aircraft slowed down immediately, and its nose came up.
"Looks
like they're going to hold," he said, as he readjusted the elevator trim.
"I can see
the water again," I said, as I looked out my window. "We're down to
100 feet. Wait, … we're over rocks now. We're back over land."
It seemed as if
the rocks were only a few feet below us as we skidded by. Almost immediately the rocks became brilliant
lights, and the town of
Jim pushed the throttles fully
forward. There was nothing left
now. If we came down again, there had
better be a runway under us.
Ed was almost
on top of Jim, leaning over his seat furiously scraping the side window so Jim
could see out. The
"I just
realized where we were." Jim said excitedly, as he pushed the control
column forward again. "
We were homing on the beacon, and were about to hit its antenna. It's a good thing I saw the church. Good work Ed."
We were still
in a left turn. The engines were screaming.
Jim held the turn for a few seconds, and then gradually reduced it to a
gentle left bank. He changed the
frequency of the VHF radio, and keyed his microphone three times in quick
succession. At that point the runway
lights, which were controlled by a radio activated lighting system, came
on. The lights were very bright out
Jim's side window. For the first time in what seemed like several hours, I
thought we might just get out of this. We went by the end of the runway, Jim
coaxing the aircraft through another 180-degree turn back to the field. He put out another notch of flap, reached
down to lower the landing gear, and then stopped. He brought his hand back up.
"I think
we'll stall this baby if I put the wheels down," he said. "Wherever this thing comes down, it's
going to do it on its belly."
Jim couldn't
see anything out the front windshield, but by now, with Ed's scraping, he had a
pretty good view out his side window. I knew that Jim had landed at this
airport many times. I was hoping that he knew the airport well enough that the
side view would let him know where he was on the approach.
From the right-hand window, I
watched the rocks below the approach path glide by. A few airplanes had hit these rocks over the
years. The results had always been deadly.
The hamlet was off to the right, and as we flew along. We were only a
few feet above the ground, and its lights flickered on and off as the buildings
disappeared and then reappeared from behind the snowdrifts and rocks.
Suddenly … we
stopped flying. The aircraft bucked
twice, and its nose sunk rapidly. The
wings had stalled. They wouldn't fly anymore.
There was nothing left to do but hit the ground.
Jim reached
over and pulled the throttles all the way back.
He was in the process of turning off the fuel and the ignition when we
hit the ground. All three of our heads
hit the fabric roof of the cabin as our upper bodies were thrown forward. We
were jerked back immediately by our seat belts.
There was a loud bang. The aircraft bounced, and fell again. Another bang. Lesser this time as we bounced again. We hit the ground
again. This time we didn't bounce. We started sliding. The sound of rock and
gravel scraping of the bottom of the aircraft on the rock and gravel was
deafening. Through the frosted windows I could see huge sparks shooting out
beside and behind us. The snow was
flying by us in great plumes, and we could smell the heat that was being
generated by the scraping of metal on rock.
Suddenly … it
was quiet … deathly quiet … not a sound.
We had stopped.
And then there
was noise. All three of us were talking at the same time. The smell of heat was
all around us.
"Let's get
out of here fast," Jim said.
"Lets go, let's go, "Ed yelled.
Jim tried his
door, but it was either damaged or frozen shut.
The only other door was the passenger door on my side. It was up to me
to get it open so we could get out.
I threw open my
door. I was desperately trying to get out but couldn't seem to move. "I can't move," I yelled.
Ed was pushing
against the back of my seat so hard with his legs that I thought I was going to
be crushed, seat and all, into the front panel. Jim reached over and hit my
seat belt release. The combination of
the belt coming off, and Ed's pushing catapulted me out of the plane onto the
right wing. I jumped off the wing into a
two-foot snowdrift. I lay there, totally immobile and
watched the other two do the same thing. They landed beside me.
We pulled
ourselves up and looked at the snow falling from the dark winter sky. We could
hear the quiet. The only sound came from our heavy breathing. The next sounds
were grateful sighs, as we all stood against a snowdrift relieving ourselves.
It might have been the cold, or the shock reaction to what had happened, or
both, but our bodies were shaking, and our teeth were chattering. We walked over to the aircraft. It was
amazing. It lay there sideways on the
threshold of the runway, left wing down. The propellers were bent, and there
was a big dent on the front bottom of the fuselage. There was at least four inches of ice all
over the wings. The tail plane resembled an ice-covered crucifix embedded in
the snow. It was truly a wonder that
with that much ice it had been able to fly at all. It was even more of a wonder that we had managed
to fly past the rocks to the cleared area in front of the runway before we had
hit the ground.
Within moments,
out of the blackness, several people and vehicles began arriving from the
hamlet. The ski-doos
had led the way, and the track vehicles had followed. Our aircraft had startled these people when
it had flown over the town at less than 100 feet with its engines roaring. They knew someone was in trouble. Several of
them had immediately headed out to the airport, not knowing what they would
find when they got there.
After ensuring
that everyone was out of the aircraft, they helped the three of us load our
suitcases into one of the track vehicles. We were taken directly to the nursing
station. The nurse checked us over, and except for stiff necks and frost bitten
toes, declared us healthy enough to leave. Ed and I walked over to the hotel to
check in. Jim went off with some people from his company to get the aircraft
off the runway.
Unbelievably,
it was only
After dinner Ed
and I borrowed a couple of ski-doos from the hotel
manager and went out to the Non Directional Beacon site. We soon discovered why
we hadn't been able to get its radio signal. The door to the antenna-tuning
unit had blown open, and it had filled with snow. Most of the power that was going to the
antenna was being reflected right back down.
It only took us a few minutes to clean the unit out, close the door, and
get the beacon working properly again.
By the time we
got back to the hotel, Jim was there. He told us that his company had made
bookings for us to get back to Churchill on the next morning's scheduled
flight. Our gear was sitting in the small terminal building at the airport.
We had a few
drinks that night, and Jim didn't buy any of them. It had been an amazing flight. We knew how
fortunate we were to be sitting in front of a roaring fire talking about it.
Jim had done an outstanding job of keeping that airplane flying. It was truly
'seat of the pants' flying at its best.
That weekend,
back in Churchill, my wife and I had several of our friends over for dinner to
help us enjoy the Arctic Char I had brought back. At one point, after savoring a rather juicy
piece of Char, I stood up and held my wine glass high. As the conversation quieted, I asked everyone
to join me in a toast:
"A drink to toast our arctic char. Its meat is pink and sweet.
A
drink to how we got it here, through snow and cloud and sleet.
And
here's to Jim and those like him who fly the arctic dome.
Although,
sometimes they scare us some, they always get us home."
And we all took a drink.
Hot Pursuit
Jesse's tires
squealed as the car made a ninety-degree turn from the dusty gravel country
road, grabbing the black pavement of
Jesse had
celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday the week before. He was starting to feel
like an old man. Driving fast helped though.
It made him feel younger.
"God,"
he thought, "where does the time go? It seemed like just yesterday he
was in high school, living at home, and enjoying the good life. He reached up with his right hand, brushing
his long brown hair out of his eyes. He needed to be sharp tonight.
Now that he was
on the blacktop, he pressed his right foot a little harder on the gas pedal.
The car leapt forward, and the dotted white line transformed into a blurred
solid ribbon. He was driving with the car's headlights off, but his night
vision was tuned in. He could see the road ahead as well as if his lights had
been on. Glancing at the speedometer on the dimmed dashboard, he watched the
needle edge past 100 M.P.H. Smiling, he looked to his right. His brother, Brett
was in the passenger's seat. He was staring intently at the dark road ahead.
Brett felt
Jesse's stare, and turned to him saying, "Let's do it. Let's get it on. I
'm feelin' good."
Jesse laughed.
"You're goin' to feel better yet young fella. We'll be flyin' pretty
soon."
Brett swiveled his
head, looking out the back window. The whites of his wide-open eyes looked like
two flashlights in the darkened car. He
swiped at his forehead with the cuff of his sweater, wiping off the beads of
sweat that had formed there. "I can still see 'em.
They're back a bit, but they're staying with us."
Jesse glanced
into the rear view mirror. He caught a glimpse of the red and blue flashing
lights of three police cruisers about a half a mile behind them. The cruisers
were starting to gain on them now. Sometimes they were in line and sometimes
they were two abreast, but they were gaining.
Instinctively,
his foot stepped even harder on the gas pedal. His right hand moved to his
side, where he felt the familiar cool metal of the Colt 38 Special sitting on
the seat beside him. The powerful engine under the hood responded with a
deep-throated roar, slinging the car even faster down the thin black strip of
pavement into the dark night.
"Yahoo!
What a way to make a living!" Jesse shouted enthusiastically.
Brett peered
intently through the windshield. It had started to rain. Jesse turned on the
wipers. For a moment they were blinded by the grease and mud from the road that
had mixed on the windshield with the fresh rain. The windshield washer soon
cleared the worst of it and they were better able to see the road again. It was
It had been a
long night. First the marijuana had been packaged, and then loaded into
waterproof bags. Then it had been put into the trunk of the car back at the
farmhouse. There had been ten guys at the house tonight. Everybody had a job to
do. The car was carrying over five hundred pounds of marijuana. Enough to make a lot of people happy, and a few people rich.
"OK Brett,
we're coming up to our little rendezvous point. It's about a mile ahead. Are
you ready?"
Brett leaned
over into the back seat. He came back up grasping a short-barreled shotgun with
a molded wooden stock. He inserted a couple of slug loads, put on his gloves,
and turned to Jessie, "The Lord hates a coward big brother. Let's make it
happen."
Jesse pressed
the pedal all the way to the floor. The engine roared even louder and the car
leapt forward as if it had been standing still. They were flying low now,
leaving the cruisers in a cloud of wet mist and blue exhaust behind them.
Within thirty
seconds they came up on the taillights of a car ahead of them. Jesse slowed
only briefly, and then swerved to the left. He applied just enough brake to
remain just slightly behind and to the left of the car. In a flash, Brett
pointed the shotgun out his open side window, and fired at the left rear tire
of the car.
The car's rear
tire blew into a thousand pieces. Jesse applied more brake, and pulled back
behind the crippled car. He saw its brake lights come on as it careened to the
left, hitting the guardrail beside the highway. It then bounced back to the
right, and slid sideways, coming to a stop on the right shoulder of the road.
