Chapter Seven: The Adventures of an American Misanthrope

With Robyn sitting beside me on the porch, drinking her coffee, and looking out at the ocean, I admitted to myself how insanely comfortable we had become with each other given that our relationship was just a couple of weeks old. I chalked that up to both of us being in our mid to late forties and needing adult companionship. Compared to her, I was a basket case as far as personal relationships went since I had played the lonely divorced bachelor for years.

My biggest fear was doing something really stupid by getting to serious far too soon. Robyn on the other hand seemed at ease with everything from sleeping over at my place to having me get heavily involved with her dog, Max, which was unnerving in its own right. Robyn was twice divorced and the best I could tell was that she took our relationship in a purely casual manner. All I could do was follow her lead and take things really slow. But God help me, at night when we are bed I know there were real feelings developing between us.

With the implications of my new and serious relationship bouncing inside my head, I suddenly felt the need to get some air. Luckily, Robyn's dog was still on the porch looking at us as if we were both crazy so I decided to use him as a way to get out of the house.

“Robyn,” I said putting down my coffee cup, “how about I take Max for a walk and once we get back I take you out for a fancy breakfast.”

She was taking a long sip of her coffee as I spoke and I must admit seeing her night shirt cling around her body made me think of a far different activity. “Sounds great,” she responded after setting her coffee cup down killing the urge for us to return to the bedroom. “I could use a good breakfast before I get back on the computer and work for a couple of hours.”

Minutes later I have Max out on the beach doing his very best to break free. “Sorry Max old buddy,” I said to him knowing he couldn't answer back. “I just needed some time to clear my head about how I feel about your mama.”

Max, much to my amazement, took a break from sniffing the sand and turned his head towards me. The look on his face could have meant a lot of things. But in a totally weird way I knew it was something to the effect that I should tread carefully when it came to Robyn. We walked on allowing me to replay how she entered my life.

***

Blame it on a stupid and irrational instant infatuation, but as I sat on the steps of my newly rented beach house for at least an hour waiting for the mysterious brunette and her dog to reappear. Being a forty-seven year old divorced man who had spent far too much time in a self-imposed monkish lifestyle probably explains why I was acting like a clumsy, lovelorn teenager. Making matters worse, as I sat on the weathered wood of the step memories of doing something painfully similar when I was thirteen during a family vacation down at Edisto Beach took center stage in my mind.

The Edisto Girl, whose name was the one thing that failed to resurface, was at least a couple of years older than me. Earlier that day we had bumped into each other at the local grocery store as I was buying stuff my mom needed for making dinner that night. Being that the store was literally a block away from the beach it allowed a far more casual dress code for its customers. Wearing a stylish at the time bikini and with her blonde hair tied back into a long ponytail, the churning male hormones in my brain instantly responded sending urgent messages down to my nether regions. The physical result was, needless to say, quite uncontrollable and totally embarrassing.

As we bumped into each other everything I was carrying fell to the floor. After that my memories became a blur of sensations from the softness of her skin where we touched to her smile that came damn close to giving me a religious experience. As we both bent down to pick up the dropped items, she made some offhand remark about me being cute and then walked away. Being thirteen, I took the remark as a declaration of true love and spent the next several days convinced I had a chance with her. Which at that age what exactly that chance meant was still largely hazy.

Sitting on the steps of that Pawleys Island beach house, I suddenly remembered the final result of that long ago teenage crush. After wracking my brain for several days to think of a way to talk with her all my hopes came crashing down when I saw Edisto Girl making out with a guy closer to her age behind the video game arcade. At least I had a couple of friends who made sure I didn't think too much about my stillborn imaginary romance.

After reliving the sad echos of that crush, I realized how stupid it was for me to repeat a similar behavior at my age. More to the point, the mystery woman chasing her dog was probably married or at least seeing someone, a thought that was tantamount to a kick in the balls. But I'll be damned if I didn't feel some sort of instant connection after making eye contact with her. Feeling chagrined, I went back up the stairs and into the beach house telling myself that the last thing I needed to do was make a fool of myself with yet another woman.

The next couple of days I made a point of keeping myself busy. The first item on the daily agenda was attempting to get into the habit of jogging every morning. I was more than a little overweight and with no money worries nor need to force myself to conform to a bogus society, like keeping a job, concentrating on my health and fitness was a perfect activity. To assist with that lofty goal, a run to the nearest grocery store, one of the fancy upscale types, later that day had me buying numerous health items like fruits, vegetables, and plenty of chicken and turkey for lean healthy meals.

While I intellectually understood what I needed to do, the next morning I slept late and skipped the whole affair. Matters were made worse when I did get up my breakfast consisted of a huge stack of pancakes overflowing with maple syrup at the restaurant right next the expensive grocery store I bought all the super healthy items.

The next morning I did at least get up and attempt to jog. Quickly feeling the effects of my years as a couch potato cooped up in a dingy apartment, I instead walked for an hour. When I got back to the beach house, I called that one a win and collapsed on the couch and took a nap.

The afternoons were another challenge, with nothing requiring my attention or time I found it difficult to not fall into the routine that dominated my divorced lifestyle back in Quincy. On my third morning in the beach house I spotting a person out on the ocean paddling a kayak that gave me the idea to buy one of my own. Whose purchase had striking similarities to the one of my new truck.

The saleslady showed me all the high end kayaks and cool gear and unlike the overly fashion conscious truck salesman, I bought everything the lady suggested. Her sale included the ultra comfy deluxe seat, carbon fiber paddle, bright orange life vest with the attached gizmo that flashes so the Coast Guard could find my dumbass at night, and survival backpack stuffed with neat items should I decided to get shipwrecked and play Robinson Crusoe.

Eager to tryout my toy, I rushed back to the beach house, put on my high tech life jacket and was paddling out into the ocean just minutes later. Oh, it was so easy to get into the feel of adventure and freedom and I continued paddling out far longer than a novice should dare. What brought me back to my senses was noticing several rather large jellyfish near the surface of the water. Having the basic knowledge of such creatures, I decided to slowly paddle out of their area fearing I might overturn and get really intimate with them on a far too personal basis.

That was when I noticed the thunderstorm coming from the west. The menacing dark clouds seemed to stretch across the entire sky as I continued to gently turn my kayak around then proceeded to try and race the jellyfish back to shore. That's about the time I saw the dorsal fin breaking the surface of the water to my left on a direct intercept course for me. As my arms worked the double edged paddle for some strange reason I was hit with the bizarre desire to watch the movie Jaws and then dig out the old copy of Old Man and the Sea from my storage box.

“Hello Mr. Shark,” I said to my new toothy friend as it fell in alongside my kayak. “Out for an afternoon swim?” I asked as the urgency to get my ass back on dry land increased exponentially. It wasn't just the shark that was making me paddle faster, the evil looking thunderstorm was drawing closer to my area almost as if the jellyfish, my toothy friend, and it were in a rush to play an elaborate practical joke on any fool on a small boat way too far out on the ocean. As I paddled, visions of tragic television news flashes began forming in my head.

