some of it's true

Long johns, coveralls, ski mask, four heavy blankets, and I'm still cold. The worst part is initially crawling into bed. The mattress is as hard as a rock, and even with three pairs of socks, my feet are still freezing. Looking out at other apartments is incredibly frustrating because their lights shine directly through my window to remind me that they have power and I do not. It's already been two weeks of this, and I'm not sure how much more I can take. It's impossible to fall asleep, so my mind wanders until the bed warms up, if it does at all.

Finally, moving out of my mother's house on West Road on February eighth was a big deal. I'd listened to Billy Joel's 'Captain Jack' enough to know I had to take the leap at twenty-three because that was too long. My full-time management position at the Catfish House provided enough to handle rent and my Jeep payment, so there was no excuse. Luckily it was unseasonably warm for that early in the year, so my moving clothes were shorts and a T-shirt. Most of my belongings fit in the back of a borrowed truck, so the whole process only took about two trips.

Hauling my stuff up to the second floor at Hunter Chase apartments was quite a workout, but the thought of my newfound freedom was all the motivation I'd needed to finish the task. Thanks to the deposit and first month's rent, the checking account was empty until my next payday, but I wasn't worried. Working in a restaurant has benefits, so food isn't an issue. Moving is exhausting, but I wasn't about to stop until everything looked just as I wanted it.

My life as an independent bachelor was already off to a great start. My neighbors across the hall introduced themselves earlier and said they'd love to take a ride in my Wrangler with the top down this spring. I played it cool before shutting the door behind me and doing a happy dance. There's no cable yet, so I plopped on the couch to stare at a black tv screen and wonder why it took me so long to take the plunge. I'd be inviting friends over and entertaining dates at the new place in no time at all. "I may be broke, but life is good, and there's no stopping me now," I thought before taking a hot shower.

Anger rips the blissful thoughts away from my first day, and only good day, on my own so far. The satisfaction of tossing and turning isn't even practical because I'd have to start the whole warming process from the beginning. I'm sure my mom would let me come back home until this is over, but I'd promised myself that I would never go back once I was out on my own. Everyone else in my building must have skipped town because I haven't seen a soul since this started. I remember winters growing up on the farm years ago without heat in my bedroom, but at least I had an electric blanket then. I prefer a dark room to that damn light outside from the other apartments in my complex that had electricity a day after the ice storm. The manager even showed me a place on that side, but for some stupid reason, I picked this spot.

Who would have thought that the worst ice storm would tear through Clarksville since the fifties, leaving many without power for weeks? Tree limbs and power lines froze up, crippling the city that had just enjoyed springtime-like warmth the day before. Only a couple of us could make it to work, but we managed to open. All we needed to operate was gas, which worked fine, so we fired up the deep fryers and did our thing. We were pretty dead until I called Q-108 to let them know we were in business. Moments later, they announced that the Catfish House was open, and customers were beating down the doors for take-out within thirty minutes.

It's almost four in the morning, and I'm on the verge of losing my mind. Between watching that infuriating light and seeing my breath, my head will pop off. The power at the Catfish House was back on within forty-eight hours. "Screw it! I'll just go into work where it's warm and start prepping for the day," I yell out loud while gritting my teeth. Looking forward to sitting in the Jeep for thirty minutes warming up to the heater is common these days. If nothing else, the experience has taught me to enjoy the littlest of things like hot water from the faucet at the restaurant or breaking into a sweat while expediting food to a few hundred people.

As I swing my legs around to put my boots on, the most glorious thing happens. The sound of my heat kicking on and brilliant lights in each room signaled that everything would be okay. After mentally thanking God and the technicians who work at the electric company, I bumped up the heat and patiently waited for the water to warm so I could take a long bath. I sat in the tub for three hours that morning, once again thankful for my independence and planning new adventures.