Before the
out-of-control car had even come to a full stop, Jesse and Brett had pulled up
beside and just behind it. They were instantly out of their car, crouched
behind their doors with pistols pointed at the passenger compartment of the
crippled vehicle.
"THIS IS
THE POLICE!" Brett shouted. "NOBODY MOVE! KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE WE
CAN SEE THEM!"
At that point,
three cruisers with their sirens wailing, and lights flashing in the rain,
roared up. They skidded to a halt beside, and in front of the stricken vehicle.
Two bulletproof vested police officers jumped out of each cruiser and
surrounded the car. Their arms were raised, holding guns aimed at the passenger
compartment.
A bullhorn
screamed at the car, telling the passengers to get out of their vehicle with
their hands up. Two very surprised people slowly emerged with their hands in
the air. The policemen quickly moved in, cuffed them, and moved them off. They
both looked somewhat confused. They had no idea what had happened to them, and
how quickly it had all happened.
"Good job
boys. That was a great piece of driving Jesse, and a great moving shot
Brett." The sergeant walked over to where Brett was putting the shotgun
into the back seat of the car. Enthusiastically, he clapped him on the back.
"Looks like you boys have justified us buying this hot machine. These guys
never knew what hit 'em. They had no idea we were
tailing them, and still don't know where you came from. I love it when a plan
comes together."
Jesse looked
back at the car they had been chasing. A couple of uniformed officers were
removing several bags of pot from its trunk. The police had been secretly
watching the little house in the woods for over a month. They felt that they
had all the evidence they needed to prove that it was a thriving drug
production and distribution operation. Every night during the stakeout, several
people had been videotaped coming and going from the house. The Chief had
decided earlier that day that it had gone on long enough. It was time to close
the operation down. Jesse and Brett, along with six other undercover officers,
had watched the drug smugglers load up the car and leave. They had used their
night binoculars. Jesse moved out a short ways behind them and picked up the
tail on
"Another one for the good guys," Jesse smiled proudly at Brett as they got back into the car. "Let's go get a cup of java."
Back to Top
A Bucketful of
Noise
It was as
though a giant crevasse in the sky had split open, creating an avalanche of
fast-moving ice and snow. A screaming wind came at us with a fury. It
sandblasted the snow into tiny fragments and flung them at us in whirling
swirls, blocking our nostrils and taking our breath away. I opened my eyes as
best I could, and looked over at Pete. His eyes were closed too, forced that
way by the snow-caked ridges that had built up around them. Like myself, he was in a crouch with his arms outstretched
clutching the rear bumper of the moving car.
This wasn't
nearly as much fun as it was supposed to have been. As we slid along behind, I
thought of how perfect a plan it had seemed to be when my buddies and I had
devised it in the warmth and comfort of my basement bedroom the day before.
I was just a
gangly kid growing up on the south
"You're imaginin' things," Carl said dryly. "If you don't
want to hit Old Man Simon's place anymore, where are we goin'
to get our gas?"
Carl was,
without question, my best friend and confidante. We had known each other the longest,
and trusted each other the most. Like me, he was a couple of inches short of
six feet, but because he was so thin, he looked taller. His long brown hair
fell onto his forehead, and he was always swiping at it to move it out of his
eyes. Sometimes we called him 'Sleepy'
because of his large dark-rimmed glasses that made his eyes appear to be closed
most of the time. He didn't like being called that, which made teasing him even
better. My mother really liked Carl. She figured that our friendship was
probably the best thing that had ever happened to me. She obviously didn't know
him like I did.
Pete just shook
his head. "Look man, I haven't got all the answers. All I know is that Mr.
Simons was over at our place last night to see my dad. He was complaining about
his poor gas mileage. He kept looking over, staring right at me."
Pete was a
short and wiry with jet-black hair and deep-set eyes. He was born in
"He's
right Carl," I agreed. "He gave me a funny look the other day too. I
think he's onto us. Maybe we can find somebody else."
"No
way," Jim argued, "You guys all know that the Simons' place is the
only one around here that's dark enough for our purposes. We've looked all over
the place. The streetlights are too bright everywhere else."
Jim was
physically the biggest of all of us. He seemed to possess a superior knowledge
of just about everything. He thought so anyway. He did have a lot of ideas,
though, and was often able to spark our imaginations enough to convince us to
join him in carrying them out.
"So what
are we goin' to do then?" repeated Carl.
"We sure can't afford to buy gas."
That stopped us
cold. Carl's comment had really hit home. There was nothing more to say. We
were faced with the first crisis of our young criminal lives. For the last
several months, in the wee hours of each Saturday morning, we had taken turns
commandeering our father's cars to go joyriding. Getting the cars had been
easy. As it turned out, getting gas for the cars had been even easier. Poor Mr. Simons. He must have been pulling out the few
remaining hairs he had in his head trying to figure out where all his gas was
going. Once a week for over three months, we had quietly snuck up his darkened
driveway and siphoned off a two and one-half gallon bucketful of gas from his
car. It looked like this was over now, and maybe the end of our good times.
The quiet of
the room was amplified by the gloomy looks we cast at each other. Jim was
rubbing his chin and staring at the ceiling. Suddenly his face broke into a
smile.
"I've got
it," he exclaimed, jumping up from the bed. "Man, I just had an
inspiration. I know how we can get some gas, and have some fun at the same
time."
We were 'all
ears', as we sat there waiting for Jim to explain his plan. He had been
teaching us how to drive on our Saturday morning excursions. He was the one who
had come up with the idea of liberating our father's cars. He had also come up
with the idea of hitting Old Man Simons for the gas. It was only fitting that
he should come up with the answer to our problem.
"Listen,"
he went on, "you know that new housing development up past the bowling
alley? There's quite a few people living up there now, and guess what? They
haven't put any streetlights in yet. What if we were to drive through there,
real slow like…?"
A noise at the
top of the stairs interrupted him. My mother was on her way down with a tray of
soft drinks for us. The room was dead quiet as she opened the door and came
into my room. She wanted to stay and talk for a while, but after we thanked her
for the third time, she got the idea and went back upstairs. Jim continued, telling
us the rest of his plan. When he finished, we all got our chance to 'put our
two cents in'. Soon we had devised what we thought to be a foolproof scheme. We
spent the rest of the afternoon there, sitting around, joking, and planning our
forthcoming adventure. Before I knew it, Mom was calling me for supper.
After supper,
we all met at 'Gaston's', a small restaurant where we spent most of our free
time hanging around. We drank soft drinks, and amused ourselves playing the
pinball machines for a while. We were so keyed up, however, our everyday
pastimes seemed rather dull to us that evening. It started snowing as we were
walking home around
What a wonderful
dream I was having. The broiling sun had forced me to strip down to my shorts.
I was standing in the shade of a giant palm tree on a sandy beach of a tropical
island. I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them I realized that I'd
been surrounded by a bevy of beautiful island maidens wearing nothing more than
flimsy grass skirts around their slim waists. One of the girls, swaying
gracefully to the faint beat of a drum, stepped into the circle, her toes
curling into the hot, white sand. She moved towards me, and leaned forward, her
arms extended. She put one caressing hand onto my bare shoulder. I was
quivering in anticipation. She looked me in the eye, smiled, bent over in front
of me to pick up a handful of soft sand, and proceeded to throw snow in my
face.
I woke up
immediately. As I opened my eyes, I saw Carl's grinning face framed in the open
basement window above me, and the major portion of a large snowdrift covering
my pillow.
"Come
on," he whispered. "It's
I was still
half-asleep as I got dressed, and managed to put my pants on backwards the
first time I tried. Carl kept bugging me about the bucket. I made my way
groggily out of my room and across the basement to get it. I groped my way
through the dark until I had reached the furnace. There, I moved my sister's
bicycle slightly so I could get around it. At that point, the bicycle stand
collapsed, sending both the bicycle and myself crashing into the side of the
furnace. Loud reverberations of clashing metal were echoed throughout the
house. My heart stopped beating. I lay there, frozen to the spot, not daring to
move until I knew if I had disturbed anyone upstairs.
"What's
going on down there?"
"Nothing
dad, just going to the bathroom." Why hadn't I got the
bucket earlier?
Carefully, I
moved in behind the furnace, feeling around in the dark to try and find the
bucket. That's when I remembered. The plastic bucket was upstairs. Mom had been
using it that afternoon to wash floors. The only bucket behind the furnace was
the large metal one. By this time Carl had lost all patience. He had climbed in
the window to see what was keeping me. When I told him about the bucket, and
how my dad was awake upstairs, a look of exasperation came over his face.
"It's you that
we should call 'Sleepy'," he whispered disgustingly.
"I guess
we'll just have to use the metal one," I mumbled apologetically.
Jim had his
father's car this week. He and Pete were waiting for us around the corner. When
Carl and I got in, he checked that we had everything, and then drove off.
Quite a bit of snow had fallen
since
I could hardly
see Pete, even though he was only a few feet away from me. Sliding along behind
the car was supposed to be the fun part of the plan, but it wasn't. Maybe Pete
and I shouldn't have been so quick to volunteer for this role. We were freezing
our butts off. Jim and Carl were nice and warm inside the car.
The plan was
for Jim to drive very slowly down the dark streets of the new development.
Carl, sitting on the passenger's side with the door partially open, would hold
the bucket and hose. They would keep their eyes peeled for a likely prospect.
When they found one Jim would slow right down. Carl's job was to then quietly
place the bucket and hose on the road directly in front of he driveway that
contained our victim's car. At the same time Pete and I were to let go of the
rear bumper and pick up the bucket and hose. While we were siphoning the gas,
they would drive around the block, and come back to pick us up. Hopefully, we
would be finished when they got back, and we could leave as quickly and quietly
as we had come.
We had been moving
for about five minutes and were halfway down a second street. Pete and I were
having a difficult time holding on. The snow was so deep it was up over the top
of my boots. It was shooting up my pant legs making my legs numb from the knees
down. Jim was driving faster than he was supposed to,
and our legs kept flying out behind us. We were being dragged, not towed.
Suddenly we were thrown up against the back of the car as Jim applied full
brakes and slid to a stop.