“How about this one Mr. Shark,” I said to my swimming companion. “Stupid winner of the Gigabucks Lottery washes ashore half eaten and sporting thousands of jellyfish stings.” Mr. Shark was silent, a sign that I took to mean he was carefully considering my creativeness.

“Oh this is a good one, Gigabuck Lottery winner struck dead by lightning just as soon as he steps ashore from an ill-planned afternoon kayak excursion.” I offered to my shark friend. This time Mr. Shark bumped my kayak, I couldn't tell whether it was from liking my new suggestion or not but in truth I didn't want to know.

At some point the jellyfish had wandered off, no loss they were snobbish pricks anyway. But I was quite surprised to notice Mr. Shark stayed with me up until I was in about a foot of water. Just as the bottom of my kayak bumped the sand, it turned around and headed back out to sea. “Thanks buddy,” I called out to it as I hastily jumped off my toy and dragged it back onto land.

I didn't know quite what to think when Mr. Shark energetically trashed its rear fin as it headed back out to deeper water. Was it a dignified “your welcome and thank you for the conversation” or just frustration that the hairless and largely clueless primate didn't do anything quite stupid enough to end up an early dinner for it and the rest of the local ocean food chain?

Optimism hadn't been one of my strong points since the divorce. But as I sat on the warm sand feeling the first drops of rain begin to hit my head the thought that I had finally had a decent workout did bring a smile to my face.

With the jellyfish giving up early, and Mr. Shark apparently not in the mood to try and make me a meal, the incoming thunderstorm deciding not to give me any shit and fizzled out before reaching my location. I used the opportunity to drag the kayak underneath the beach house and secure it to one of the embed pylons the structure was built on top. After getting cleaned up, I decided to reward my workout and corresponding brush with ocean life by grilling one of the really expensive steaks I bought from the fancy grocery store.

From the day of my arrival the propane-fueled grill included with the beach house was a source of wonder for me. Made of stainless steel, it had six main burners, with two additional ones on each side. Somehow it looked sleek and mean and as I raised the cover and ignited the burners a thrill went through my body I couldn't explain. Not to sound like an insensitive male pig, but the excitement going through my head seemed on par with how some women react at the sight of a perfect pair of shoes.

Whatever the case, when I dropped the ten ounce Kansas City Strip on the grill the sound of the meat sizzling was like a multitude of angels singing in heaven. For a couple of glorious minutes I watched the meat cook while whispering a profound thanks to the cow that lived a dreadful life and suffered through a horrific death for my pleasure and sustenance. After precisely adjusting the grill temperature settings, I walked through the screen-in section of the porch and into the house to make a salad and microwave the potato that would join me for dinner along with that beautiful piece of meat.

I'm not sure what caught my attention but as I was washing lettuce a profound disturbance in the Force rippled through my mind, body, and soul. I quickly walked back to the doorway where the screen-in porch joined the rest of the house and saw Mystery Lady's German Shepherd standing on its hind legs while it used its front paws to pull my precious steak closer to its drooling mouth.

“Get the flying frak away from my meal you mangy mutt!” I yelled at the dog who briefly looked over at me before going for broke and using its mouth to grab the steak. Before I could get back outside the dog was running down the stairs and onto the beach with my expensive steak.

A better man might have let it go, by that time my fascination with the Mystery Lady had faded with me resigning myself to the idea it was just another hopeless fantasy. But dammit, I had earn that steak and I was sure as hell wasn't letting it go easily. So I gave chase, fueled by the gross injustice of the situation my reality narrowed down to the gold and black, four-legged furry criminal in front of me. But in hindsight my chase was just like a dog who foolishly goes after a car, if in fact I was able to catch Max I had absolutely no idea what I do next. It wasn't like I could take back my half-cooked steak and eat it like I planned. But as I ran by amused and puzzled residents of the small island the endgame didn't really matter.

The section of Pawleys Island I was staying consisted of three rows of beach houses. The first was situated on the ocean itself, the second was naturally set in the middle between the two streets running the length of that section of the island. The back row looked out upon the marsh running between the island and the mainland. Max the steak stealing canine centered his attention on one of the houses next the marsh and bounded up the raised steps and through a busted section of the screen door disappearing from view.

By the time I made it to the house and up the steps my body was sending urgent messages about imminent failure to my brain. With my remaining energy, I knocked on the screen door unable to see anything inside the house. There was no immediate answer but in the background I thought I heard sounds of paws running up steps.

“Dammit Max,” I heard what I assumed was Mystery Lady's voice coming from a second story window, “just what trouble have you caused now! Oh my God, where in the hell did you get that steak?” She finished asking what I assumed was a rhetorical question. I wasn't judging, hell I had carried on a conversation with a shark earlier.

I knocked again and heard something whispered from the second story window and then footsteps coming down the stairs. By now the anger was gone replaced with a renewed interest in the Mystery Lady. The absence of a male voice from inside the house had given new confidence to that small portion of my brain that clings desperately to lost and hopeless causes. Of course, a more cynical portion of the squishy gray matter between my ears suddenly became active reminding me that just because no husband or boyfriend was currently present wasn't proof he didn't exist. Adding insult to injury, the cynical part of my brain then added that if Mystery Lady turned out to be single there was no rule that said she would be interested in me.

As I inwardly cursed my own thoughts sabotaging my self-esteem Mystery Lady appeared at the door.

“Hi,” she said before gasping. “Oh my God, you're the guy Max slammed into on the beach a couple of days ago. I guess the steak he's chewing in the living room is your? I'm so sorry, I was working upstairs and didn't realize he had busted out of the house.”

With Mystery Lady standing in front of me, I naturally found myself unable to speak. It took a force of will equal to anything I had ever done before to just nod my head yes. At least time seemed to stop to allowing me to gather my few wits. She looked to be in her forties and a touch above average height. Her shoulder length brunette hair went well with her brown eyes that seemed curious and maybe even welcoming. As far as weight went, I could tell she had a much better body fat index than me, almost to the point she could be called athletic. But most of all, I saw she wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

“Yeah, Max is guilty on both counts, but it's okay.” I said finally. “My name is Jason Lance by the way.” I added suddenly.

“Can I pay you for the damage and trouble he caused?” Mystery Lady asked making a motion to turn away but not breaking eye contact with me.

A ridiculous image of the cynical part of my brain looking like my ex-wife appeared in my head. It was laughing and saying I was about to totally screw things up with this woman. That's when I decided to go for broke.

“Actually no, I'll forget about the whole thing if you met me some place for dinner tonight. Of course, after I go back to my house, turn off the grill, and change into clothes that are only slightly more presentable than the dirty things I'm wearing now.”