Everybody is awkward at thirteen and unsure how to feel, think, or even comprehend what matters and why it counts. Some kids have issues talking to a cute classmate, while others have limited social skills altogether. No one ever explains there is no right or wrong way to approach life, and how we experience every breath should be up to each of us and no one else. Some people cry at a funeral while others may not shed a single tear, and there may even be that person who can't help but laugh in the middle of a miserable circumstance. None of those emotions are wrong or even correct; they're just real, and that's enough.
My greatest struggle as a teenager is connecting. All of my old friends from Cumberland Heights found their circle, and I'm searching for something, anything. Who knows why everyone scatters when they slip into middle school, but they do, and there's no way to stop it. Montgomery Central is like a different planet, and I'm lost somewhere floating above the atmosphere, attempting to conserve my oxygen. Luckily I've managed to remain close to my buddy Scott. We became friends when my mom watched him and his sister after school for a while. It worked out in the first place because I was thrown into an unavoidable situation with him. We didn't exactly hit it off, but things ultimately worked out because I saw Scott each day. Making new friends is terrifying.
Summer break is underway, and Scott invited me to a sleepover. It's fun going to his house because the air conditioning is excellent, and he has an Atari. Taking turns is supposed to work out under most conditions, but not so much for me regarding his game console. He'll play Frogger, Pitfall, and Asteroids for an eternity, and when it's finally my time, it's over in seconds. It could be the absolute most frustrating thing in the universe aside from meeting new people. More than likely, we'll sleep out in the camper tonight so we can sneak off somewhere and explore. Sometimes he'll stay at my house, and we'll throw a tent up behind the barn and camp. These little maneuvers keep us from getting caught when we're supposed to be sleeping. Our parents can't hear the sound of a door opening at midnight if we're already outside.
Scott's house is only two or three miles away, so the bike ride doesn't take long at all. When I turn off Mellon Road onto Bend Road, I can coast the rest. Going back isn't as much fun, but I'll worry about that tomorrow. After zipping down the driveway, Scott greets me outside with some news.
"Come on in, Chris. I want you to meet someone," he says as my excitement immediately morphs into fear.
"Who am I meeting?"
"You know Mike from school. He's staying the night with us."
Is he kidding! He can't just spring this on me like that. I didn't even have time to psych myself up for this. I'm doomed. "Sounds good, Scott."
After a brief introduction, the first thing we do is break out the Atari. Now I'm forced to take turns with two superior players; on top of that, I don't even know this guy. What a nightmare. This weekend has the potential to end tragically, and there is nothing I can do about it. My last friend all of a sudden has a new best pal, and I'll end up in a straight jacket confiding to myself about how I'm such a loser. I could go missing one day and won't even warrant a photo on the back of a milk carton because no one even knew I existed. We sat in the den for the remainder of the afternoon until supper. Both of them grow closer while I observe from a distance even though we're no more than a couple of feet apart.
Scott's parents took over the room after we ate and his little sister was off doing little sister stuff. It was dark anyway and time to make camp outside.
"Can we go yet?" I asked our group of three.
"No, we can't go. My parents are still awake," Scott uttered for the third time because it wasn't the first attempt I'd made to convince them. Mike offered his views on an early escape as well, but I'd already mentally turned his volume down.
"Let's go! It looks like all the lights are out," I insisted.
"Dude, they have to have time to fall asleep," Scott replied.
After a few more minutes of bickering, the coast looked clear, and we began our adventure on foot. A moonlit night offered to guide our path into the unfamiliar, and adrenaline started pumping. Anytime high beams popped up around a corner or from behind a hill to give us a warning, we'd yell, "Car!" and quickly retreat to a ditch or use a nearby tree for cover. No one in Salem is a stranger, so the last thing we need is to get busted by a neighbor who saw us wandering down the road at midnight. Not many automobiles whizzed by, but it was enough to keep us on our toes. We all bonded while pretending to be undercover spies or on the run from the law. Mike started to grow on me after discovering that he wasn't as dissimilar as I'd assumed.
By the time we made it down Mellon Road to the river bottom, deep conversations had taken over our expedition and proved to be enlightening. Of course, we weren't solving world hunger or cancer, but they were good talks for three kids attempting to figure out the world. Nighttime air, along with the sounds of wildlife resonating from the Cumberland to the ridge, can be inspiring if you let it.
My favorite discussions were always about who walked these paths before us. A bizarre feeling can take over when you consider strangers no different from Scott, Mike, or I probably did the same exact thing a hundred years before we came along. They had hopes, fears, and loves just like us three. And expectations of making a difference or maybe leaving a mark on the planet. None of them thought about tomorrow and felt immortal as they swung from grapevines over creeks and threw rocks into the muddy river water. Every generation has a shot at living forever, but that swift current is merciless and tends to scrub the banks before allowing reenergized feet to leave a print on the earth. There was a time that time belonged to those strangers, and we'll be the strangers soon enough.
"Hey, Chris. Would you eat a lizard for a hundred dollars," Mike asked.
I responded, "I'd eat anything for a hundred dollars."
Scott joined the conversation, "I bet you wouldn't take a bite out of your hand."
We all became close after that night. Realizing life is too short makes decisions a bit easier. The summer filled with new outdoor adventures, slinking into R-rated movies and wasting quarters at Funland. We never got caught sneaking out a single time, or at least none of our parents admitted to knowing. All I ever needed was a handful of buddies I could be real around, and that's enough. Now we can figure out the complicated stuff together because I don't think we are supposed to do that alone.

No more than five hours ago, I was warm and cozy next to my wife in the den. The glow of a brilliant fire lit up her soft face to remind me of the wisest decision I'd ever made. Dumb luck introduced us, but my hardheadedness won her over in the end. Occasionally she'd look up at me with her sleepy eyes and smile. Right then and there, I thought to myself, "Eddie, you could die today, and these few moments with your sweetheart would make life whole."