Thinking back
now, it must have been the sudden stop that began the calamitous chain of
events that followed. When the car slowed, if you remember, Carl was supposed
to lean out his door and gently place the bucket and hose on the road where we
would pick them up. What happened was that when Jim slammed on the brakes, Carl
panicked, threw open the door and heaved the bucket and hose out, screaming at
Jim to get the car moving again. The metal bucket soared through the air,
landed on top of our victim's car, and rolled noisily to the driveway. What an
ungodly noise it made on that lonely street in the black of night. Bedroom
lights began coming on around us, dogs started barking, and silhouettes of
sleepy people came to their bedroom windows, peering out to see what the racket
was.
What they saw
was two figures in the middle of their street, covered in snow, carrying a
bucket and hose in their hands.
Needless to
say, we didn't get our gas that night. I dropped the bucket where I stood, and
ran for all I was worth. Pete was right beside me. Running wasn't easy with our
frozen legs, but we finally managed to reach the car. We piled into the back
seat. Jim tried to get out of there as fast as he could, but the more gas he
gave the car, the more he spun the wheels.
Finally he got
it moving, and we escaped onto the main road. Nobody said anything for the
first few minutes, but pretty soon we were all talking at once, blaming each
other for screwing up. Then Carl started laughing. He was trying to describe
the calamity on the road behind them as they had driven away after heaving the
bucket out, but was laughing so hard he was having trouble talking. Pete and I
couldn't see the humor in it at first, but the more we warmed up, the funnier
it got. Before long we were all laughing so hard we were crying.
We headed over
to our favorite all-night restaurant for coffee. By the time we got there all
was forgiven. We'd have to either refine our plan or come up with a better one
for next week.
It was
Back to Top
The Chicken
Express
When polar
bears share your back yard, and beluga whales cavort in the river just beyond,
how far do you think you would go to get up close and dirty to a chicken? You
might be surprised; especially if it's a
The year was 1975, and my family and I were living in
Churchill sits at the end of the rail line on the west
coast of
This story is about my friend Larry. There are other players, but without him
there wouldn't really be a story. Larry arrived in Churchill shortly after I
did, and when he did, he brought his small airplane with him so he could get
out and explore the area. I loved to fly too, and over the next two years we
made many trips together, exploring the small inlets and coves up the coast of
Occasionally we would fly south to Thompson to hone our
cross-country and map reading skills. It
was after returning home on a Friday evening in May from one of our Thompson
trips that the idea of the 'Chicken Express' was first considered.
Larry and his wife Lynn were having a few people over
that night. Lynn had asked him to bring back some Kentucky Fried Chicken, and we had brought home three buckets. As it turned
out, she could have served T-Bone steaks with all the trimmings that evening
and it wouldn’t have gone over nearly as well as the chicken did. Twelve of us
made short work of it, and as advertised, it was 'Finger Licking Good'.
"Let
me know the next time you're going to Thompson," Ian said to Larry. "You can pick me up a bucket or
two." Ian and Linda had come to Churchill several months after Larry and I
had arrived. He was our supervisor, but
he was also a good friend.
"Hey, if you're bringing back chicken, we'd like
some too," Bill chimed in. Katy and
I love the stuff." Bill was the Station Manager for the regional airline
that served Churchill. He was a good guy to know, and fit right in with our
group.
"Whoa
people!" Larry held his hands up in
the air. I'm happy to give you my time,
but airplane fuel costs money. If you
want to pay for my gas … "
Everyone immediately started throwing cash onto the
table. Larry had his first order. Twenty buckets for the following Friday
night.
The 'Chicken Express' was born.
It was supposed to be for friends only, but pretty soon
word got out, and Larry started getting requests from people in town he didn't
even know. For the next few months he
tried to accommodate a growing list of customers, and soon realized he had
stumbled onto a gold mine. People would
pay whatever he asked for the stuff, and he couldn't make enough trips to meet
the demand. The money was pouring in, and at one point he even considered
quitting his job and buying a bigger and better airplane.
Like most things, however, it
was too good to be true, and it wasn't long before it all started to fall
apart. Because the townspeople thought he was running a full-fledged K.F.C.
delivery service, they treated it accordingly. They didn't realize that Larry
had a full time job at the airport, and if, for whatever reason the plane
didn't go, or go often enough, they would telephone his home complaining about
the poor service. By the end of July it
was totally out of hand and, under serious pressure from
The 'Chicken Express' was dead, or so it seemed. "So much for budding entrepreneurship."
--------------------------------------------------------------
The planning for the big fishing
trip started at work one day in August as we were enjoying our morning coffee
in the
"Ok Boys," Ian said. "
We've been talking about this for months. When are we going to go? My
neighbor has been telling me about this great place called
"So how do we get there?" Tom asked. "Is
it a fly-in lake?" Tom was our gentleman farmer from southern
"Nope,"
Ian said. "It's on the rail line
between here and Thompson. We get there by train. They'll stop the train, let
us off, and then pick us up again whenever we flag them down."
That was all we needed.
Everyone added their two cents, and the trip was on.
Over the next few days, each
of us made arrangements to be off work on the Labour
Day long-weekend. Everyone was successful except for Larry, who had to work on
the Sunday. He was disappointed, but he made the best of it, and helped us in
our preparations.
Each of us
was given one job to do, over and above getting our own gear together. Bill's was to purchase enough beer to last
four people four days. Mine was to
organize the food for everybody. Ian and Tom shared the responsibility of
arranging the rail transportation for four men and two boats. When everything
was done, we would split the costs evenly. It didn't take too long for
everything to fall into place, and by the last week of August we were ready to
go, and looking forward to the trip.
We were back having coffee on
the Monday before we were to go when Larry said jokingly, "Hey boys, I
know I have to work Sunday, but I'll be flying down to Thompson on Saturday.
Maybe I'll drop you in some drumsticks on the way home."
"That's a great idea," Ian said. "Can you do it?"
Ian's
quick response caught Larry by surprise. "I guess I could," he
responded, more serious now. "With
a little luck, I could probably airdrop some drumsticks right into your
campsite. Tom, can you get me a
parachute?"
"No
problem," Tom said,
"I'll get one from the Upper Air Station even if I have to
steal it."
The Upper Air Station was a building on the airport where
Meteorologists regularly sent balloons into the upper atmosphere to measure
wind currents. Attached to the balloon
was a recoverable payload to which a small parachute was attached. We never did learn how Tom managed to get the
parachute, but he got one, and, with copious amounts of masking tape, rigged it
up to a box big enough to hold two buckets of K.F.C. When he gave it to Larry on Wednesday
afternoon, it was all folded very neatly. He also gave him a bright orange
garbage bag, and some twine. All Larry
had to do was put the chicken in the box, the box in the bag, keeping the
parachute outside of it, tie up the bag, and throw the package out of the plane
at the right moment.
"Are you going to be able to fly the airplane and
jettison that thing by yourself?" I asked Larry.
"No
problem, I'll take the passenger door off for the flight home."
The four of us met at the railway station on Thursday
morning, loaded our gear and supplies, and found some seats in the coach. Bill
decided to stay back in the baggage car with our gear,
and the baggage car conductor. We knew they'd be sharing a few beers, and it
wasn't long before we were all back there, playing cards, sipping beer, and
having a great time. It was a ten hour ride to the drop off point, and it was
early evening by the time we got there. We were down a couple of cases of beer
by then, but the conductor was happy.
As promised, the fishing was great.
There may be nothing better than fresh pickerel fillets
cooked in butter in a blackened frying pan over a campfire, especially when
complimented by buttered, fire-baked potatoes, hot green peas, French bread,
and lots of beer. A few good stories were told around the campfire on Friday
evening, and some better lies. It was
around midnight, before each of us found our way into our tents to rejuvenate
ourselves for the next morning's fishing action, and maybe, if it worked out, a
chicken dinner.
Larry arrived over our campsite at
From our campsite, the four of us watched the bright
orange package careen off target to the north of us, and we immediately headed
off in that direction. We made our way
to where we thought it should be, and began looking for it.
Looking up, I couldn't see the sky at all. It was completely blocked out by the
full-leafed branches of the tall poplar trees surrounding us. Somewhere above
us, I could hear the drone of the little Cessna's engine as it passed
overhead. Larry was making low passes,
crisscrossing the sky above us. From the sound of his engine, it seemed like
his first pass was from north to south, and his next from south to north. When he finished these, he did the same thing
from east to west, and then west to east.
"It's
pretty thick in here," Ian said to no one in particular. "There's no way it could have made it to
the ground through these branches."
"What 's Larry doing?"
Tom asked. "That's the
fourth time he's flown right over this spot."
"I'm
not sure," I responded, but knowing Larry, he's probably trying to tell us
something. Can you see anything up
there?"
"The
last thing I saw was a flash of orange streaming down somewhere in this
direction." Bill spoke up.
"What a bunch of clowns we are. I
thought this was supposed to be simple."
"Here
he comes again," Ian said.
"Wait, I don't think he's above us. He's off to our left."
The four us moved to our left, coming into a bit of a clearing. As we got there, we saw the small airplane
come over. When it was directly above us, it began to wag its wings, and then
flew on in the same direction.
"You're
right," Bill said. "Larry's definitely trying to tell us something, and I think I know what it is."
Larry flew
over us again in the opposite direction.
When he was almost above us again, he wagged his wings. We all waved
back.
"OK gents, I think I know where it is. It's in the branches of this tree right
here," Bill said, pointing to a tall, leafy poplar about ten yards to his
right. " Let's
get our hatchets to work, and we'll see if I'm right."
As we were about to discover, Larry's center point for
these passes had been the orange bag that was caught up in the top branches of
a tall poplar tree. He knew we would
never see it from the ground, and all he could hope for was that by
crisscrossing over it, someone would figure out what he was doing.
Larry
circled above us, saw we were in the right spot, wagged his wings once more,
and set the aircraft on a north-east heading for the two and one half hour
flight back to Churchill.
"Timber"
Bill called out. "Keep an eye out
for the bag."
The big
tree started falling towards the clearing, but several other trees caught hold
of it and moved it the other way. As the
trunk separated where we had chopped it, it rose into the air and shook itself
several times, dropping bark and twigs all around us. Finally it came to rest,
cradled in the branches of the other trees surrounding it.
"I
saw it," Tom called out! " It's in the branches.
We've got the right tree, but how do we get it down?"
"I
know exactly how we get it down," Bill said. "Hatchets ready boys. We drop trees till it's down, even if we have
to clear half the damn forest. We won't be leaving this little treasure for the
ravens."
We worked
harder that day than we had in years; maybe ever; but it paid off. It took us two hours, and we had to cut down
eleven trees before the Colonel's delectable delight was finally low enough for
us to hook with a long stick and pull down.