Mystery Lady laughed, “Sure I'd like that a lot. In fact, I'll pick you up at your place in about an hour, okay. There's a nice Italian restaurant I've been wanting to try.”

“Awesome!” I said with the enthusiasm of a stupid teenager. “I live at...” I started to say.

“I know where you live, Jason Lance,” Mystery Lady said. “ I saw you unload your kayak earlier this afternoon and paddle out.”

“Oh okay, I'll run home now and get ready.” With that we said goodbye for now and I began walking home.

“Hey Jason Lance,” Mystery Lady called out from her busted screen door. “My name is Robyn Egan by the way.” She finished giving me the warmest smile I had seen in a long time. Again feeling that teenage curse, I waved and tried laughing at myself.

Chapter Six: The Adventures of an American Misanthrope

The sun was just rising above the horizon when I stepped out onto the screen-in porch overlooking the ocean. With a fresh cup of hot coffee in my hand I carefully took a seat in one of the patio chairs to watch the day begin. There is something magical about waking up next the ocean, even with several dozen disgruntled seagulls ominously circling low in the sky seemingly practicing for the remake of the Alfred Hitchcock movie that turned them into horror movie characters. I tried not to look down upon the winged beasts bitching amongst themselves as they nipped each other while looking for a seafood breakfast. They were just answering the call to the instinctive behavior programmed in their genes. Humans exhibit quiet similar actions on a regular basis and we're supposed to be intelligent creatures.

Nothing shows how little humans have advanced beyond their feathered counterparts than watching people inside a modern grocery store. Step into one during the early evening when all the good folks are desperate to get their way before anyone else and you can't help but wonder why our species hasn't nuked itself into oblivion. Sitting in my comfortable chair, sipping some seriously high class coffee while enjoying the view, I forced myself to think of something else.

The first thing I could concentrate on was my temporarily sidelined journey of self discovery. A little over a month has passed since my trusty and faithful companion for years had suddenly died on the side of Highway 17 heading towards Myrtle Beach. Naturally I'm speaking of the truck I had owned since the late-1990's. After finishing my dinner and leaving Georgetown, I was ten miles south of Pawleys Island when the engine suddenly seized up. Momentum allowed me to pull over to the side of the road and get clear of traffic but the grinding noise I was hearing suggested she wouldn't easily move again after stopping. After lifting the hood, the light of my flashlight revealed a bloody mess with oil covering almost every possible surface. Given my truck's age and current condition, it didn't take a certified mechanic to realize my old friend was a total loss.

One of the things my attorney, the mysterious but highly capable Jim Lund, insisted upon when he learned of my desire to go on an open ended road trip after winning forty-two million in the lottery was that I join some sort of auto club. Luckily, I didn't disagree and after calling customer support about thirty minutes later I was rewarded with the flashing amber lights of a wrecker pulling in front of my now deceased truck.

This lead to me meeting a guy by the name of Woodson Reed Pickles who drove the wrecker that towed my truck to the dealership where I was planning to buy another vehicle first thing in the morning. Right from the start, Woodson seemed the stereotypical southern redneck with a heavy drawl which previous experience always suggested someone who might be unsure whether the Earth revolved around the sun. This being the American South where suspicion of science and intellectuals is so ingrained into the regional DNA, it is depressingly easy to find people who take a particular pride in their ignorance of the world. His appearance only reinforced my bias, dressed in cutoff jeans and a work shirt stained with enough grease and oil for it to be classified as hazardous waste, I expected the man's greatest accomplishment to be his collection of NASCAR champion autographs.

As Woodson pulled his wrecker into traffic heading towards the dealership, I learned two vital lessons. The first being I am still an assuming self-righteous prick and that the saying “you can't judge a book by its cover” is a tired cliche because it is often true.

Turns out Woodson was once a high rolling investment analysis for one of the banks that went extinct around 2008. Caught up in the irrational enthusiasm of the fatally flawed American housing market like most others in his profession, Woodson only saw the handwriting on the wall at the last minute. Financially, he didn't quite lose everything but his personal causalities did include his self respect and a wife who remarried one of the wealthy survivors of the Great Recession. After spending a couple of years on the road like I was planning to do, Woodson eventually returned home to South Carolina and took over his father's businesses, which included the wrecker service, after the man passed away. After telling Woodson the nature of my similar marital woes and how I was getting the hell out of town, we were instant best friends and spent the better part of that night drinking beers at a local bar. Although, I didn't feel the need to tell him about winning the lottery. I just said I had inherited a chunk of money and was using it to finance my travels.

After the bar closed I was dropped off at a motel to get some sleep. When what passes for me as consciousness returned, I phoned and had a rental car delivered so I could head down to the Ford dealership. It was early afternoon when I stumbled into the ultra clean and bright showroom lobby to deal with my dead truck and to begin the process of buying another.
The first stumbling block was that I found myself suffering from the same type of assumptions that I had cast upon Woodson. For a couple of minutes I was alone until the salesman on duty walked back into the showroom. Just by chance, I caught sight of him before he could sneak back to wherever he'd been hiding. A dapper looking individual dressed in a pastel colored suit and sporting abnormally large cuff links, he gave me one of those looks of disgust people express when their cat brings home a dead mouse.

I wasn't immune to the irony that Mr. Fashion Conscious Salesman was probably basing his assumption on the fact that I was now wearing wrinkly cargo shorts, an old surfer t-shirt, and my comfy Jesus sandals. Minus the grease and oil stains Woodson had on his work shirt, our dress code was remarkably similar. With some coaxing though, I got the man to check my account balance so he could be assured helping me was not going to be a waste of his time. About ten minutes later the salesman returned to the waiting area, his change in attitude was so extreme my neck and back hurt from the metaphorical whiplash.

With all the assumptions taken care of the problem became all the tricked out four-wheel trucks he was trying to get me to buy. Models with near monster-sized tires and raised three and four feet off the ground loaded with survivalist accessories that suggest someone is expecting a zombie apocalypse. As Mr. Fashion Conscious Salesman walked me down the line of new vehicles, I realized that over the last couple of decades there is truth in the idea the average American male has come to believe his masculinity was in question. Throw in the obsession with military grade weapons and it proves the old joke about certain males having to make up for some sort of deficiency. Whether it's physical with them unsure about the sizes of their penises, compared to other groups. Or a simple lack of imagination and competence on how they can compete in world that has changed beyond their ability to easily control.

Mr. Fashion Conscious Salesman was greatly disappointed when I went for a less than exciting F-150 model with a simple extended cab and camper shell over the bed, but nothing in the way of accessories to prepare for the end of the world. At least my choice in the color of the truck, a subdued blue seemed to placate the guy.