Never in a thousand years did I believe I would indeed die this very day. Patricia, my wife, pleaded with me to stay home. She warned me over and over that trekking out into a blizzard is treacherous, and I should have my head inspected. She calmed down once I mentioned that I'd stay close to the house and come right back if I got too chilly. It wasn't a fib at all. There's no telling how far off I wandered, but I didn't mean to do it. It's almost like something was calling me.
When I finally gave in to logic and turned around, I saw it through the trees and falling snow. A giant stag was looking in my direction and begging me to pack it tightly into my freezer for the winter. Maybe I was too enthusiastic to notice my hands were so numb I couldn't feel them. Heck, I didn't even acknowledge my trigger finger was already in position before I even aimed at the buck. Somehow I ended up shooting a big chunk out of the top of my leg.
As soon as the shotgun went off, I pressed my back against a tree trunk and slid down it so I could prop myself up to make my body easier to find. More than likely, It'll be my corpse an old farmer will stumble on in a day or two after the winter storm blows by. I can't feel anything aside from the strain to keep my eyelids open. The blood slowed down but not before soaking into the powder all around, forming a bed of red ice. My last thought was the delicate glow of Patricia's face before darkness eclipsed the vision.
"Good morning Eddie, It's nice to meet you. My name is Harvey."
Talking is useless. It was like being caught in a nightmare surrounded by ogres and incapable of screaming or running away. All my body can do is witness the circumstance as if I watched a character in a play from the audience.
"This is quite an exciting situation, Eddie. It looks like I have your undivided engagement, so I'll do all of the talking. There's no need to speak up because you can't."
My body was no longer in the middle of the woods outside of Clarkstown. Vision is limited, but I'd swear I was in some cheap apartment in the center of the city if I didn't know better. Busy street sounds broke through wood panel walls, and the pungent odor of rust stifled any additional aroma. The slim gentleman's breath would exit his mouth and stop directly in front of his face until he made a gesture. Then the translucent bubbles of air shadows shattered like glass and drifted away, like fragments suspended in time, unaware of gravity. Oily hair rested just above the bottomless darkness in place of his eyeballs, and the skin on his face was no thicker than silk stretched tightly covering a skull.
"I'm not who you think I am, by the way. My work is all freelance, so I have to take it when I can get it. Do you know what makes me want to curse Eddie? There always has to be a reaction to every action. Who knows who made that rule up, but we're all stuck with it. I'll have a target right there in my sights, unlike you a few moments ago, and before I can unload, the prey gets a little push, and it's game over. The real frustration comes into play when you realize the jerk who did the pushing has no idea they screwed me over, and it happens all the time. My mind is aware, and I know every step I'll take to meet my quota. Those freaks who give their naughty little nudge don't even know they ruined my day. So it's on to the next, and that brings me to you, Edward."
Harvey props his feet up on my lifeless body. "I bet you are wondering about the metallic fragrance hovering around that noggin of yours. It would be blood. Not yours nor is it mine, but the pesky scent tends to stick with me over time. Most clients never pick up on it, but you, Mr. Edward, are aware. Interesting. Would you enjoy a cup of hot tea?" Harvey places a steaming mug in front of me before yanking it away and continues, "Bless your heart, y'all don't drink this here hot tea in the south, do you, partner? Not to mention you're a tad bit paralyzed, and that never helps." The bony man flicks my beak to prove a point before moving on. "Regrettably, I can't smell savory blood myself because the tantalizing bouquet of desperation dominates my senses. Maybe I'm wired that way, or perhaps misery brings me more joy. Picture a starving alcoholic strolling right by a platter full of fried chicken for the open bottle of whiskey. The poor slub is hungry but never caught a whiff of the chicken. An alluring oak perfume infringed on reason instead. I'm the alcoholic Edward.
The room turned upside down and then inside out several times within a second. I never noticed Harvey exit, but I did see him re-entering with a dollar bill in his hand. "Let's cut to the chase, my paraplegic compadre! Everyone has a choice. You can freeze to death under a tree if you don't bleed out first, or you can shake my hand and live. It sounds like a no-brainer to me, bub, so how about it? Do you want to play snuggles with Pattycakes tonight, or do you want to be a tasty frozen treat for a Tasmanian Tiger? I know those beasts aren't in Tennessee, but I appreciate a decent alliteration. Contrary to popular belief, I have a conscience, so let's dissect the details. You will be giving me something in return, and generally, it would be an encounter with a descendant sometime in the future."
Harvey grins before sipping on his tea. "Between us two, you and your wifey can't have children. It's tragic, I know, and to be honest, it's your fault, buddy." Harvey leans in closer, "The little guy is shooting blanks, oh well. If you haven't guessed already somewhere down the line, one of your ancestors made the same agreement, and bam! Here we are. The good news is it won't be your kid because, well, you know." The mysterious fellow makes a gun with his fingers and shoots at me. "It appears to be empty, Edward. Shake my hand today; you'll return like nothing ever happened; I'll meet up with a relative, probably distant, and offer him a choice. An extra fifty years or so sound good, Edward, or do you want to go ahead and let fortune kick that bucket in the ass? Oh, good, I can feel you're coming around. All you have to do is shake on it. Go ahead, buddy; you can move it now.
A weight lifted from my arm, and the feeling returned to my fingers. Harvey reached out, and I shook on the deal. The dollar bill fell from his hand simultaneously and landed on my bloody leg. Afterward, my limb dropped like a chunk of lead, and once again, I was motionless. Harvey slid the currency into his front pocket and gazed at me for several minutes before finally speaking. "You'll know when your down to the final few years, Eddie. It'll eat at your gut like a ravenous piranha chewing its way out of there. You'll go to sleep thinking about death, and it'll be the first thing you envision when you awake. Oh, the rain, it'll mean you're down to the wire, my friend. Sorry, I can't simply give you a date. I'm supposed to be all vague and stuff; it's how this works, Ed."
Harvey stands, and the last thing he says is, "Clifford will love his inheritance." The ghostly figure evaporates, and I somehow return home. Patricia greets me at the door and tells me she's pleased I was only gone for ten minutes. My clothing is clean, and my leg is perfectly fine. I tell myself it was the right decision, but something is different; something haunts me.