Dinner
that evening was delicious. As it turned out,
Back to Top
High Anxiety
John did many
things well in this world. People who
knew him acknowledged that he was a good student, and a hard worker. He was
also a good son to his widowed mother. He always spent as much time as he could
with her when not working or at school.
Some things,
however, he didn't do nearly as well. One of them was that he could not drink
more than one beer. When he did, his stomach would produce inordinate amounts
of gas creating unbearable cramps.
Another was how he dealt with his shyness around women. With the
exception of his mother, John had never been comfortable around women. He was
even worse with girls of his own age. At twenty, John had never been intimate
with a girl. He had never even taken a girl on a date. He was so shy that
whenever he was around girls, he would have an anxiety attack. When this
happened, he would become stone-faced, unable to speak.
He had learned
how to control his stomach problem. He just never drank more than one beer. His
problem with women, however, was the ruin of him. He had been acquainted with
many girls during his teen years. Several of them had obviously been attracted
to him. Unfortunately, his shyness was usually seen as aloofness or being stuck
up, and had driven them away. He had been working at it, though. Over the last
few months he had spent many hours in conversation with himself about what he
might do to overcome this problem. This self-analysis seemed to be helping. He
was doing a little better lately. As long as he limited his conversations to
matters of work or school, he was now able to talk freely with several of the
girls he associated with.
Twice
a week for the last three months he had been attending an evening course in
Mediaeval Literature at
"What's it going to take?" John thought. "How will I ever get up the courage to ask the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my
eyes on if she'll go out with me?"
During study
sessions and on breaks, there had been occasions for them to talk. They had
actually spoken to each other a few times.
"Spoken to each other, yes but always about long dead authors, or other course issues. That didn't really count," he reasoned.
They both lived
in small rural towns on the rail line to the east of the city where they
worked. On Mondays and Wednesdays, both would remain in town after work to
attend classes. One evening after class they happened to run into each other.
They were on their way home, and found themselves sitting in the same coach.
Mary Beth
approached John. "Hi John. What are you doing on
this train?"
"H …
Hello, Mary Beth, I … I didn't noticed you," he lied. Actually he had seen
her several times before, but had always been afraid to approach her. "I …
I always take this train."
She smiled, and
sat down beside him. "Do you mind
if I join you?"
That was the
start of it. Since then they had traveled together on their way home. Mary Beth
was always very friendly. She tried many times to engage him in conversation,
but John just couldn't relax. Unless they were talking about Geoffrey Chaucer
or some other bearded bard from centuries past, he usually sat there quietly.
He had tried
several times to ask her if she would go out with him, but just couldn't say
the words. She seemed to understand what was happening. Each time he tried she
would smile, her sparkling blue eyes silently urging him to take the plunge. He
just couldn't do it. No matter how hard he tried, the only thing he could
manage to get out was some reference to Augustine of Hippo or some other
ridiculous reference to medieval times. More than once John had sensed her
disappointment in him. The conversation would cool, and they would sit there
quietly until it was time for her to get off. When she did, he would sit alone,
waiting for his stop, commiserating his predicament, and vowing to do better
the next time.
One Wednesday
night near the end of the spring semester, they were sitting quietly beside
each other on the train. John was staring intently out the window at the dark
countryside. He turned away from the
window to face her. "Are you ready for the final this Saturday
afternoon?"
"I think
so," she responded. "How about you?"
"I guess
so. Do you suppose we could go have a drink after we're finished … to discuss
the exam, I mean?" John asked.
Mary Beth
smiled at John. " Is this a date?" she
asked. Her eyes were shimmering pools of blue and gold.
John hadn't
even realized what he'd done. "I … I guess it is," he stammered,
"and may … maybe after that we can have dinner
together before we leave the city?"
"I'd love
to John. What a wonderful surprise! I'm looking forward to it already."
She touched her hand to his for just a moment.
Her touch was
like an electric shock. His hand tingled. It was wonderful. How had that
happened? He was thinking about the exam and it had just slipped out. He had a
smile on his face for the rest of the trip that evening. Although they didn't
talk much, each time John glanced her way she returned the glance with smiling
eyes. As she left the train at her stop they looked longingly at each other.
Something had changed, and they both knew it.
John was beside
himself with happiness. Although he hadn't planned for it to happen, it had. It
hadn't even been that hard. All he had to do now was get through the next three
days without constantly thinking of her. He would have to put some time into
his studies if he wanted to do well on the exam. Maybe he would re-read
"The
He was already
sitting in the examination room on Saturday afternoon when Mary Beth came in.
She waved to him as she found a seat across the room. He breezed through the
exam. When he finished he waited in the hallway for her. She saw him standing
there when she came out a few minutes later, and ran right up to him.
"Let's get
out of here," she said. She gave him a hug, grabbed his hand, and headed
down the hallway. "I'm dying for a beer. Where shall we go?"
Surprised, and a little
embarrassed at her openness, he held on to her hand as they quickly walked
away. "I … I know a nice little English Pub not far from here," he
said. "It's quiet, and we can go over the exam there without being
disturbed."
"Sounds
great, John." She was almost pulling him along.
When they
arrived at the pub, they found a booth in the back. John ordered two pints of
draught beer. Mary Beth was excited at how easy she had found the exam, and was
effervescing as she talked about her answers. John picked up on her excitement.
Before either of them realized it, their pints were empty.
"Let's
have another," Mary Beth said. " I feel like
celebrating."
John got the
waiter's attention, and soon there were two more pints sitting in front of
them. They had moved closer together on the bench seat in order to compare
answers. As they raised their glasses in yet another toast, John realized that
the outside of his right thigh was firmly pressed against Mary Beth' s left one. In their excited discussion, he hadn't
noticed this earlier. Now that he did, he could feel the heat of her leg
pressing against his. He didn't know what to do. He wanted to leave it there,
but now that he was aware of it he didn't know how he could.
Mary Beth
looked up at him. "You're very nice John. I think I'm going to like
getting to know you better."
She moved even
closer to him. Reaching over with both her hands, she cupped his right hand on
the table. Their heads were very close together now. They looked directly at
each other. She leaned her head towards his and kissed him briefly on the lips.
Without even
thinking about it, he moved his left hand onto hers. "I ... I'm not very
good at these things Mary Beth, but I really like you a lot already." John
pulled his left hand back. His senses were reeling. He was not sure what to do
next. "Wh … where would you like to go for
dinner?"
At that point a
wave of cramps hit him. It almost doubled him in two. He grimaced at the pain
in his stomach. "Excuse me," he groaned, turning away from her.
"I'm going to have to make a trip to the Men's Room."
"Are you
all right?" Mary Beth asked. She looked concerned.
"I'm
fine," John replied. "I'll be
right back."
It was all he
could do to control himself as he made his way to the washroom. As the door
closed behind him, he groaned and bent over. As he did, he let out great
roaring fart. A man standing at the urinal gave him a disgusting look, zipped
up, and left the washroom as quickly as he could. In other circumstances John
might have been embarrassed, but at this point he didn't care. With that
flagrant fart, his gut had stopped cramping. He was already starting to feel
better. He quickly used the urinal, and
then took the opportunity to wash up and comb his hair before going back to
their table.
When he got
back to their booth, Mary Beth beckoned him to move in beside her again. As he
did, she turned to him and said, "I've been thinking, John. This is such a
nice spot. It's quiet, and we're very comfortable. Why don't
we eat right here?"
"I'd like
that," John said. He looked up and signaled the waiter to bring them a
menu. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, because I am too." He
looked at his half empty second pint, thinking that he wouldn't be drinking any
more of those tonight.
When the menu
came, they ordered fish and chips. They continued talking while they waited for
their dinner to arrive. John was amazed to find that he was feeling very
comfortable with Mary Beth. They talked
all through dinner about their work, and what they did. By the time they had
finished, they had progressed to their families, their backgrounds, and their
dreams. Time seemed to stand still. John was just finishing his second cup of
coffee when the waiter came by. He placed the bill on the table in front of
them. John picked it up.
"Excuse
me, I think I'll go powder my nose," Mary Beth had a twinkle in her voice
as she left for the Ladies Room. "I'll meet you by the front door."
John paid the
waiter. He was standing beside their booth getting ready to leave when the next
wave of pain hit him. This time he was unable to control himself. As he bent
over to try to ease the cramping in his stomach, he let go another loud and
prolonged fart. Looking up, several people nearby were staring at him. The
waiter had a look of horror on his face.
In the distance
he saw Mary Beth coming out of the washroom. "Excuse me, he gasped, as he moved
towards the entrance.
"At least I feel better," he thought. The fart had accomplished that anyway.
As he walked
towards the door, he quickly realized that he had received a most unwelcome
surprise with that last uncontrollable exhaust of gastric gas. He could feel
the presence of something hot and runny in his shorts. His anxiety level
instantly went to the top of the scale.
"My God," he thought, "What am I going to do now? What a catastrophe!" John turned, heading immediately back to the Men's Room. He passed Mary Beth along the way.
"I'll be
right with you," he said, as he hurried by with a look of panic on his
face.
When he got to
the washroom, he went into a cubicle. He did the best he could with toilet
paper and water from the toilet bowl to clean up. It wasn't enough though. Both
his boxer shorts and his pants were stained quite badly. He removed the shorts
and flushed them down the toilet. Using fresh water from the bowl, he did his
best to remove the stain on his khaki pants. When he was satisfied that he had
done everything he could, he put the wet pants back on, and made his way back
to the front door.
"There you
are John. What happened?" she asked, noticing the wet spot on his pants.
"Oh, it's
just a splash from the sink," he replied. " It'll
dry off pretty soon. Let's get out of here."
As they walked
out of the restaurant hand in hand, John could feel the wetness of his pants.
He was sure that he could detect an unpleasant odor coming from them.
"Is
anything wrong?" Mary Beth asked. She could see the disturbed look on
John's face.
"No, no,
nothing at all." John tried to smile.
They were
making their way towards the train station when they passed by a clothing
store.
"Look! We're at The
Gap," John exclaimed. "Can we stop for a minute? There's a sweater
here that I've been wanting to buy?"
"Sure. I'd
like to look around too," Mary Beth replied.