The next problem was something I would have never foreseen. With Mr. Fashion Conscious Salesman happy with an easy sale his mood changed abruptly when we started the paperwork. Turns out that vehicles aren't like other products that you can casually buy then leave with them. Naturally cars and trucks have to be registered, which I found out requires a permanent address, something I was currently without.

I immediately pulled out my cell phone and called my lawyer, Jim Lund to find a way out of this mess. After explaining the situation, with Jim apparently taking notes on his end, he told me to give him about two hours and everything would be fine.

Almost to the minute two hours later a lady dressed in what I would have to call coastal business casual and wearing a light blazer with the insignia of a local real estate agency walks into the lobby of the dealership. “Mr. Lance,” she said walking towards me. “I have the paperwork for your rental here to sign.”

“Rental?” I responded with puzzlement. Somehow when I called Jim I was expecting a solution that allowed me to continue one with my journey. But then again, considering the nature of the situation and my lack of destination spending some time at the beach wouldn't kill me.

“Yes,” she replied, “I'm Sally Yates from Fun Beach Property Rentals and your attorney has arranged a three month rental of one of our finest houses on Pawleys Island.” Sally then plopped down beside me on the sofa I was sitting and began laying out forms on the coffee table in front of us. “You'll need to sign a few of these papers and then I can show you the house.” She said in a business like manner.

Just as I was signing the last form, Mr. Fashion Conscious Salesman comes into view carrying a stack of papers, the keys to my new truck, and a much improved mood. “Mr. Lance everything has been taken care of and your new truck is being fueled up.” He then digressed into the usual banter about if I ever needed anything and how the warranty on the truck would take care of just about every issue.

After throwing my duffel bag and storage box into the new truck and calling the rental agency to come pick up the car, I began following Sally to the beach house I would be living in for the next few months.

The house was awesome, built purely as a rental it had an ungodly amount of bedrooms and large living areas. What I liked about it was the huge porch facing the ocean, which was mostly screened-in but had a smaller section outside the enclosed area but covered by the roof. That was where the builder had installed the most elaborate gas grill I had ever seen.

Sally showed me all through the house but quickly left afterwards allowing me to bring in my meager possessions and get comfortable. After the busy day, I just left the duffel and storage box in the living room and walked out onto he beach. With most schools still out for the summer, the beach still had a lot of people laying out on the sand or playing in the water. The smell of meat cooking on grills at other houses made my stomach rumble and me begin planning how I would use the one at my place.

Lost in thought and immersed in the sensations of the ocean, I walked into the water to the point it was covering my ankles. I was so detached from my surroundings, I didn't notice the huge German Shepard that slammed into me throwing my balance off just enough to fall face first into the retreating water and wet sand. It wasn't my worst fall, but it took me several seconds to gather my wits.

“Are you okay?” was the first thing I heard.

I turned my head to see this beautiful woman with brunette hair dressed in a one piece swimsuit offering her right hand to help me up. In her other hand was a coiled up dog leash with a collar dangling at the end.

Years living as a monk in a pissant town hadn't totally ruined me, I gave her my best smile and took her hand. “Oh I'm fine, I've fallen in worse places.” I said hoping to start a conversation.

“Great,” she replied, “I'm sorry about Max, he likes to slip his collar and run off. Nice meeting you, but I've got to chase him down.” With that she turned and began running down the beach to catch her dog.

For several seconds, I just stood there watching the unknown woman disappear into the distance. It wasn't the most stylish way to meet a woman, or impress her for that matter. But everything eventually fell into place.

Something I was reminded of as the sounds of Robyn in the kitchen making her own cup of coffee brought me back to the present. She came out on the porch still in her night shirt and took the seat next mine. “What are our plans today?” She asked in a disinterested manner that I took to mean there better me nothing on the schedule.

“Just enjoying the day,” I replied enjoying the peace and perfection of the moment.

As if on cue her dog, Max then ran out onto the porch and looked at us silently asking why he had not been consulted on any plans. Yeah, he and I are still working our relationship out but that is a story for another time.

Chapter Five: The Adventures of an American Misanthrope

Epic journeys are said to begin with a single step. In my case that translated into burning off the tank of gas I bought before hitting Interstate-26 heading down to the South Carolina coast. There was no grand plan, no destination, the main reason I was heading south was because that was my general direction when I left the Quincy town limits behind me. But as I merged into the flow of traffic in the back of my head this felt like the best way to start off my journey.

On the way towards Charleston the idea of hitting the Atlantic coast and then deciding to go north or south began forming in my head. Old U.S. Highway 17 runs roughly parallel to much of the southeastern Atlantic coast and from Charleston I could either head down to sunny Florida or up north towards North Carolina and Virginia. So I drove feeling a freedom that I could barely remember from that small segment of time after the army but before marriage and the demands of work made life truly a burden.

My initial intention was to drive until I was tired and then get a motel room. Which I figured would be Charleston, but as I hit the junction of Highway 17 the urge to go on was overwhelming. So, acting instinctively my decision was to head north which would take me towards the Grand Strand area of the state. With the local NPR stations providing news and later my collections of CDs keeping me entertained, I made it all the way to the curious town of Georgetown before hunger forced me to stop.

I say curious because while the municipality can trace its history back to the colonial era in the form of stately churches and grand colonial houses, they did something really stupid that endangered it all. Back in the late 1960's the city leaders allowed a steel mill to be built next a small inlet of the bay the city lay next. It was a great place for two reason, the first being that it allowed cargo ships carrying scrap metal to dock and unload. The second reason was because the finished product could easily be shipped out on the railroad tracks running right beside the property. There was one huge problem though, that combination of advantages placed the steel mill right in the middle of town.

For several decades the mill provided hundreds if not thousands of high paying jobs that allowed families to build a future. An issue no one foresaw was that in the early years of its operation the mill produced a rust-colored haze that descended on the houses and other buildings close to the mill. In a manner of a few short years ancient homes that had survived the American Revolution, Civil War, and numerous hurricanes and tropical storms decayed away into ruins.

Clean up operations and anti-pollution additions to the steel mill itself halted the disaster but the damage was largely done. The residents decided to ignore the outward signs of what couldn't be saved but a brave few did speak up saying that if the ocher-tinted dust ruined houses, just what in the hell did the stuff do to peoples lungs? Southern sensibilities against making a fuss, and upsetting a money making apple cart, soon came into play and all that worry over health and well being was hushed up.

Proving once again that all things change eventually, many times for the worse, by the 1990s the steel mill began facing competition from other operations overseas producing a cheaper product. Like other American business, namely my former employer, cost saving measures were instituted but the spiral downward couldn't be resisted. The mill ended up being sold on several occasions with the new management each time going through the required motions of promising to bring it back to its old glory.