The beauty of autumn in Clarkstown depends on how hot and dry the summer is leading up to it. June and July were so wet in '71 that the river flooded every inch of bottomland in the county. Most of the folks on the bluff could skip rocks right from their backyards, and rain is all they talked about on WJKM for two months. It's mostly dirt roads, and they were too muddy to drive over, so half the town had to walk wherever they needed to go. Not much changed for Ricky, though, because he rode his bicycle everywhere anyway.
Ricky got kicked out his first year of high school for fighting.....

"Ashlee, if you are attempting to kill your brother, you are doing a phenomenal job," I yelled as loudly as I could from under my pillow, endeavoring to pamper myself with ten extra minutes of sleep. Restaurant work is formidable, and the prospect of staying in bed on my day off tends to escape my fortune no matter how I try. "Kids will be kids," I ponder before screaming again, "Ashlee, Christian, come here!" The brother and sister duo whispered a few words of concern to one another before a mad dash to my bedroom. Ashlee comes to a screeching halt while her brother does his best before bumping into the short-tempered redhead. She gives him a look that reminds Christian he'll be paying for that later. Like two tiny well-rehearsed cast members from a sitcom, they immediately descend into character to depict their best blend of remorse and apology.
"I sure can't stay mad at you two. It's too bad you can't say the same for each other," The kids look down to conceal their grins unsuccessfully. "Hop up here, and I'll tell you a story." Christian lays beside me with his piece of cloth that was an entire blanket at one time and sucks on it along with his fingers. Ashlee decides a little distance is best and sits up with her legs crossed toward the foot of the bed. Storytime is special because God knows the seventy-hour work weeks never allow me to take these moments for granted. There've been occasions where I've spoken to or performed in front of hundreds of people, maybe more. But I'd erase it all from my memory if I could hang on to the sensation of sharing my tall tales with my audience of two. They're at the age where they'll believe anything, and if I can make stuff up to get them away from the tv for a few minutes, I'll do it every time.
"Dad, tell us about the time you saw the Bell Witch," Ashlee asked.
"I wanna hear about you shootin' Franky with the BB gun," is Christian's request.
"How about a new story?" I suggested. "It's one you'll never forget, but you'll both have to make me a promise before I share it with you. A remarkable friend gave me permission to tell the story to a couple of people I trust, and I trust my kids more than anyone else. If you can promise me that you'll keep the secret, I will tell you what happened." After a brief lull, they eagerly approved the conditions of my proposal. "If you have to go to the bathroom, go now," I suggested, but neither of them budged and urged me to continue. "Okay, this is what happened to me on my eleventh birthday."
That July heat was no joke on the sixteenth in 1982. When you live in a house with no air conditioning, the best time to sleep is somewhere between midnight and an hour or so before the sun makes its way past the horizon. A fan in the window felt pretty good whenever I'd turn over on my stomach. When the wind hit the sweat on my back, it provided a fleeting moment of relief before I'd have to move around again for the same sensation on the opposite side. Sizzling summers and frigid winters were all I knew, so I didn't think much about it. The smell of chocolate cake invaded the house and took my mind off the discomfort anyway. I ran into the kitchen to get a good whiff and maybe a frosting sample before the days' adventure.
"Get your finger outta there, Christopher," Mom demanded before grabbing the bowl of sticky excellence.
"I think I'm gonna go exploring for a little while before my party, Mom."
"That's fine but don't be gone long if you want to have cake and ice cream later."
"I won't," is all I said before tearing through the screen door and escaping into the woods in the backyard.
A peculiar chill caught me off guard as I pushed my way through the trees into the river bottom. It was especially strange because the sun was as radiant as ever, and the previous shade was several yards behind me by now. An eerie waft snuck up behind me and carried that cool sensation along for a ride, but I trekked on, making my way to the Cumberland River. The best thing about growing up on a farm is that you never have to plan an experience. Spectacular possibilities unfurl if you know where to search. It is, however, wise to let a little caution tag along because I'd seen more than a few water moccasins around the slough.
A tame breeze transformed into a violent gust, followed by another squall, and the temperature steadily dropped. Something in my stomach recommended that I needed to run toward the river, so that's what I did. Sometimes instinct is all we have, and I decided to trust it wholeheartedly. The faster my legs moved, the more challenging it was to dodge the enormous hail hurled down at me by some fantastic phantom force. White clouds descended from the sky to the earth, forming an impossible fog making my sprint more perilous. The rough ground didn't help, and I found myself face-first in the dirt every few feet. The sun was too afraid to show her face and offered her stool to the darkest sky I'd ever encountered. If the hole in front of me had been a cottonmouth, it would've bitten me because I fell right in and decided to hunker down to try and outlive the bombardment.
Fighting the impulse to peek, I sat in the pit with my face covered, waiting on the silence to signal a safe getaway. My mind eased as I remembered waking to the smell of a fresh birthday cake and the comforting sight of my mother. Even after the welcomed calm, my paralyzed body refused to cooperate until I sensed an icy kiss on the back of my neck. "It couldn't be," I thought before opening my eyes. A snowflake settled on my knee while more hovered around the space and ultimately decorated the crater. Climbing my way out, I had every intention of flying home as quickly as I could manage, but the universe had other plans.
"What do you guys think about moving storytime to the front porch?" I asked my frustrated children.
Christian's wide eyes fluttered, "You can't stop right there! What happened?"
"I'll tell you outside on the porch. Get dressed and meet me out there."
Ashlee encourages her brother, "Come on, Christian! The faster we get dressed, the faster we'll hear the rest."
They scurry away while I slip some shorts over my boxers and head out to the porch swing my cousin Herb made for the new house. Within seconds the entranced spectators take a seat on the ground while I relaxingly glide back and forth. These moments are invaluable, and the older I get, the fact that my memory will wither inspires me to snap a picture. After talking them into posing on the steps at the front door, we decided that was enough. "Now that I've forced you both to wait an astonishing three minutes, it's time to resume," I said playfully before picking up where I'd left off.
My eyes first settled on the top of the bluff overlooking the river bottom. It's typically where I'd see the only home I've known for the last decade, but to my wonderment, it was not there. For a flash, the only logic I could make out of my dilemma is that the storm took the old structure and body-slammed it while I hid away in a hole. Before I had time to trouble myself over the well-being of Mom, something else caught my eyes. The entire landscape morphed into a downright different portrait set in an entirely separate time. A village of miniature homes made of slender trees packed with mud adorned the hillside above the flat ground. The once-mighty Cumberland appeared to have shrunk and frozen solid enough to pass on foot. Snowfall enhanced my surroundings and etched an unforgettable panorama into my brain. While I'd never seen such splendor, my bare legs quickly reminded me I was freezing, and shelter was my only hope.
As hysteria started to consume me from the inside, I heard a compassionate voice and turned.
"I'm Minco. We knew you'd be here today," were the first words my new friend spoke before offering a warm blanket made from animal hide. "Follow me," he recommended, and I did without delay.
As we walked closer to the hillside, I introduced myself, and a conversation sparked. "I'm Chris; it's a pleasure to meet you, Minco."
"You are not very smart, Chris. You would have died out here dressed like that without my help." Before I could explain, the Native American carried on. "I know why you're here."
"Do you mind telling me why I'm here then?"
"I'll show you a few things, but it's up to you to figure out your reason for the visit, Chris." His words made little to no sense, but I smiled and consented before he invited me into his Choctaw winter home. The inside, warmed by a fire in the center of the room and insulated by various furs, looked cozy. Deerskins hung from the rafters to dry in the rising heat. The comfort level had my room beat by a long shot in frigid weather. Minco handed me a clay bowl full of dried meat and vegetables before we sat to talk.
"Where's your mom and dad?" I asked.
"They'll be back soon, but we have a few minutes before you leave."
"Leave? I just got here, and I have a lot of questions."
"Chris, my father said, 'most answers will surface naturally in time, and curiosity often leads down a path less attractive than where we started.' We have a short period. Maybe we should relish in good company and eat together before you go. It'll give you a chance to take something back more valuable than an explanation."
"What's that? What's more valuable?".........

Clifford dresses like he's a broken-down automobile some mechanic fixed up using old parts from three or four dissimilar models. Like the misshaped porkpie hat and Hawaiian print golf shirt, most of his clothes came from thrift stores. Even his khaki trousers and vintage black and grey saddle shoes are preowned. Everything Clifford possesses accompanies him at the pub somewhere between Mesquite and Las Vegas. It's one of several pitstops along the way to a new life in California. He manages to find the cheapest motel every time, a bar, and sometimes a hooker to spend the night with before heading out again. What a shame our traveler never makes it to The Golden State.

Clifford lived with his uncle for as long as he can remember. The old-timer had a morbid sense of humor, but Clifford grew callous to the remarks. He always swore to his nephew that he'd leave him a fortune when the jigs up, and each new year he told Clifford, "This is the year you'll get your money." Of course, he was always wrong, well, until he wasn't. Clifford finally received his inheritance in 1973, and it was not exactly a whopping amount of cash. Maybe one thousand nine hundred and thirty-three dollars was a lot to his uncle, but Clifford knew it would never get him very far. "The old fella had to play one last stupid joke on me," Clifford thought to himself. All of the money sat in a glass Mason jar for six months until it was time to leave that life.