They went into
the store. Fortunately, the men's fashions were on the right and the women's
were on the left, so they each went their own way. John grabbed the first
sweater he saw off the rack, and hurried back to the
khakis' section. After selecting a pair that most closely resembled the pants
he was wearing, he brought both items to the register. He looked across the
store at Mary Beth to make sure that she couldn't see him buying the pants. She
was busy looking at clothes.
"Where's
the change room?" he asked the girl at the register.
"I'm sorry, Sir, the change rooms are being renovated, and
they're not available."
"OK, Just
the pants," he said quietly to the girl at the register. "Forget the
sweater."
"What?"
the girl asked.
"Just the
pants," he whispered, his eyes still trained on Mary Beth. "I don't
want the sweater."
"Oh …
okay," the salesgirl replied. She took his credit card and processed it.
After he had signed it, she handed him his purchase in a brightly colored bag.
"Thanks,"
he said. He walked over to Mary Beth, who was also carrying a small bag with
something she had bought.
"I see you
got your sweater," Mary Beth said.
"Yep! How are you doing? Are you ready to
leave?" All John wanted to do was get onto the train as fast as he could
so he could change his pants.
"Sure.
Let's go."
They arrived at
the station just in time to catch the next train. They bought their tickets,
boarded, and found two seats together in the middle of the second coach.
"Would you
excuse me for a moment?" John asked before he sat down. "I'll be
right back." With that he made his
way to the washroom in the back of the coach.
The train
departed just as he got to the washroom. John entered the small cubicle, and
quickly ripped off his pants, rolled them into a ball, opened the window, and
heaved them out.
"I might just have pulled this off," John congratulated himself as he stood there naked from the waist down cleaning himself off properly. When he finished, he reached for the brightly colored bag and opened it. What he saw next brought on the highest anxiety attack he had ever had. Inside the bag was … just the sweater.
---------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue
Many years
later, John sat and watched his still very beautiful wife Mary Beth reading
quietly in front of the fireplace. He couldn't help but marvel at how fortunate
he was to be married to her. He was still just as madly in love with her as he
had been all those years ago. What she had ever seen in that shy, uptight,
young man who couldn't control his bodily functions, he would never know.
Perhaps there
really is such a thing as women's intuition. Why else would Mary Beth have come
to the train's washroom door a few minutes after his sorrowful discovery? She
told him that she had a pair of extra large sweat pants with her that she'd
purchased at The Gap. If he thought his anxiety levels had peaked already, he
was wrong. They went right through the roof with what happened next. The only
way he was going to get those sweats, she insisted quietly, was if he would let
her in to the cubicle with him to make sure they fit.
By the time
they came out of the train's washroom that day, John had calmed down
considerably. They knew a lot more about each other than John had ever dreamed
they would, and they both had very satisfied smiles on their faces.
Back to Top
'Gotcha'
It was
"How
quickly it changes," I thought. "Yesterday it was fall. Today it's
winter."
I hesitated for
just a moment as I walked around the corner of the barn. I saw the mule
standing there, and placed a shell into the barrel of my rifle.
"One
shot," I said to myself, "and make it good.
You only brought one bullet."
I approached
the mangy old mule, stopping about fifteen feet away from her. Raising my
rifle, I took dead aim at a spot just above and between her eyes. The mule
brayed once, staring back at me. Her eyes were wide and sorrowful. It was as if
she knew what was about to happen. Her suffering would soon be over.
I thought about
what was going on, and chuckled to myself. I was about to 'get' Bill with
another practical joke. I was thirty-eight years old, fourteen years older than
my brother Bill. Like most other younger brothers do, he had always looked up
to me. Because he never seemed to expect it, I had 'got' him many times in the
past.
I lived a
pretty structured and disciplined life working for the Government at the
It had been a
long night. Bill and I had left
The first thing
I always did when I got there was to stop and have coffee with John and Mary. I
would then head out on to the stubble fields of their farm to get my deer. This
seldom took very long. I usually was back at the house within an hour. After
breakfast John and I would gut the animal, and bag the remains. I was usually
on my way home with my deer in the back of the truck before
We had been
having dinner at Bill's house one night last week. You're kidding me,
right?" Bill chuckled when I told him how I got my deer every year. He
liked to hunt deer as well, and went out every year with his friends, sometimes
successfully, mostly not.
"No,
not this time. It's just about a one hundred percent guaranteed
sure thing." I took a drink from my second, and
last beer of the evening. "No freezing of butt,
and tramping through woods for me. I'm too old for that."
"How about
me coming along with you this year," Bill asked? "I'd like to get in
on this."
"I guess
that could be arranged. Be ready to go around
When we pulled
into the farmyard, we could see a light burning in the kitchen. John knew we
were coming, and would have the coffee on.
I hopped out of
the truck. "OK Bill, I'll go in and say hello. How about you unload, and
then come join us?"
"No
problem," Bill replied, as he got out the passenger door. He started
pulling our gear out of the back seat. As I got to the front step John came out
the door.
"Hey, good
to see you old friend," John said. "I see young Billy came with
you."
"Yep, as I
said on the phone, he's been shut out the past two seasons. He's anxious to get
his deer this year."
"We've got
a bit of a problem," John said. "Mary has come down with a bad flu
bug. She can't get out of bed. I don't think you fellas
had better come in to the house. I wouldn't want you to catch it."
"That's
too bad John," I said. "I'm sorry to hear that. You're right. I don't
need a flu bug right now. I guess we'll have to forego our visit this year.
We'll just go get our deer, and head on home again."
"Sounds
like a good plan. Good luck. I hope you get a couple of nice bucks. … Say Bob,
there is one thing you could do for me though," John hesitated. "You
know that lame old mule of mine?
I nodded my
head. "Sure, I remember."
"Well,
she's out behind the barn in a lot of pain. She's so full of arthritis now she
can hardly walk. I just haven't got the heart to put her down myself. Since
you've got your rifle handy, I'd be much obliged if you'd do it for me."
"No
problem old friend. I'll be happy to do
that for you. I'll talk to you before we head back" I said to him.
As I headed
back to the truck the thought struck me that this might be a good chance to
have a little fun at Bill's expense.
When I got to
the truck he cursed loudly for Bill's benefit. "Where the hell's my
rifle?"
"What's
going on!" Bill exclaimed, startled at my
outburst.
"He's
changed his bloody mind," I spat. "Some friend he is! We drive all
night to get here, and now for some damn reason he won't let us go on to his
land. I'm gonna teach him a lesson in friendship. I'm
gonna shoot his damn mule."
I reached over
and picked up my rifle from the neat pile that Bill had stacked beside the
truck. I took the bolt from my vest pocket and placed it in the rifle, took one
shell from a box of ammo on top of the pile, and stalked off toward the barn.
Bill stood
there, awestruck at my uncharacteristic and violent behavior. "Wait!"
he called after me. " Don't do it! We'll get
thrown in jail!"
I ignored him,
smiling to myself.
The mule didn't
even twitch as I raised the rifle and fired. She heard nothing as her legs gave
way. She dropped, eyes open, to the ground. I stepped closer, leaning over her
to make sure she was dead. A final breath escaped her. She was gone. Her pain
was over.
As I was
getting up again, I had a laugh as I thought of Bill and the state of confusion
I had left him in. I figured I'd better get back there and tell him what was
going on. I remembered the wild look in Bill's eyes as I had left him standing
by the truck. There was no doubt that I'd 'got' him good this time.
When I got back
to the truck, Bill wasn't there. I looked around, but there was no sign of him
anywhere.
"Hey
Bill," I shouted. Where'd you get to?" I could see John looking out
the kitchen window and I gave him the thumbs up sign.
At that point,
two loud rifle blasts echoed from inside the barn. "What's going on?"
I yelled loudly. I ran quickly toward the sound of the shots.
As I arrived at
the barn doors I met Bill coming out. He was blowing air at the barrel of his
rifle, and had a determined grin on his face. "I'm with you all the way
brother," he proudly said. "I got two of his damned cows."
"Damn it,
Bill! I was only kidding! What the hell have you done?" I was frantic.
"What the hell am I going to tell John?"
"Really?"
Bill grinned. "Well, so was I."
Back to Top
"Here we
go again,"
He was sitting
in a company's reception area on the seventh floor of a high rise building in
downtown
This wasn't new
to
"It
shouldn't be too long now," she said. "Mr. Howe will see you
soon."
"Thanks,"
he drawled. He pushed back a large clump of flattened down hair that had fallen
onto his forehead. "I appreciate it."
The telephone
rang on the secretary's desk.
She turned to
face him. "Mr. Rider, my name is Jane Sinclair. I'm afraid Mr. Howe has
been delayed. He asked me to go over your application with you. Please take a
seat over here."
"Please
sit down," she asked.
He shuffled his
feet. "If it's all right with you Miss, I'd rather stand."
"I'd
really rather you sit, please."
The secretary
opened his file, and started going through it. Almost immediately she stopped.
She seemed to
steel herself. "I'm afraid we won't be able to go any further Mr. Rider.
The company has a strict policy about hiring people with criminal records."
"Don't you
even want to discuss my qualifications?"
"No,
there's no point in it. I'm sorry, but this interview is over."
"Now
just a minute Miss. I have all
the academic qualifications that the job requires. I deserve the respect of an
interview. All I want is a chance to show someone what I can do."
"I'm
sorry, Mr. Rider. My hands are tied."
"Well I'm
sorry too, but I came to see Mr. Howe, and I want to see him. I'm willing to
wait as long as it takes."
The secretary
stared at him.
"My name
is John Howe," the first man said brusquely. "What seems to be the
problem?" The second man stood
beside him, staring at
"Well
sir," Jackson drawled, removing his hat once again as he stood up. I don't
want to be a bother, but I've come here for an interview with you. I'd like to
have one. I've worked very hard, and I want you to see my credentials."
"I understand
your frustration young man, but as Miss Sinclair told you, we have a strict
policy about hiring people with criminal records."
"I
understand that sir. Perhaps if I told you a bit of my background, you might be
able to steer me in the right direction. I've made some mistakes, but I want to
get on with my life. I need a job to do that."
"I'm sorry
Mr. Rider. There's no point in wasting your time or mine. Let's not cause a
scene. I'm asking you to leave quietly now."
"What the
Hell. It's always the same."
"Just a
minute," the other man said. I'll escort you down the elevator."
"There's
no need for that,"
"I
understand that, but I'm coming with you anyway."
The two men
walked out into the foyer where they stood waiting for the elevator. The
company man never took his eyes off him.