My ex-wife and I visited Georgetown during one of the truly good years in our marriage. The excursion was a just a day trip to allow us a breather from the kids. Like normal children, they had both become quite adept at exhausting their parents. One of Emily's friends had recently told her about how many of the colonial homes offered tours and that Georgetown's main street was now dominated by cutesy boutiques and stylish bistros. Near the end of the day she and I strolled the waterfront walkway on the inlet and while everything was perfect both of us were shocked at seeing the rear of the largely defunct steel mill.

While I stand by my assessment of the decaying outward appearance of the Tightlock factory back in Quincy, the disaster of the Georgetown steel mill made it look truly trivial in comparison. From our vantage point looking at the open, rear area of the plant, everything suggested it had long been abandoned with cranes, railroad cars, and piles of scrap metal seemingly waiting for the workers to return from their long lunch. The plant and all other buildings on the site were painted the same rust color of the dust that had settled on all the nearby structures when it first opened. This only added to the general eyesore when compared to the all the efforts to make the main street look green, healthy, and most of all, full of life.

A local saw us looking at the plant and gave us the full rundown on its history and said that the current owners keep a skeleton crew employed to prevent the federal government from forcing them to cleanup decades worth of toxic compounds that saturate the soil. When I asked this gentleman if he thought it would ever be cleaned up, he just laughed and walked away.

***

When I reached Georgetown it was long after sundown and my concern was finding a decent place to eat. The bar and grill I picked overlooked the waterfront but there was a chilling aspect to the glow of the city. Bright lights illuminated much of the scene, all except where the steel mill was located. It was like a black maw of nothing coolly residing amongst the oblivious living.

It was probably just me still getting use to being part of the daytime living folks, but I felt overwhelmed by the people around me. At the other tables in the bar conversations going on seemed more lively.

Surreptitiously, I watched a young couple holding hands while leaning in close and whispering intently to each other. The engagement ring on the young woman's left hand suggesting their conversation in all likelihood revolved around some aspect of the future. I found myself wondering if they actually understood the nature of what they were trying to do, or if “love” had overwhelmed them almost assuring a messy downfall.

Several tables over from them a group of about five or six people were celebrating a birthday, whose I couldn't rightly discern since they were all having a great time. Every time the noise started to get a little too loud two of the waitresses would come over and skillfully defuse the situation. When one of the party-going customers placed his hand on the backside of the short-haired brunette waitress, she quickly grabbed it and twisted to the point he went silent and grimaced in pain. To the rest of the partiers it was the funnest thing to have ever happened, the offender realizing his mistake backed down and apologized profusely. The waitress, to her credit, didn't release the man's hand until he promised to personally triple her tip.

I did take some pleasure seeing an obviously exhausted mother and father trying to eat dinner. Their children, one a toddler clearly enjoying the mastery of the word “No” and the other an infant, laughing hysterically at each other. The consumption of food seemed to be the least of their concerns. I must admit, I enjoyed the laughter because it was real and didn't require the humiliation or the degrading of another person. One of the things that made me uneasy around people was that such humor was so widely accepted these days.

“You okay honey?” the short-haired brunette waitress asked taking me by surprise. The young waitress looked to be in her late twenties of early thirties. I admit, I was taken by both her outward physical attractiveness and the look in her eyes suggesting an intelligence far sharper than anyone else in the room. This young woman, probably a struggling college student, would definitely not be working tables all her life. Frankly, I felt sorry for any fool, particularly those of the male persuasion, that got in her way.    

“Oh absolutely, I'm just a million miles away. Food is great, I haven't eaten this well in a long time.” I said hoping my words were coherent. I simply didn't want to tell her I was snooping on the other customers.

“Great, I'm here if you need me,” she said with a professional enthusiasm before walking away that a less worldly person would take as personal interest.

It pains me to no end, but for the briefest second, a small part of me wanted her interest to be something other than making her customers comfortable, and then receiving a good tip. In all the years I worked night shift, I had seen other guys and gals fall into that trap. You spend a few years sentenced to working when most everyone else is asleep and its unreasonably easy to start misinterpreting the slightest show of interest or compliment as something more than it was intended. One poor fool who worked nights with me for a few years became so inept around daytime people the rest of the crew and myself stopped inviting him to our annual Christmas party at one of the bars in Quincy.

Thinking of that former workmate, I was suddenly struck by an idea that while on the surface seemed insane, given the demands of work and a person's natural desire to find companionship it actually made a little sense. There were specialized internet dating sites that catered to all manner or modern idiosyncrasies, why not one for poor fools who worked night shift? The idea was so outrageously funny I must have made some sort of sound because my waitress instantly reappeared at my table.

“You sure you're okay, sir,” she said now showing real concern. “Can I get you another drink?”

“No, really I'm fine. In fact I'll take the check now.” I said to the waitress. Looking back over at the couple with young children another thought crossed my mind. “Yeah, there is one more thing,” I said to my waitress before she had a chance to walk away.

Motioning for her to lean in close, something she seemed a little wary of, I told her I would cover the bill for the couple and their children. But she couldn't say a word to them about it until I left.

“I'll do just that,” she said giving me a real smile this time and maybe just a little bit more. For a minute, I allowed myself a lurid fantasy of us meeting after the bar closed and then heading off to some place we could be alone. Not realistic, but I chalked it up as part of my journey to learn to live again.

Chapter Four: The Adventures of an American Misanthrope

To paraphrase Winston Churchill, to me lawyers and what they do have always been a riddle, wrapped inside a mystery inside of an enigma. Luckily, until my divorce I never did anything stupid enough to require their services. I'm not knocking lawyers, it's just that their profession is more abstract and nuanced than my glorified bruised-knuckle mechanic mind can comprehend. Then again, no one would ever confuse me with an insightful and forward thinking person. The prime example of my inability to metaphorically see beyond the tip of my own nose being my years working at Tightlock Corporation.

So, despite my admiration of the man who helped me navigate the numerous vagaries of getting dumped and uncoupled from my now ex-wife, I still felt a pretty large level of trepidation upon arriving at the offices of the Lund Law Firm. That was party because my lawyer's office was on the second floor of an obscure building in a bad part of town with the first level housing “Raunchy Red's Tattoo Parlor.” A fine Quincy, South Carolina business, even after the county sheriff made the drug bust twelve years earlier that resulted in them carrying off three large bails of high grade Colombian marijuana, a kilo of cocaine, and enough weapons and ammo to supply an infantry platoon.

Despite the incriminating evidence, the original Raunchy Red protested his innocence even though he was found passed out of top of the three marijuana bails and using the cocaine as a pillow. Red was adamant that the National Football League, the CIA, and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir had framed him because he had found the lost city of Atlantis and discovered that Elvis was not only still alive but that he had converted to Islam. The judge overseeing his case, a devout Christian and Elvis fan whose favorite vacation destination was Graceland, was highly offended at the suggestion that the King would convert to another faith. This resulted in Red's psychological examinations, which stated in no uncertain terms he was completely detached from reality, being ignored.