"Hey, bartender. I'll have another rusty nail," Clifford insists with a slight slur.

The barkeep stops drying out glasses long enough to utter, "I have a name, buddy."

"Well, if you'll tell me your name, I'll even say please this time."

"What name did you have in mind, Clifford?"

"Now I'm wondering how you know my name. You are a strange fellow."

"It was a lucky guess, Cliff. Let's see if you can guess mine?"

"Do not call me Cliff. My uncle used to call me that, and he's gone now."

"Sorry Clifford, I always did like your uncle, always full of surprises. So do you want to take a stab at my name?"

"I'm beginning to see why the place is empty. You are crazy."

"Give me a name, and I'll give you a drink, my friend."

Clifford looks around the poorly lit room at the classic Hollywood movie posters covering the walls set in cheap frames. He notices Jimmy Stewart from one of his favorite childhood films. "I've always enjoyed the name Harvey."

"What a coincidence, Clifford. My name happens to be Harvey. You are quite the guesser yourself."

"Yeah, whatever, Harvey, I'll have that drink now, please."

"Sure thing. A little scotch and a little Drambuie, lovely. Here you are," Harvey passes the cocktail to Clifford.

A hush blankets the atmosphere while Clifford takes a couple of sips from his cold glass. A quick stop in Vegas is part of his plan to at least double the money left by his uncle. Half of it's already gone, so things aren't off to a good start. "All the girls were probably a bad idea," flashes through the middle-aged man's mind before a final gulp—memories of his dead relative flow in and out like an angry tide. Wasted years waiting on pennies in hopes of a fresh start torment his heart and taunt him because there's no way back. Clifford abandoned better decisions years before the death and blamed every mistake on his uncle. Our drunken drifter stands to leave, knocking the empty glass from the bar into the floor, shattering it on the concrete.

"No worries, Clifford. I was going to break that glass myself tonight anyway. You should stay a little longer and sober up before you drive. I'd hate to see you get killed before you make it to California,"

"I never told you where I was going," Clifford says, blaming his concern on the alcohol. "Besides, I'm at the motel across the street."

"The last thing I want to see tonight is you getting hit by a bus when you cross the road. Stay put for a bit longer."

Clifford glances through the window to confirm that he hasn't seen a single car pass by in several hours. "Yeah, whatever, I'll stay for a few more minutes."

"Good choice, my inebriated nomad. How about a game of chance while you wait? You might win big before you even make it to Sin City." Harvey grabs playing cards from beneath the bar and places them in two stacks in front of Clifford. "All you have to do is shuffle each deck separately, shake my hand and give me that crumpled-up dollar bill you were probably going to leave as a tip anyway. How about it?"

"Why not," Clifford uses every ounce of concentration he can muster to shuffle both piles and then awaits instruction.

Harvey holds out his hand from across the bar; a firm squeeze completes the gesture. Clifford snatches his hand away, feeling a sharp prick, but not before a single drop of blood lands on the currency. The bartender swipes the bloodstained note and apologizes for the acridity of his ring. "I've been meaning to get that fixed. A tiny cut never hurt anyone." Harvey's words dart around in Clifford's skull like a racquetball shot from a cannon. The entire space shrinks and expands a hundred times within two seconds until Harvey snaps his fingers and makes a comment. "Looks like I lost you for a second there. Ready to play?"

"What am I supposed to do?"

"You've already completed your part. Now it's my turn." Harvey lifts a card from the first deck to reveal the queen of hearts. "Nice, it looks like a little love is around the corner. A card from the second stack will tell us when you'll find the special lady. Hmm, three days from now, Clifford. You may want to purchase a new suit before then."

"Look, pal, this is ridiculous. I thought we were gonna play blackjack or somethin'. I didn't know you were some kind of fortune-teller. I'm good enough to walk across the street now." Clifford attempts to exit, and the room swirls, forcing him to take his seat.

"Wonderful, you changed your mind. I assure you I am no fortune-teller. Clairvoyants don't exist, but I am very much real. I'm unique, a genuine one of a kind, and quite popular in every corner of the world. It looks like your next card is a king. Oh my. I have to say; this one is concerning. It's misfortunate he's holding a sword—the little booger. It looks like we have another three to go with it. It means the third man you see will kill you the third time you see him. Don't worry about that. These things can take years.

"Okay, wait!" I'm confused."

"Stop overthinking the game, Socrates. All you have to do is listen and watch. It looks like we have another king. Oh my. Good for you; there's no sword this time. We dodged that bullet, didn't we, friend? Your final card is a seven! Lucky number seven, Clifford. Concentration is essential now, so look at me." Harvey hands his inpatient guest the final card and speaks, "Do not lose this seven of diamonds. As long as you keep it in the pocket of your chic tropical shirt, you'll have good luck. I'd say that is pretty special for a man headed in your direction. Remember the part about the third fellow who's supposed to kill you the third time you see him? If you tear this card in half on the final encounter, it'll save your life. Of course, there is a downside, gosh, there is always a downside to these things. Once you rip it apart, your luck is gone as quickly as the last prostitute you slept with two days ago. Sound good?"

Clifford gives Harvey a nod and walks toward the exit. On the way out, he bumps into two tired truckers who impolitely tell him to watch where he's going. Clifford ignores the men and heads to his motel to sleep it off. Dropping his keys before entering his room, he reaches for them, stumbles, and knocks his head on the doorknob. Rubbing his noggin, he mumbles, "Yeah, my lucks really turned around. Thanks, Harv." After finally entering the small room, he checks the knot on his forehead in the mirror before passing out on the rickety bed.

Within a couple of hours, unwelcome sunshine invades through the inadequately hung blinds waking Clifford from his nap. He splashes water on his face, grabs the stick of jerky he picked up in Colorado, and steps outside. While placing his snack into his shirt pocket, he notices the card and carelessly throws it on the ground. "That's littering, you know," he hears from behind before entering the office to check out. A leathery complected potbellied little bald man offers to return the seven of diamonds; Clifford takes it from him then places it back into his pocket with the jerky.

"Haven't you seen that commercial with the sad American Indian? I'm guessing you don't care. Where are you headed? I'll be in Vegas by tonight. Where can a man get a drink around here?" The stranger says without taking a breath.