When the
elevator arrived, they got on and the man pushed the down button.
"What
now?"
"Don't be
alarmed Mr. Rider. My name is Don Williams. I work here too. I'd like you to
come into my office for a few minutes so I can get a little more information
from you."
"I'd just
as soon leave now if it's all the same to you. I've done nothing wrong
here."
"This
won't take long." He released the button. The door opened to a foyer much
like they had entered on the floor above. "Come this way please."
Conditioned as
he was to authority,
Mr. Williams
closed the door. "Have a seat, Mr. Rider."
"I'd like
to hear a little bit more about you, Mr. Rider. Tell me why you applied for a
position with us."
"
Well, Sir, I saw your ad in the paper. I recently graduated from
"How's
that?"
"As you
know, I spent some time in prison. I kept pretty much to myself there. It's
pretty boring. When a job in the warden's office came up helping with inventory
and payroll, I volunteered and got the job. Over the next year and a half I
learned a lot about office procedures and payroll administration. I enjoyed it.
When I was released, I applied for, and was accepted into
"Why were
you in prison?"
"It's a long story Sir, but
the short of it is that I was a smart-ass kid who got unlucky."
"That
summer, after grad, a few of my friends and I drove down to
"I was
sentenced to four years in prison. Two years later I was released on parole. I
moved in with my father who had stood by me throughout my ordeal. I was scarred
by the experience, but I came away from it a better man. My days of fooling
around, and getting into trouble were over. Today, I'm a very serious person
with a burning desire to get on with my life. I want to make something of
myself."
"What's
with the outfit? You don't exactly look like an accounting clerk."
"I'm sorry
you don't like my duds Sir. I've always dressed this way."
"No, no!
It's not that I don't like them. They're just different, that's all." With
that, he got up and walked over to his desk where he pushed a button on his
intercom. He asked someone named George to come to his office. "We'll soon
be done, but before you leave there's someone I'd like you to meet."
They made small
talk for the next few minutes until another man came into the office. "
"Alright,
I guess I can do that."
When he
finished, the two men looked at each other. A silent sign of approval passed
between them. "
"I can
probably do that,"
"Alright,
you're on the payroll. Be here tomorrow morning at
Over the next
two weeks,
The commercial
was a hit. The following month
One day after
finishing on the set, he wandered into Don William's office. He took a seat in
the same comfortable chair he had sat in the first time he had been there.
"Hi
"I just
wanted to thank you again for believing in me. You gave me a chance. Does the
company know me well enough yet to offer me that payroll job?"
"You're
already on the payroll,
"Yes we
are, and things are going real fine,"
Back to Top
Home
I noticed
Gordon that morning as I was turning my car into the parking lot. He was
inching his way towards the church on the stone pathway that bisects its lawn.
Sundays, at church, were the only times I ever saw Gordon, and I hadn't seen
him for several weeks. When he did come, he always came alone, and sat quietly
by himself. He would listen to the sermon, sing the hymns, and pray on cue.
When the service was over, he would seek out the minister at the front door,
shake his hand, and quietly leave.
His full name
was Gordon John McGuinty. He was ninety-one years old, and he reminded me very
much of my grandfather. As a boy, I had
spent many hours sitting with my father’s father on our front porch. He had
been all over the world, and had seen many things. I was intrigued by his
tales, and he was more than happy to share them with me. I was twelve when he
died. He was ninety-one, and I never really had a chance to say goodbye to him.
That was a long time ago, but I still miss him.
I was by
myself that day, and I remember thinking that perhaps I could get him to talk
to me if I sat beside him during the service. We had never been officially
introduced, but I had tried several times to strike up a conversation with him.
Each time I did, he would stare at me with a vacant, haunting look, turn his
eyes downward, and walk away. At first,
I thought he didn't like me. Later, I found out that he acted this way with
everyone, even with those who had known him for years. As a result, most people
ignored him. He seemed to be quite happy with that.
"He
wasn't always this way," Harry, my barber, told me one day. "He
really changed after his wife died about five years ago. He just seemed to lose
interest in everything and everybody."
"What did
he do for a living?" I asked.
"He was a
salesman for a big hardware chain. Most everybody around these parts knew him;
liked him too. He always had a funny story to tell when he came in here. Must
be fifteen years now since he retired, and about five since I last talked to
him. I feel bad for him, but it seems that that's the way he wants it."
I parked my
car, and walked towards the church, catching up with him about half way there.
He was moving very slowly, oblivious to everything around him.
"Good
morning Gordon,” I said.
He didn't
acknowledge me. He just kept walking with his head down.
I knew he had
heard me. Was he being rude, or simply concentrating on what he was doing? I
stopped, letting him carry on towards the church by himself. When he got to the
stone stairway going up to the entrance, he paused. Perhaps he was steeling
himself for the climb ahead of him.
I watched him
ascend. Holding onto the banister with his left hand, each step he took was
deliberate. His body leaned forward as he lifted his left leg onto the first
step. Once it was in place, he followed
with his right leg. This continued as he slowly made his way up. His hand never
left the banister. It just slid along ahead of him, supporting his ascent. When he finally reached the top, he stopped
again, turned, and looked back at the grounds below. He may have been just catching his breath,
but it seemed to me that he was looking directly at me.
Below his flat
peaked cap, his face was a road map of lines and waypoints. Two large vertical
furrows separated his tired eyes. They descended from his forehead, ended at
the bridge of his bulbous nose, and picked up again below his nostrils where
they continued on down to his narrow upper lip.
His eyes were barely open; mere slits between his drooping eyelids and
the puffy discolored pouches that hung below. His cheeks were flushed and
sunken, framed by the narrow trace lines of his cheekbones. On his left cheek
he had a large brown mole surrounded by strands of hair. He had obviously given
up shaving around it
He continued
on into the church, removing his cap as he entered the open doors. A shred of wispy gray hair fell onto his
forehead. He raised his hand to brush it
back, but as soon as he took his hand away, it fell again resuming its rightful
place. Twice more, as he made his way up the aisle, he repeated this gesture to
no avail. When he got about half way to the front, he turned into one of the
pews. There was a narrow space at the end of it beside a little boy who was
sitting with his mother. He stood there looking at the empty space.
"Hello
sir," the little boy said to him. "Would you like to sit with
us?"
His mother
smiled apologetically. She took her son’s hand as they moved over on the bench.
Gordon sat
down. He smiled at the little boy, but didn't say anything. The service started
shortly after that.
I had followed
him up the aisle. Since there was no room to sit beside him, I took a seat in
the pew directly behind. The service lasted about forty-five minutes that
morning with the congregation singing six hymns. Like most of the other people
there, I used the hymnal to sing the words. Gordon didn’t sing very loudly, but
I could see his lips moving. He sang every hymn, and amazingly, he never once
referred to the hymnal.
After the
service, the minister stationed himself at the church doors. As I walked out, I
shook hands with him and walked down the steps to wait for Gordon. I was
determined to speak with him. Eventually he came out. He shook hands with the
minister, stopped to talk to him for a moment, and moved away towards the
steps. I could see the minister call out to him. He wanted to say something
more, but the surge of people moving forward to greet him would not let him
continue. Gordon put on his cap, grasped the rail, and slowly made his way back
down the steps. When he got to the
bottom, I approached him.
"Hello
Gordon. How are you doing today?"
He lifted his
head. "Hello son. I'm just fine, and what a fine day it is."
I hadn’t
really expected him to answer, and grasped for a suitable reply. "I guess
it is pretty nice," I said. "How are you feeling these days,
Gordon?"
"I've
never felt better, son."
"You
know," I said, "I was pretty impressed with you in church today. The
way you sang all those hymns without once looking at the hymnal."
He smiled
knowingly. "Well son, it's hard for
me to read that book you know. The words are so small. Besides, I was only
interested in singing one song today. I
sang it every time."
"Really,
what song was that?"
"It's
called 'Where the Roses Never Fade'," he said
quietly. "It's about my home."
"I don't
think I know that one," I said, "but I'd like to hear it
sometime." I could see that he was tiring quickly. "Can I give you a
ride home, Gordon?"
"No thank
you, son, but maybe you could drop me off somewhere. I'll make my way from
there."
"I'd be
happy to," I said.
I didn't know
what was going on. He hadn't said this much to me in three years, but I wasn't
complaining. We made our way slowly to
my car. He was obviously having trouble walking, so I took his arm. I helped
him get in when we got there.
"Where to?"
I asked.
"I'd
appreciate it if you'd drop me off at the hospital." he said. "I've
got some business to take care of there."
"Are you
all right?" I asked.
"I'm just
fine, son."
We talked a bit
on the way. Gordon was friendly, but didn't say too much. He was fading fast,
and by the time we got there I could see he was in considerable difficulty.
I parked the
car. "I'm going to help you go in Gordon."
"All
right son. Thank you. I guess I am a little tired."
We got out of
the car, and began walking. Gordon soon became faint. He collapsed on my arm,
and would have fallen had I not been holding on to him. I looked closely at
him. He was very gray and was having difficulty breathing. I immediately picked
him up and carried him the rest of the way. He didn't say a word.
A nurse saw us
as we entered the large door. She immediately called for help. Two orderlies
came running up and took him from me. Another arrived with a stretcher. Gordon
appeared to be unconscious.
He briefly
opened his eyes as they put him onto the stretcher, and looked directly at me.
"I'll be going home now, son. Thanks for everything." His eyes closed
again.
The orderly
took him away on the stretcher, and I was left standing there by myself
wondering what had just happened. No one was asking any questions. The nurses
and the orderlies had gone back to their business.
"What's
going on?" I called after a nurse. Don't you want to know who he is?"
She looked
back. "Oh we know Mr. McGuinty. He's been with us for almost a month now.
Thank you for bringing him back. We've been looking for him all morning. He's
very ill, you know."
I went back to
the hospital that night to visit him, but was too late. Gordon had died a few
hours earlier. I talked to his doctor. He told me that Gordon had never
regained consciousness, but he had a smile on his face till the end. I was
happy to hear that. He had obviously made his peace that morning.
His funeral
was on the following Thursday. I spoke to our minister a few days before that.
I told him what had happened the previous Sunday, and how Gordon had sung the
words to the hymn 'Where the Roses Never Fade' each time we sang.