Raunchy Red was convicted on every count and sentenced to four life terms in one of the supermax federal prisons. After a few years' rumors started floating through Quincy saying Red did eventually get psychological help. Where things get weird though the story goes on to say that once he returned to sanity Red enrolled in one of the online colleges where it was discovered he had a talent for theoretical physics. Pure bullshit if you ask me, but somehow the local newspaper received a photograph from an antonymous source showing Red's mother, the longtime Quincy queen of quilting, giving the frail but brilliant physicist, Stephen Hawking one of her blankets.

Back in Quincy, the tattoo parlor didn't stay shuttered long, another guy quickly bought the business and in the spirit of cost saving measures started calling himself “Red” to avoid changing the signs. The new Red, went about business differently than the old, he cultivated a close relationship with the county sheriff and his department. The new Red had a standing fifty-percent discount for tattoos for all the deputies, which they took full advantage of because their patrol cars were often seen at the location. A now standard joke about the new Red and his tattoo parlor suggests he must have also started making donuts since no one had ever seen one of the deputies sporting a tattoo.

The second reason for my nervousness came from Jim Lund himself. The day my marriage officially ended Emily came home early from her job at the local hospital to tell me that I had a week to move out of the house. Emily was a nurse in the Air Force and after her discharge from the service she transitioned quite successfully to civilian life. As opposed to me who had served in the Army infantry and had to attend the local community college to gain a real skill beyond my talent for proper camouflage techniques, knowing how to dig a latrine, and field stripping a fifty caliber machine gun.

After calling in several favors, I found a really cheap but crappy trailer to move into and once that was done my next task was finding a lawyer to represent me. Lawyers get an undeserved bad rap, at the core of the profession they literally hold society together. Television audiences have been trained like salivating dogs to hate the sleazy and amoral defense attorney protecting a dastardly criminal and deny justice to some innocent victim. But if any of the wide eyed, largely overweight couch potatoes feel they have been wronged in any manner, the first thing they do is begin looking for an attorney.

That being said, the stereotype of some lawyers as cheesy ambulance chasers out to screw over their clients and insurance companies is unfortunately true. My problem back then, besides living in a twenty-year-old trailer with dubious electrical wiring and a leaky roof, was that I couldn't afford any of those of the high profile shysters.

A couple of weeks went by with my soon-to-be ex-wife, Emily, wanting to be rid of my ass so she could move on with her life. Which in hindsight I took that to mean that she and her future second husband, and my dentist, were tired of their illicit rendezvouses at the Hide Away Motel. Luckily, I was at the Quincy coin operated laundromat late one Saturday night with the other dregs of local society when I came upon a business card pin to an ancient community bulletin board.

The card declared that the Lund Law Firm could provide reliable but cut rate legal services for those in need. The services it listed included wills, powers of attorney, and no fault divorces. With that level of advertisement, I figured this Jim Lund, Esquire would be just the guy to help me. The business card did have a website address for the Jim Lund Law Firm which said he was a graduate of the New Carolina Law and Accounting School down in Charleston. While not an expert in law schools by any means, I had never heard of the place but at that moment I only cared that he was an attorney licensed to practice law in South Carolina.

When I arrived at his Jim's office there were already several preconceived notions running around my head. The first being that he was probably a bit of a loser, like myself, meaning poor social skills along with being overweight and balding. Since I also assumed his law school was at best a fly-by-night organization, I also expected him to be barely competent.

I opened the door and entered his office after knocking. “Hey Mr. Lund,” I said rather loudly since I didn't see anyone.

“Jason Lance, I presume,” was the immediate and cheerful response coming from the connecting room. “Take a seat please sir, I'm making some coffee and will bring you a cup.”

At first Lund's office reinforced every lackluster notion I had about the man. The room itself was run down and needed a cleaning, several coats of new paint on the walls, and new furniture since the desk and chairs looked like castoffs from the 1960's. The only thing that looked new and given special attention was the large framed diploma saying Jim Lund had graduated from the New Carolina Law and Accounting School.

When Jim Lund walked into the office about a minute later to say I was surprised was an understatement. Instead of the social awkward, overweight and balding guy, Jim walked in looking like a male model and Olympic athlete wearing a suit that sure as hell didn't come from a department store. After I told him my story, cool and utterly confident he proceeded to spell out the legal avenues I could take if I wanted to challenge Emily for custody of the boys. I course, I told him this was going to be an uncontested divorce since I didn't want to hurt anyone, least of all my sons.

After all the legal wizardry was complete we talked for about an hour and I came away wondering just who in the hell this guy was really. Jim Lund was the type of lawyer that should be arguing cases before the United States Supreme Court, not handling glorified white trash divorces in the middle of Nowhere, South Carolina. That his office was above a tattoo parlor that once sidelined as a drug warehouse and was probably still doing something illegal made the situation even more surreal.

What truly sent shivers down my spine was that a few months after the dust from the divorce had settled I looked up the New Carolina Law and Accounting School on the internet. Websites are ridiculously simple affairs these days and nothing about the one for New Carolina Law and Accounting School suggested anything other than the most basic of creations. I was about to close the laptop when I noticed the supposed physical address for the school. One summer during high school I worked for a company that did basic maintenance on the now closed Navy base, so I was well acquainted with the layout of the property. That's why I was dumbfounded upon realizing the address for Jim Lund's law school was an abandoned warehouse.

Now with forty-two million dollars of lottery winnings in the bank, part of my brain screamed at me to find another lawyer that at best wasn't part of the U.S. Marshal witness protection program. Then again, remembering the conversation I had with my reflection in the bathroom mirror yesterday evening Jim Lund's strange situation wasn't that weird.

Hey, Mr. Lund,” I called out the same way I did on my first visit years after finding him not at his desk. “It's Jason Lance, I left a message on your answering machine about needing to see you again.”

“Sure thing Jason, have a seat, I'll be out in a minute.” He finally called out from the other room.

Quincy, South Carolina isn't a big place but since the divorce seven years before, I could count the times I had seen Jim Lund driving around town on one hand. When he walked back into his office I was frankly shocked at how much he exactly looked the same age. He had the same athletic body along with the movie star face that would have probably cause my ex-wife to go weak in the knees and begin scouting out locations to push her current husband off a cliff. The only difference this time being he was wearing casual clothes that still probably cost more than my 1997 Ford truck was worth.

“What can I do for you today Jason?” He asked in a genuinely friendly manner taking his ancient seat behind the worn and stained desk.

Even though I was considering the possibility that he was either an alien or time traveler, I figured it was much too late to go running out the door. “Here's the deal Jim, you know the lottery winner from last week who didn't go public, it's me. I'm leaving town and need help organizing my affairs and I figure you're the best person to help me.”