Forgetting the first two, Clifford answers the man's final question. "I doubt it's open this early, but I had a couple of drinks across the street last night at that pub."

"Sounds like you had more than a couple. I don't see a damn thing over there." The tiny overweight man chuckles and introduces himself. "My name is Bob; it's the same spelled backward too. B-o-b that's called a palindrome, ever heard of a palindrome? It's pretty obvious with my name, but most folks don't realize the words ' racecar, ' ' radar, ' or ' Hannah ' are all palindromes. Weird huh? Where did you say you were headed?

After looking across the road, Clifford realizes Bob is correct when he sees a rundown billboard in place of the tavern.......

"Things are not looking good for the mighty Musketeers with thirty seconds left in the game and fifty yards. It looks like they've called a time-out. I want to take this opportunity to remind all of the fine folks who listen to WJKM that you can get your film developed over at Mr. Ken's Pharmaceuticals. That's right! Ken guarantees those pictures in one hour or less. It's not 1970 anymore, so step into 1978 and enjoy faster, more convenient film developing at Ken's Pharmaceuticals on Second Street right beside Frank's Diner. Pick up Grammy's meds and grab your photos from tonight's game in one easy stop. WJKM is the voice of Clarkstown, and I'm Chuck 'The Duck' Williams."

"Small towns are notorious for their enthusiastic hometown football fans. Anyone interested in the game is at the game, and that's everyone except for the old codger, Huffy McWhorter, who lives alone out by Byers Creek and hands out shoestrings for Halloween. Duck is a fine commentator, but the reality is that the only folks listening to the broadcast are Duck and the three people sitting behind him. Ken first opened the pharmacy in 1937, and all he talks about these days is how he spent more on that one-hour photo lab than he did on the entire shop back in the day. It takes all kinds to make up a little community like Clarkstown," says Tommy from his steel-framed single bed as his friend Stuart listens intently.

Stuart sits comfortably in Tommy's second-hand wheelchair by the bed as our storyteller takes a brief break.
"Tommy, dude, why did you stop? It was just getting good, man."

"You are not a surfer Stuart. And you're getting crumbs in my chair." Tommy swipes the Pringles from his friend and crunches on a couple of them."

"Yeah, well, you owe me two chips. You can't go and steal a fat kid's food without paying the consequences, ya know."

"Well, if you don't stop trying to do wheelies in my chair, you are gonna break it. Then you'll be carrying me to school." The two boys laugh at each other, and Tommy continues with his story.

"We're back, folks, and just in time. It looks like the quarterback is about to go down, which will end the game. No. Wait! He manages to release the ball, but unfortunately, the pass will be incomplete. I stand corrected! Little Tommy comes out of nowhere! Either I'm crazy, or that kid must have leaped seven feet into the air to make the catch! Boy, oh boy, this boy sure can run. Look at him go. Twenty, fifteen, ten, five, and TOUCHDOWN! The Musketeers win their homecoming game twenty-eight to twenty-four! What a catch, and man, no one even got close to that kid. I've never seen anyone run like that. The cheerleaders will line up to dance with the star of the game tonight."

Stuart leaps from his seat, "Wow, Tommy! That was the best story I've ever heard." He then reclaims his chips.

"Thanks, Stuart. I made it up just now."

"Dude, that's your superpower."

"Superpower? I've been in a wheelchair my whole life. Freaks like me do not have superpowers."

"Um, Tony Stark. He's in a wheelchair doofus. Oh, I forget, you don't like to read like us intelligents."

"I believe you are trying to say intellectuals doofus."

"I don't get it. You have the best imagination of anyone I know, but you always cheat your book reports. You'd make one hell of a writer. It's weird because you don't like to read. I just figured a good writer must be a good reader."

"Yeah, I don't know. Books are boring, to be honest. I have more fun making my own stuff up. I've never tried writing either. I doubt I'm that good anyway. You're the only slob that'll sit long enough with me to listen."

Stuart wipes the grease from his Pringles onto his shirt and says, "I may be a slob, but I have taste, and you are good. Those jerks who pick on us at school don't have your gift. Most of the guys who graduate class of 1979 will end up working at the factory by the summer. It would help if you got out of this town, Tommy. You need to forget everyone here and run away. For real. All of that extra detail about the radio guy and Ken. Who else thinks to do that crap?"

"How am I going to run anywhere, hotshot? Look at me."

"You can be so dumb for a smart kid. Okay then, you should write away. I mean, write far away from here."

"Wait, what? What did you say?"

"I know that sounded dumb, Tommy, so you don't have to pick on me about it."

"No, I kind of liked it, write far away. I like the way it sounds."

"Really? Cool! Anyway, all those jocks will have bad backs between getting hit so much and working on the assembly line. Their superpowers are gone as soon as they grab that diploma. But your powers will keep growing and improving forever, Tommy. All you need is a pen and notebook paper."

"I don't know, Stuart. Maybe."

"Well, whatever it is you are afraid of, you need to forget it. Tony was probably scared of the suit the first time he put it on, but he did it anyway, and BAM! Iron Man. I'm guessing he'd be more afraid of my mom, who will beat me if I'm late for supper, so I have to go. Think about it. Don't forget me when you build your fortress somewhere in the Alps. I can be your sidekick—later nerd face." Stuart lets himself out through the window and closes it behind him. Tommy sighs and ponders for a moment before reaching into his nightstand to pull out some paper and a pencil.

He stares at the crumb-covered wheelchair beside the bed. The contraption has felt like a prison his entire life. At this moment, he realized Stuart never saw the handicap. Instead, his friend only noticed the super-human abilities of his lifelong companion. Tommy's mind has always been free to explore and navigate far beyond the borders of his small town for as long as he can remember. He was the first man on Mars once, and the next day, he took advantage of an endless supply of oxygen as he rode dolphins beneath the sea. Recently he scored the winning touchdown and, before that, saved the prettiest girl in school from a burning building.

We're all trapped by something. Fear often holds each of us firmly and strongly suggests that routine is best. A pattern is safe, and we all deserve to live life stuck in some foreordained groove that's impossible to escape. Sometimes a pal like Stuart comes along to give us a slight nudge unknowingly. A push was all Tommy needed, after all, because he'd always known the intensity was there but ignored the feelings. "I guess Stuart is my radioactive spider," Tommy thinks to himself before laughing out loud.