"I know
that hymn," he told me. "It's an old one, but a good one. As a matter
of fact, Gordon once played it for me on his record player. It was a gospel
version of the hymn, sung by Elvis Presley."
During the
funeral service, the minister talked of Gordon, his late wife, and their life
together. He went on to speak of how lost and lonely Gordon had been in his
last years. As the service came to an end, the minister spoke of Gordon's
special hymn. I could see Gordon in my mind's eye as the organ played and we
sang the hymn. It truly was a song about 'Home', and I felt better knowing he
was finally there. Maybe now that he was, Elvis would sing it to him in person.
As for me, I
was happy that at the end, he had let me into his life, allowing me to help him
go ‘Home’. I never had the chance to say goodbye to my grandfather, but I did
get to say goodbye to Gordon, and for whatever reason, that made me feel pretty
good.
Back to Top
"Looking
good, Dad," Danny shouted. "Just a few lights burnt out."
Don Fleming
came around the garage from the back of the house. He had just plugged in the
lights of the display. "Okay Danny, let's go in and warm up for a
while."
It was November
in the
"You go
ahead, Dad. I'm taking off. The boys are shooting a few hoops at the school. I
told 'em I'd join them."
"Sounds
good, Danny. See you later. Be home by five-thirty for supper."
"Will
do." Danny hopped onto his bicycle, and headed towards
town. It was less than two miles to the
school, and he made this short ride almost every day. The road was usually bare
during the winter months. He and his Dad had spent the last two days putting
together their large light display. They were kind of famous in the area.
People came from all around to see the thousands of lights and decorations that
adorned their house and yard. It was their Christmas thing.
***********************
Jerry Brundage was in a foul mood. Marie was supposed to have met
him at
It was getting
cold. Jerry fired up the engine, and turned the heater up to 'blast.' At least
he had his new truck to wait in. He loved his truck. It wasn't really new, but
it was in great shape, and it was his. His dad had bought it for him seven
months ago when he had received his 'Intermediate' driver's license. For the
first six months after getting it, he could only drive it if his Dad or some
other adult was in the truck. His dad was a cop, and was a real stickler on
that. They got along okay, but sometimes he could be a real pain in the butt.
Jerry didn't like being corrected all the time, especially when Marie was in
the truck with them. He didn't give Jerry much credit. No more of that, though.
As of last month, most of those driving restrictions had been lifted. He was
finally free. He and Marie could now drive by themselves.
He had been
going out with Marie for several months. At first they had been crazy about
each other, but lately he had noticed that she was acting differently. Even
though he had his own wheels now, she wasn't as interested in going places with
him. She always seemed to have an excuse. Last week he had heard a rumor that
she was seeing some guy from a different school. He'd have to find out about
that. Either they were going out together, or they weren't.
Maybe right now
would be a good time to find out. Jerry gunned the engine, and roared out of
the parking lot. The tires squealed as he made the turn onto the street.
Marie lived just
outside town. Once Jerry got onto the country road leading to her house, he put
the pedal to the metal. The truck was flying low, well over the speed limit. He
wondered who this guy might be, and what he had that Jerry didn't. He couldn't
understand it. He always treated her good. His hands gripped the steering like
a vice as he visualized her cozied up with this guy
somewhere. He was going to settle this once and for all.
The road was
clear as he approached a long sweeping curve. He could see that the early
afternoon sun had brought some moisture out of the pavement, but he was a good
driver and could handle it. Going into the curve, he suddenly realized he was
going too fast. He took his foot off the gas pedal and stepped hard on the
brake. Almost immediately the rear end of the truck started skidding.
Remembering something he'd read, he turned the steering wheel sharply in the
direction of the skid. That seemed to work, and the truck started to come out
of it. For a moment it was straight again, but then the rear end started
sliding the other way. He quickly spun the steering wheel towards the skid
again. Once more the truck straightened out. He had turned it too far though,
and the same thing happened again. He heard and felt a loud thud, and a crunch,
but was too busy trying to keep his truck on the road to heed it. Twice more he
spun the wheel as he careened around the curve totally out of control. In the
chaos, his foot slipped off the brake pedal. When it did, the truck
straightened out almost as fast as it had gone into its skid. He pumped the
brake gently, and slowed to a stop. He was on the shoulder of the road, on the
wrong side, but the truck was lined up straight.
He thought back
to the thud he had heard. Maybe he had hit a mailbox or something? He looked
out the back window, but couldn't see anything. He got out, and looked back
again. Nothing. He turned, and looked down at his
truck. There was a big dent in his left front fender with a long scratch
running back from it. He walked around to the front. The glass of his left
headlight was shattered.
"Shit,"
he yelled at the truck. "How am I going to explain this to the old
man?" He got back in, and headed up the road towards Marie's place. He was
really pissed now.
She wasn't
home. Nobody was. Somehow he knew she wouldn't be, and now he'd damaged his
truck on her account. Could anything else go wrong today?
On the way
back to town, he pulled off the road to have a better look at the damage. Using
a hammer from his toolbox, he tried to pound out the dent from under the
fender. He was only able to bang out some of it, though. There was another
piece of metal under the fender and he couldn't get it all. Looking at his
handiwork, he thought it didn't look too bad. He knew he could buy a new
headlight, and some paint to cover the scratch. Maybe his old man wouldn't
notice the small dent that remained.
Now he had
something to do for the rest of the day. He would deal with Marie later. At the
auto supply store, he bought a headlight and some touch-up paint. It almost
broke him, but he had no choice. He didn't need the grief. He headed home. His
dad was at work, and he'd be able to patch up his truck without interruption.
********************
After Danny
left, Don Sinclair went into his house to warm up. He had a cup of hot
chocolate with his wife Marion before going back outside to replace the burnt
out bulbs. It was
Five-thirty
came and went. Danny still wasn't home. At
"I don't
know where he is, Mrs. Sinclair. He never showed up at the school this
afternoon. We figured he must have been too busy at home."
"Thanks
Jason."
"You keep
phoning his friends," Don said. "I'm going to take a drive into town
and look around. Call me on my cell if you hear anything."
By
He drove to the
police station, and went in. Officer John Brundage
was there alone.
"John,"
Don was obviously excited. "I need your help. I can't find Danny! He left
for town this afternoon on his bike, and hasn't been seen since."
The two men had
been good friends for a long time. John could tell how upset Don was.
"Okay Don, slow down. Tell me exactly what you know."
John knew Danny
too. He didn't think he would have run away, but had to ask the questions
before he did anything else.
"There's
no chance of that," Don told him. "Danny was going to play basketball
at the school. His buddies were expecting him. He didn't take anything with him
except the clothes on his back. Something's happened John. I need your help
right now."
"Okay Don,
I can't organize an official search yet. It's too soon, but let's get an unofficial one going. I want you to phone as many
people as you can think of. Tell them all to come to the station. I'll bring in
some of our off-duty guys as well."
Within fifteen
minutes there were about twenty civilians, and two off-duty cops crowded into
the police station. Don explained what was going on,
and what he had already done. John gave everybody a copy of a town map. It was
sectioned off into grids.
"What
we're going to do first," he said, "is to make sure Danny's not in
town." He divided the civilians into ten pairs, and assigned a grid to
each pair. "These grids cover the whole town except for the downtown area.
What I want you to do is search your grid thoroughly.
Knock on doors, talk to people, and keep your eyes and ears open. When you're finished, report back here."
He gave each
pair a hand-held radio. "I'll coordinate from here. If you have anything
to report, call me. Don't call unless it's important. Everyone will be on the
same frequency."
"I want
you two guys to check downtown," he said to the two cops. Check your
contacts. Check with the bus station, bars, restaurants, and hotels. If he's
downtown, someone will know."
The police
station emptied out as fast as it had filled. When it had, John called home.
Jerry answered. John told him what was going on.
"Jerry, We need your help. You know where Danny lives. I want you to
drop whatever you're doing. Drive the route that he would have taken from his
home to the school. Look for something or anything that might be a clue to his
disappearance."
"Okay
Dad," Jerry hesitated. "When did this happen?"
"Danny
left home about two o'clock on his bicycle," John answered.
"Alright
Dad, I'll take a drive out that way."
A sense of
panic came over Jerry as he hung up the phone. That bang he had heard; the dent
and the scratch; the headlight. Had he hit Danny Fleming today? In his heart,
he knew he had. He didn't need to ask himself. A deep, sinking, feeling of
desperation took hold of him. He had hit Danny with his truck on the road
today, and had not even known it. He was in big trouble. Just
when he had been feeling so good about how everything had worked out.
The headlight had been easy to replace, and the touch-up paint had done a great
job on his fender.
He went outside
and got into his truck. The temperature was below freezing, and he turned the
truck heater all the way up. He couldn't think straight. What should he do? He
knew exactly where Danny was. He wondered if the kid was still alive. If he
was, he'd be freezing to death out there. What a jerk he was. He knew he'd been
driving too fast today. How did he miss seeing him? What was he going to do
now?
Jerry's
headlights pierced the blackness of the night on the lonely country road out of
town. He was blubbering like a baby. He couldn't stop himself. He had to keep
wiping his eyes so he could see the road. Maybe Danny was already dead. Maybe
he should just keep on driving.
He thought
about that some more. He was still thinking about it when he came up on the
turn. When he got to the spot where he had skidded earlier that day, he slowed
right down. He could see his skid marks in the gravel shoulder, but nothing
else. There was no sign of Danny, or his bike. He shone his flashlight into the
ditch, and then beyond it into the field. Something flashed back.
"Damn!
What do I do now?" he said out loud.
The reflection
was probably Danny's bicycle. It was decision time. He either had to go and
look, or get away from there as fast as he could. If he looked and found him,
maybe he could play innocent. Maybe they wouldn't even look at his truck. The
dent was hardly noticeable. Who was he trying to kid? He was toast. The best
thing he could do was to get the Hell out of there. He gunned the truck, and
took off.
Half a mile up
the road, he slammed on the brakes and slid to a stop. He hunched over the
wheel, crying again. "Damn it. It's not my fault. I didn't even know I'd
hit him. What was he doing out here on his bike anyway?"
He got out of
the truck, and looked up at the dark sky. A light snow was falling. The large
snowflakes melted as they hit his face, diluting his tears. He looked down
again. What kind of a person was he becoming? He knew this was his fault, all
of it. He'd been such a jerk lately. All he ever seemed to do was whine and
complain about everyone around him, even his dad. That's probably why Marie didn't
want to be with him anymore. What a mess he was making of his life, and now
look what he'd done. He didn't really know Danny. He was a couple of years
younger than Jerry, but he seemed like a good kid.