Given the curiosities about Jim Lund's existence, there was a double meaning in my words I hope he didn't detect.

Jim just leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Yes, Jason,” he said “believe it or not I'm probably the best person in South Carolina that can setup your affairs and keep them protected.”

I didn't even dare ask him if his own words had a double meaning. I just listened as he laid out a plan that both secured and invested my money.

***

The afternoon sun was unfortunately beaming through my windshield as I sat in the Quincy Credit Union parking lot making me reconsider the idea of buying a new car or truck before I left town. While the end of summer was a month away, hot weather was sure to stay around for a considerable period no matter where I went. My truck's air conditioning was weak at best and maybe it was the money talking but as I sat waiting for Mikey, I pondered what the open road would feel like in a fine luxury sedan.

Mikey's older brother, Derrick was my best friend in high school. As graduation approached with no real prospects when we entered the adult world Derrick and I talked each other into joining the army. The original idea was that we would hinge our joining on going through basic training together as well as serving at the same permanent post, something we heard the army would allow back then. Well, five weeks into basic and Derrick decides to break his leg on the obstacle course. He had the option of being medically discharged but instead was just recycled back to the beginning of basic training once he was healed. However, his injury voided the original enlistment contract meaning the army reassigned him to a new MOS—Mission Occupational Specialty, or job once he finished basic. Whereas once we were both supposed to be infantry soldiers, Derrick wound up in a transportation unit driving what amounted to semi-trucks hauling supplies.

Then came Persian Gulf War with Saddam Hussein showing his ass by invading a smaller Arab country that in truth was led by a collection of individuals that were certified douchebags in their own right. The difference being that Saddam was a brutal tyrant that would use chemical weapons on his own people while the Kuwaiti ruling class just acted like everyone under them were slaves. I really didn't see any combat beyond a few semi-crazed and starved Iraqi soldiers firing off their AK's in an effort get the attention of the convoy I was riding in so they could surrender. The high point of my wartime experience was being a part of a detail guarding around four-hundred prisoners who truthfully were happy to have American MREs, clean water, and real toilet paper.

Derrick wasn't so lucky, he was killed one morning when the wadi embankment he was driving near collapsed overturning his truck.

When I finally returned home to Quincy after my enlistment, Mikey and I started hanging out together. Something that wouldn't last long since he had become a local high school football star and was getting a full scholarship ride to the University of South Carolina. Something that was going great until Mikey received a massive concussion during a game, which several months later because of both medical and other complications caused him to be kicked out of college.

Mikey came home but his life spiraled downhill until he met the woman who became his wife, a saint of a woman named Diane. She literally saved his life and sanity but because the birds and the bees still hold sway over people in their early twenties they were parents before they could develop a plan for a real future.

One of the worst thing I ever done was get Mikey hired on as a production worker at the Tightlock factory. But with a baby on the way the man needed a job, even if that meant a place where the age of the average worker was around forty. As the years passed, I watched Mikey die a little each day but at least I could now offer him a way out.

Just when I figured he wasn't going to show, Mikey's car finally pulled into the parking lot and I signaled him to hop into my truck.

“What's so important that I had to get up early, Jason? You know how floor supervisors act if they think someone isn't fully awake.” He said more than a little irritated.

I have never been a person who could deal with the warm fuzzy aspect of friendship, so I just laid out the fact. “Shut up for a minute and just listen. You heard about the winner for last week's lottery, well it was me.”

The look on Mikey's face after revealing that fact was actually kind of funny. Sort of like how some get when they accidentally bump into a famous person at the grocery store.

“You're a smart guy Mikey, you can probably guess why I skipped work Monday night and walked into the plant Tuesday morning looking like someone going on a cruise. But here's the thing, I've known you since the day your brother and I became friends in elementary school.. Hell, right now you're my best friend and I can't let you waste your life working in a plant that in truth probably has less than five years before it is closed.

“So here's the deal, I've setup an account at the credit union for a million dollars in both your name and Diane's. My advice is that you two figure out a plan that gets you both back into school so you guys can have a future. You're both young enough to still have one.”

Mikey was stunned to say the least. “Where will you be during this time, Jason?” He asked.

“I'm leaving town, probably forever. I'll keep in touch, of course but unless the boys take sick I can't imagine a reason why I would ever come back.”

After I gave him the paperwork concerning the account we shook hands and he left. At that moment everything I had to do was done. All that was left was to point my old truck in some direction and just drive. I felt bad about not seeing my boys, but they were out of town with Mark and I sure as hell wasn't going to stay around long enough for word about my windfall to reach Emily.

So, with all my worldly possessions stuffed into one duffel bag and one medium-sized storage box in the back of my truck, I pulled out of the parking lot and just drove.

Chapter Three: The Adventures of an American Misanthrope

Call me cruel, or maybe a little vindictive but I left the Pancake Palace emotionally buoyant after throwing a huge monkey wrench into my ex-wife's social standing. Yes, her new hunky hubby's past relationships with all manner of Quincy women, both single and married, had long been one of those small town open secrets. But my mentioning it loudly, and in a very public place was just a bit too much for folks to ignore. And like blood dropped into water filled with hungry sharks, everyone within hearing range of my words would forego social convention and immediately begin blabbing to others. I chuckled to myself as I drove towards my employer wondering just how in the hell I could top that performance.

Anyone driving by the Tightlock factory would be correct in thinking the business was long past its prime. The color of the huge main building housing the office folks up front and factory in the rear had long since faded to a sick, pale yellow from years of neglect. Every year the management and senior bosses have a little corporate pep rally where they break out the stale vending machine snacks, weak iced tea, and gifts like beer cozies and actually brag about how not painting the building was a bold cost saving measure. That having the building repainted the original dark beige just wasn't cost effective.

The same could be said for the grass in front of the building since the duties of mowing had been turned over to the maintenance people. Back when those pep rallies meant something everyone would go outside for the annual company picnic, a truly grand affair that the company catered with steaks, BBQ chicken, along with the normal burgers and hot dogs. Afterwards with everyone still in good moods and about to fall to the ground unconscious from overeating, both management and the lowly hourly types would have a group picture taken on the professionally manicured grounds. Now, management refuses to even mention those picnics and as for the grass, there are so many thin and outright bare spots from lack of proper care the group pictures are taken inside the plant.

Then there were the flags. If anything should upset the fiercely patriotic and proudly conservative men and women of Quincy, South Carolina you would think it would be the condition of the flags flying on the property. Old Glory had long since faded past the point it was presentable and was showing visible fraying on the ends. The state flag of South Carolina was in a similar condition but where as the palmetto tree and crescent moon were still white, the field of blue they were on had become more purple. Both the national and state flags would eventually be replaced but only after both had been reduced to shredded strips of cloth. While never openly spoken about, to the management types it was another bold cost saving measure. Curiously enough though, no one ever noticed that the Tightlock corporate banner was always replaced whenever weathering began to take a toil on its appearance.
But for me personally it was the parking lot that suggested far more about the true condition of the place that I had worked since graduating from the local community college with my technical degree.