The pencil rolls between Tommy's fingers as his vision builds velocity and vivid images assemble within his mind. A whole world materializes within his reflections like it has a myriad of times. Before, his expressions were seized by the cosmos and thrown into a cell for an audience of one. A lost story is a tragedy, so today, he'll step from his boundaries and escape along with his words. The pencil glides over the paper as if it takes on its own personality and forgets it's an instrument guided by Tommy. Sentences evolve, and paragraphs unfold while our hero uses his newfound ability to rework his perspective.

Tommy reads the first few lines aloud, "Write Far Away by Thomas Browning. The more my friend spoke, the further away my wheelchair appeared. It was almost like God's way of telling me that I didn't need it anymore. That piece of equipment has always defined me but not now because today, I learned that I have a superpower thanks to my best friend. My words will catapult me from Clarkstown one day, but until then, I'll use them to wander anywhere, and the only limitations are the ones I allow. Stuart breaks my concentration, 'I know that sounded dumb, Tommy, so you don't have to pick on me about it.' No, I kind of liked it; write far away. I like the way it sounds."

Nate has big plans to ring in the New Year, but he won't be seeing 1980. Like every December thirty-first, he'll thumb through the pictures around ten in the morning, eat his two eggs, and maybe go for a walk. Nate appreciates the scenery of an abandoned downtown, perhaps because there's a bond with the boarded-up buildings. Often he will ponder how a little love is all the empty spaces need, but no one has time to invest in the forgotten side of town. Sometimes it's easier to drive on by and look the other way. "Why folks are drawn to crowds never made sense to me," goes through his mind on most of the strolls. He'll end his celebration soaking in a hot tub that's too small for his body, but at least tiles are easy to clean. The only thing different about this thirty-first is that Nathaniel will send a bullet into his brain.

A beige rotary phone sits on top of the outdated phonebook that hasn't rung in over a year, and if you were to move it, you'd find a perfect outline etched in the dust. The thick yellow book rests on an Italian nightstand that's missing one brass toe cap that leaves it a bit wobbly. Nate's table is way too short for its purpose, but it's the best he could manage for something he never uses. His sink is full of dishes from last week, or maybe they're leftover from a month ago, who knows. Open cans of Van Camp's pork and beans decorate the tiny kitchen. Nate rents the basement from an older woman his mother's age. The only private area is the john, but it doesn't matter because no one ever visits anyway.

Each December, Nathaniel pulls out a stack of photos from his childhood. It's all that his mother, Maria, left him after drinking herself to death in 1942. That woman sure enjoyed her whiskey, and it all started on her fourteenth birthday, New Years Day, about a week or so after little Nate was born. His mother kept a bottle by her bed to start the day right. She was either passed out on the couch or drinking at the local blind tiger by noon. No one cared how old she was at the bar because she was a pretty girl and it's best Maria couldn't remember what happened while she was out on the town.

Nate's fondest memories of his mom occurred within sixty minutes each day at around ten in the morning. He knew all of the words to Old MacDonald Had a Farm by the time he turned three years old. It's the only song Maria knew, so that's what she sang while preparing a late breakfast. She attempted sunny side up, but the eggs were always scrambled by the time they hit his plate. Even though it was long ago, Nate remembers all of the details like yesterday. It isn't difficult to recall daily routines, especially when they're the best part and wrapped snuggly within an hour. His best friend was the shadow a lit candle provided before bedtime. Infinite conversations between Nathaniel and his silhouette furnished comfort before drifting away.

Nate presses the round rubber plug into the drain and allows the water to trickle while he reflects one more time before the evenings' climax. The Colt is loaded and strategically placed within arms reach on the toilet seat as he heads to the couch and plops down. A streetlight shines through the tiny mud-covered ground-level window to provide enough light for the aged photographs. Life began in a dark place for the poor guy, and it'll end the same way. Fifty years of solitude, fifty years of despair, and fifty years of anger will conclude shortly. An inevitable end is an unfailing outcome with no purpose, spark, or reason. A wave to his shadow and a wave back is all the reassurance needed before his bath.

An unfamiliar sound interrupts the somber ceremony and catches Nate off guard.

"RING!" Shocked, he sprints to the telephone knocking the receiver onto the floor.

"Um, hello, this is Nate."

"Hello Nate, my name is Jude, and I'm with a group called Restore. We're a nonprofit organization looking for volunteers."

"Wait, what? Why did you call me? How did you get my number?"

"Well, to be honest, I've been calling folks all day, and I was about to give up. Who'd of thought asking people to do hard labor for free would be so challenging? Anyway, I lost my temper and threw the phonebook onto the floor. It just so happens the darn thing opened up to 'N,' and I saw your name."

"Look, Jude, I'm busy right now."

"Hang on; I'm not finished with my story. My pop was a preacher, and he once told me that the name Nathaniel means 'gift from God,' which is precisely what I need right now. I know Christmas is over, but I could use a present from the big guy. Did you know that? You are a gift from God, Nate, so if you don't help me, no one will. Without support, the project is over before we even start."

"Project? What project."

We've spent years raising cash to fix up all those ancient buildings downtown. Our goal is to bring a little life back to the area, like a second chance, you know? Can you use a hammer, Nate?"

"Well, yeah. I do part-time maintenance over at the plant a couple of days a week."

"Before you jump at this offer of a lifetime, you'll need to know that it is strictly volunteer, and I'll pretty much be your shadow whenever you show up. It could be years before we're finished, and we'll be talking on the telephone most days. Sound good? Nate? You still with me?"

"I can start tomorrow."

"I think the phone messed up for a sec. It sounded like you said you'd start tomorrow. I was expecting you to hang up like everyone else."

"I'll be there. Downtown?"

"Yep, can you meet up with us at about eight?"

"I'll be there at seven-thirty."

"Perfect! We'll see you then. Oh, Nate, I knew I had a good feeling about you. Everyone can use a gift from God from time to time. See you later."

Nathanial's mother probably had no idea what the name meant when she gave it to her son. Someone with a plan likely chose it. She saw the boy as a curse instead of a gift. It makes sense if you think about it because it's problematic to see in the dark. Nate reaches under the sink for a garbage bag and begins to collect the cans that litter the kitchen. "I've got to get this place cleaned up before I go to bed. Tomorrow will be a busy day," Nate says to himself.