He knew then
that he couldn't run. He had screwed up, not Danny. He didn't know if it was
too late, but he knew he had to go back. If Danny was still alive, he didn't
deserve to die from exposure in a dark cold field. He turned the truck around,
and went back to the spot he had just left.
With his flashlight,
he hopped over the ditch and started walking through the high grass of the
field. Almost immediately, he saw Danny's bike. It lay with its front wheel
twisted at an awkward angle, and its handlebars facing backwards. He heard a
faint groan, and moved to where he thought it came from. He saw Danny. He was
lying on his back, with dried blood all over his face. His eyes were closed.
Jerry bent over
him. "Danny, it's Jerry Brundage.
Can you hear me?"
Danny opened
his eyes. "Jerry, I'm hurt bad," he whispered. "I can't move.
I'm cold. Help me."
Jerry took off
his jacket and covered him with it. "I'm here Danny. It's okay. You're
going to be all right. I'm going to get help. I'll be right back."
Jerry took off,
running. He was committed now. It was all over for him, but he was going to
help Danny. When he got to his truck, he took off towards town. His head was
spinning as fast as his wheels were. He had to get some help out here as soon
as possible.
When he came
back around the turn, he could see headlights in the distance coming his way.
As the two vehicles got closer to each other, he could see it was a police car.
It was moving very slowly.
He pulled up
beside it, and jumped out. "I found him. He's up ahead in a field. He's
hurt. Call an ambulance." Jerry jumped into the passenger seat of the
police car. The cop was already on the radio calling for help.
By the time
they got to him, he was unconscious. "He was talking a minute ago,"
Jerry said. "He's not dead, is he?"
The cop checked
for a pulse. He put his head down real close to Danny's face. "He's
breathing," he said. "It's a good thing you found him when you did.
He probably wouldn't have lasted much longer. How did you find him, by the
way?"
"My dad
asked me to drive out this way and look for him. I saw some skid marks on the
road, so I got out and looked. I saw his bike. Then I heard him moan."
"Well
done, Jerry. You probably saved his life."
A few minutes
later, a few cars and an ambulance arrived. Several people came running out into
the field, surrounding them. Everybody stood back as the paramedics worked on
Danny. At one point, Mr. Fleming came up to Jerry and shook his hand. When the
paramedics finished, they put him onto a stretcher and took him to the
ambulance. Then his father was there, congratulating him. He felt like a piece
of shit. He was no hero. Everyone would soon know that.
The ambulance
drove away with its lights flashing and its siren wailing. His dad gave him a
lift to where he had left his truck, and told him to go home. "I'll talk
to you later," he said. "Good work, son."
"Dad I
…"
"I'll talk
to you soon, son. Just go home for now."
Jerry got into
his truck. As he drove towards his house, he thought again about taking off. He
was guilty of a hit and run. His license was going to be revoked. He might even
end up in jail. Running wasn't really an option, though. He knew that. It
didn't make any sense. He had nowhere to go, and he didn't have any money. As
he pulled into his driveway, he knew that this might be the last time he would
be driving his truck for a while. Things were going to be a lot different for
him from now on.
Two hours later
John came home. Jerry was sitting in their darkened living room.
John came over
to him. "Danny is hurt pretty bad," he said. "He has a
concussion, some swelling around his brain, and a broken pelvis, but it looks
like he's going to be okay."
"Dad, I
have something to tell you."
"What's
that Jerry?"
Jerry's throat
was so dry he could hardly swallow. He looked down at his left leg. It was
shaking uncontrollably. Since coming home he hadn't stopped thinking of what
had happened, and what had to happen now. He was glad to hear that Danny was
going to be okay. He had hoped he would be. It made things better, but he was
still going to have to pay the consequences.
"I did it,
Dad. I'm to blame. I'm so sorry. It was me who hit Danny on the road today. I
swear I didn't know I had hit him. I was sliding all over the road. I heard a
bang. I thought I'd hit a post or something." He told his dad the whole
story, leaving nothing out. "I feel so bad. I don't know what to do. I
know I'm in a lot of trouble."
John sat back,
listening to his son. He already knew that it was Jerry's truck that had hit
Danny. On the way to the scene, he had stopped where the truck was sitting on
the road with the door open. He had seen the dent and the painted-over scratch
that hadn't been there yesterday.
"You're
right son. You are in trouble, and we're going to have to deal with it. I want
you to know, though, that I'm proud of you. It takes a man to face up to his
actions. You did the right thing. We'll go down to the station tomorrow morning
and do what we have to do. Whatever happens, I want you to know that I believe
you, and I believe in you. What I want you to do now is
to try to get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
Back to Top
"Here we
go again,"
He was sitting
in a company's reception area on the seventh floor of a high rise building in
downtown
This wasn't new
to
"It
shouldn't be too long now," she said. "Mr. Howe will see you
soon."
"Thanks,"
he drawled. He pushed back a large clump of flattened down hair that had fallen
onto his forehead. "I appreciate it."
The telephone
rang on the secretary's desk.
She turned to
face him. "Mr. Rider, my name is Jane Sinclair. I'm afraid Mr. Howe has
been delayed. He asked me to go over your application with you. Please take a
seat over here."
"Please
sit down," she asked.
He shuffled his
feet. "If it's all right with you Miss, I'd rather stand."
"I'd
really rather you sit, please."
The secretary
opened his file, and started going through it. Almost immediately she stopped.
She seemed to
steel herself. "I'm afraid we won't be able to go any further Mr. Rider.
The company has a strict policy about hiring people with criminal
records."
"Don't you
even want to talk to me?"
"No, there's
no point in it. I'm sorry, but this interview is over."
"Now
just a minute Miss. I have all
the qualifications that the job requires. I deserve the respect of an
interview. All I want is a chance to show someone what I can do."
"I'm
sorry, Mr. Rider. My hands are tied."
"Well I'm
sorry too, but I came to see Mr. Howe, and I want to see him. I'm willing to
wait as long as it takes."
The secretary
stared at him.
"My name
is John Howe," the first man said brusquely. "What seems to be the
problem?" The second man stood
beside him, staring at
"Well
sir," Jackson drawled, removing his hat once again as he stood up. I don't
want to be a bother, but I've come here for an interview with you. I'd like to
have one.
"I
understand your frustration young man, but as Miss Sinclair told you, we have a
strict policy about hiring people with criminal records."
"I
understand that sir. Perhaps if I told you a bit of my background, you might be
able to steer me in the right direction. I've made some mistakes, but I want to
get on with my life. I need a job to do that."
"I'm sorry
Mr. Rider. There's no point in wasting your time or mine. Let's not cause a
scene. I'm asking you to leave quietly now."
"What the
Hell. It's always the same."
"Just a
minute," the other man said. I'll escort you down the elevator."
"There's
no need for that,"
"I
understand that, but I'm coming with you anyway."
The two men
walked out into the foyer where they stood waiting for the elevator. The
company man never took his eyes off him.
When the
elevator arrived, they got on and the man pushed the down button.
"What
now?"
"Don't be
alarmed Mr. Rider. My name is Don Williams. I work here too. I'd like you to
come into my office for a few minutes so I can get a little more information
from you."
Don Williams.
That was the name of the guy Jerry worked for. "I'd just as soon leave now
if it's all the same to you. I've done nothing wrong here."
"This
won't take long." He released the button. The door opened to a foyer much
like they had entered on the floor above. "Come this way please."
Conditioned as
he was to authority,
Mr. Williams
closed the door. "Have a seat, Mr. Rider."
"I'd like
to hear a little bit more about you, Mr. Rider. Tell me why you applied for a
position with us."
"How's
that?"
"As you
know, I spent some time in prison. I kept pretty much to myself there. It's
pretty boring. When a job in the mailroom came up, I volunteered and got the
job. Over the next year and a half I learned a lot about office work. When I
was released, I signed up for the course at Haldane
to learn more."
"Why were
you in prison?"
"It's a long story Sir, but
the short of it is that I was a smart-ass kid who got unlucky."
"That
summer, after grad, a few of my friends and I drove down to
"I was
sentenced to four years in prison. Two years later I was released on parole. I
moved in with my father who had stood by me throughout my ordeal. I was scarred
by the experience, but I came away from it a better man. My days of fooling
around, and getting into trouble were over. Today, I have a burning desire to
get on with my life. I want to make something of myself."
"What's
with the outfit? You don't exactly look like a mailroom clerk."
"I'm sorry
you don't like my duds Sir. I've always dressed this way."
"No, no!
It's not that I don't like them. They're just different, that's all." With
that, he got up and walked over to his desk where he pushed a button on his
intercom. He asked someone named George to come to his office. "We'll soon
be done, but before you leave there's someone I'd like you to meet."
They made small
talk for the next few minutes until another man came into the office. "
"Alright,
I guess I can do that."
When he
finished, the two men looked at each other. A silent sign of approval passed
between them. "
"I can
probably do that,"
"Alright,
you're on the payroll. Be here tomorrow morning at
Over the next
two weeks,
The commercial
was a hit. The following month
One day after
finishing on the set, he wandered into Don William's office. He took a seat in
the same comfortable chair he had sat in the first time he had been there.
"HI
Jackson, what's up?" Don asked.
"I just wanted
to thank you again for getting me this acting gig. I'm having a ball.
"That's
good. I'm happy for you. You're doing well at it too.
"It's a
piece of cake. I can't believe how much cash you guys are paying me for what
I'm doing.
"How are
things going with you and Jane Sinclair? I hear you've been seeing each
other."
"Yeah, we
have. She's okay. She's a bit of a prude though. I don't think we're really cut
out for each other."
"Really, I
thought you two were hitting it off great."
"That's
just it. She won't take a hit. She came over to my place the other day. Jerry, and several other guys from the set were there. I
offered her a snort of the good stuff I had, and she wouldn’t take it. Matter
of fact, she wouldn't even stay. That's the second time she's walked out on me.
I don't know what's the matter with her. She doesn't
really understand who I am.
"I guess
that makes two of us, Jackson. I thought you were through with drugs. That's
what you told us."
"Yeah,
well the coke relaxes me, and I'm cool about it. I thought you would be
too."
"I don't
think so, Jackson. Now if you don't mind, I'm pretty busy."
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