My sophomore year at MCHS gave me a gift I'd cherish for a lifetime. Prior to the tenth grade, I invested many waking hours in pursuit of coolness. The goal of acceptance seemed within reach many times but faded away before I could secure my grasp. It always felt like I had something to prove, but that something remained a mystery and with good reason. My epiphany struck me as hard as Rocky pounced on that Russian dude in the fourth film. There was no reason to establish any kind of reputation because I'd finally grown to accept my 'dorkhood.'

I embraced my newfound freedom as tightly as Mrs. Dinsmore gripped that paddle three years ago before my feet left the ground. Sure, many kids didn't appreciate my vision, but maybe they weren't supposed to be part of my energy. No one can afford to constantly pretend outside of a play because that lifestyle comes at a high price. The friendships I pursued were unique and authentic. No doubt other circles felt the same, but I was a square peg, and my secret motto became 'Dorks Unite.' It's possibly the silliest thing my mind ever cooked up, but it enabled me to sleep at night.

Tonight is the big night! We've rehearsed for 'Hey Teach' every day after school for more than a month, and we're as ready as we will ever be. Most of the cast has gathered in the art room for makeup before the big show. Mike and I can barely hold our composure as some of the girls apply our heavy eyeliner while Mrs. Todd oversees the whole ceremony. All year long, Michael and I made a competition out of every speech in class. The goal was to see who could be the most absurd and still get an A. English was one of the few courses where I could give him a run for his money.

The manly hug from Rob shook me a bit earlier, but I'd grown used to his overabundance of affection, and the injuries were only minor. It's kind of strange to see my buddy Scott in the play. I'm not sure if I convinced him to do it or if he got bored whenever the rest of us signed up for this stuff and decided to join in on his own. All the ladies seem smitten with Frank, the foreign exchange student. I've tried out a German accent, but it never got me anywhere with the females. We have a pretty good cast this year, and everyone knows their lines. I'll never forget all the fun we've had leading up to the special evening.

My biggest obstacle is pretending to be a bully. It's challenging to threaten Tammy because she is exceptionally friendly whenever I run into her. Each time I attempted to intimidate other cast members at rehearsal, I immediately felt the urge to apologize. The true thespian in me eventually managed to shine through in the end. Being the bad guy may not have been my ideal role, but I made the best of it like everyone else. It all reminded me of the lesson I'd learned months before and cemented my belief that we're all better off being ourselves.

The best part about today is that all of us showed up. We arrived ready to do our best, and the experience of working together would last a lifetime. Who knows what the future will bring, but we all share a bond at this moment, and that's priceless. Now that Stacy, Jennifer, and Tammalyn have complimented me on my lipstick, it's time to terrorize my classmates under the lights on stage. Hopefully, they all recognize how much I care about each of them. Perhaps I'll write it all out one of these days when I have grey hair and back problems. I can't tell them now, well, because that's just weird. Dorks unite!

The machine rumbles and sputters as the last bit of clean oil escapes through the hose into the deep fryer at the Catfish House. After placing the handle securely onto the filter machine, I roll it out of the way and walk toward the back door to look outside before checking the dining room. A bizarre warm breeze touches my face while pushing against the metal door. "It doesn't feel like January," I think to myself as I head toward the front of the house to send the remaining servers home for the evening. We all advise one another to stay safe as I lock up the doors and head home myself.

If there is one thing you can depend on in Tennessee, it's that you can't depend on a weather forecast. Everyone is saying things could get sketchy tonight, but if I had a dime each time those rumors bounced around, well, I'd have a lot of dimes. We can have snow on the ground one day, and within twenty-four hours, it's sunny and eighty degrees. If the weatherman calls for snow, not one flake falls to the ground, but we get six inches if the forecast is clear. Go figure. I'm not nervous about the storms, and normally I sleep like a baby during a good rain, so bring it on. The rest will do me good before a busy Friday at the restaurant.

The wind picks up as my head hits the pillow, and several flashes of light beam across the sky through my bedroom window before I plunge into a deep sleep. My last thoughts were that I'd seen this a hundred times, and there would be nothing to worry about tonight. Snug and cozy underneath my covers, I'm unaware of Mother Natures' plan for my small community. Her intentions will change the face of our downtown forever and steal over a hundred years of history while I dream.

Eerie echos of sirens blared beneath the howling winds swirling down streets, around brick buildings, and through the ridges of Clarksville. Trees began to bend while cracking wood sounds encompassed hillsides leading to the river bottoms. Muddy water from the mighty Cumberland rises and falls as it crashes against its banks, leaving behind debris only to seize it once again to sacrifice to the current. Stoplights swing violently over Riverside's empty streets, signaling that more is in store for the early morning. Trash waltzes around barren parking lots up and down Madison Street shooting into the atmosphere before descending, never touching the earth. A hush interrupts the spectacle; bushes are static, and the river rests for only a wink while the whistling wind relaxes. He is here in the stillness.

Serenity soon reveals the ghostly whisper of an approaching locomotive descending from space in all directions. The last train to Clarksville extends as wide as nine football fields and hastens toward its mark at two hundred miles per hour. The earlier performance was a delicate ballet compared to the approaching terror preordained to take hundreds of passengers on their final pilgrimage. Roofs soar into the sky as if an invisible angry giant had nothing better to do before sunrise. Brick buildings crumbled as easily as a temperamental five-year-old could knock over a pile of Lincoln Logs. Objects rip across the ground, piercing, mangling, and disintegrating dreams and achievements. The roar of the phantom engine vibrates darkness itself, leaving behind mounds of rubbish in place of gorgeous architecture.

Loose rubble falls from broken church walls closing the curtain on the final act of havoc in the twilight. The spirit steam engine dissipates but not without proof of its descent onto five blocks. Like many others in our small city, I'd soon wake up to the news of chaos and devastation. I'd hear how an F-3 struck downtown, and the aftermath looked like photos straight out of World War Two bombings. "We were lucky that tornado hit at 4:15 in the morning," would be the popular notion. People would say, "Had that thing struck later in the day, hundreds could have died." That stillness before the annihilation was something more significant than Mother Nature. Not a single soul boarded the train on January 22nd, 1999, and it had nothing to do with chance. Miracles emerge from silence, and God does his best work before we even see the storm.