When Tightlock first opened it employed well over a thousand people. Back then the parking lot was so full with the cars that management eventually had to assign spaces to prevent confusion. Now with the work force around two hundred people and with everyone naturally parking close to the plant entrance huge cracks in the asphalt of the unused sections have appeared. These cracks would look like sinister, monster-like vanes if it wasn't for the grass and even small saplings now growing from them. I tend to think of it as life saying “screw you” to mankind and its attempt to smother the planet.

I actually got in trouble with management once when I quipped to the wrong person that if the Tightlock Corporate suits wanted to earn extra money they should rent out the factory campus to movie producers looking for some dystopic wasteland. A few days later my supervisor, an otherwise decent guy named Bill Phillips, pulled me aside and gave one of those standard lectures taught at corporate leadership development seminars telling me that such an attitude didn't show the proper teamwork skills. Bill was obviously just going through the required motions, to the point he slightly rolled his own eyes reciting official policy on how keeping the plant open required everyone to be all motivated and upbeat. And that everyone should refrain from saying or thinking anything that might undermine that philosophy.

Because I liked and respected Bill, I wholeheartedly agreed so I wouldn't cause him anymore issues. But I walked away from the episode convinced that a similar occurrence involving religion happening a few hundred years in the past would have meant a trip down into a dark section of a castle and me then becoming acquainted with a red hot piece of metal.

Even though I stopped for breakfast, I pulled into the Tightlock employee parking lot for the last time a few minutes before the 7:00am shift change. A few employees running late caught sight of me in my civvies walking towards the entrance both the production and maintenance folks used. I could tell from the confused but experienced look on their faces that they instinctively understood something different was going to happen. In a place that literally hadn't change in decades anything out of the ordinary was instantly noticed.

“Hey Jason,” one of the ladies from quality control whose name I could never remember yelled out. “You maintenance guys change uniforms?” She asked about my Hawaiian shirt, jeans, and beach sandals.

I just waved and followed her inside. For the last time, I took a deep breath taking in all the scents associated with the factory like burned plastic, old hydraulic oil, sweat, and unfortunately, chronic despair.

Despite it all, Tightlock Corporation was once a fantastic place to work. Makers of all manner of plastic storage containers from large residential trash cans to something no bigger than a shot glass. To get hired on there in its Golden Age meant that a guy would make enough money to get married, eventually buy a house, and begin the long slow slog to a comfortable retirement. For a woman Tightlock was one of the few places that paid them equally and allowed them just as much opportunity as a man, even if they were single. Historically, healthcare benefits were so good that if a spouse or child took gravely ill they didn't have to worry about going bankrupt. All that changed when Tightlock got the exclusive contract to supply Megamart with all types of plastic storage containers.

Anyone who works in manufacturing is well acquainted with the boom and bust cycles associated with the industry. One month things can be balls to the wall, all vacations and off time canceled, and with employees working mandatory overtime. Have a contract fall though and the next month you can have some productions lines shut down and managers freaking out if someone accidentally stays five minutes over their twelve hour shift. If the business doesn't recover the following month that's when things can get really bad with reduced hours, if the workers are lucky, and if they're not, it meant layoffs.

So everyone with Tightlock thought they had entered the promise land when word about the Megamart contract went public. Thousands of giant stores across the country should have meant a steady production level. Steady production levels meant no more boom and bust cycles with workers juggling the normal demands of their families and the requirements of their jobs. But just as quickly as the level of optimism reached orbit, it came crashing down as the details became known.

The first was that Megamart had let it be know that buying from an American company was just a ruse so that the down home suckers in flyover country would think they gave a damn about them. Megamart was upfront to the Tightlock corporate suits in saying that it would be more cost effective for them to buy from a country overseas where the workers were paid cents on the dollar. Public perception and the whining by certain politicians who controlled their ample federal tax breaks were the only things forcing them to “Buy American.” That being said, Megamart wouldn't think of letting their own profits take a hit by having any of their suppliers charge them anything more than the absolute minimum. What that meant for the workers at Tightlock were an immediate reductions in benefits, a smaller work force, longer hours, and no pay raises. Overnight Tightlock went from one of the best companies to work, to a semi-police state with disturbing cultist overtones.

In what is sure to amaze future historians and social scientists who examine human behavior the workers of Tightlock, along with thousands of other factory employees across the country during the same time period, did not live up to the living in the land of the free and home of the brave creed. Instead of getting really pissed off at what amounted to the reinstatement of draconian working conditions reminiscent of the worst aspects of the early industrial age, they meekly bowed their heads and accepted the situation. Even worse, in what amounted to a form of Stockholm Syndrome some openly embraced their serf-like state and desired nothing but to make their overlords happy, even at the expense of their own lives and family.

Of course, the question as to why anyone stays at such jobs is unfortunately easy to answer. Sidestepping the abstract fact humans love stability, on a personal level it's easier for modern working class Americans to adapt to harsh conditions than to possibly risk bankruptcy and homelessness by searching for a new job with a totally unknown future. When I was first hired onto Tightlock, the Golden Age had just ended but there was still the hope that things might someday return to their original glory. While hope is a beautiful thing, it is a sad fact of life that it can grow stale and become an addicting delusion.

The reason I stayed boiled down to the fact that when it became apparent the situation at Tightlock was only going to get worse Emily and I had been married for a couple of years with our first son, Wilson, a toddler. If I had lived in a different state with bigger cities and more opportunity, I might have risked it and taken a new job with an uncertain future. But like far too many other people, I played it safe and stayed with a company only a fool would believe wouldn't eventually padlock the doors and reopen in a country that had something a little closer to actual slave labor.

Luckily, all that worrying and uncertainty was now behind me. And while I had wrecked my personal life showing a combination of fear and unrequited dedication that had ultimately cost me my family, I could give another soul a chance to avoid my fate.

Sure enough, as I walked further inside the factory I saw the night shift people pooling around the time clock while their daytime counterparts were quickly swiping their ID cards through the device and rushing off to their work stations. The night shift folks naturally looked tired while their counterparts showed the standard grim determination to get through another day. It was then that I spotted Michael Carter.

“Hey Mikey,” I said walking up to the kid. “You got a minute, need to talk with about something important.”

“Sure,” he responded a little puzzled while stepping out of the line leading to the time clock.

“What are you doing around three o'clock this afternoon? If it doesn't involve saving a life or inventing something akin to the light bulb you need to meet with me.”

“Hell Jason, you know the drill at three I'll be trying to sleep.” Mikey said slightly irritated as anyone would be after working a twelve hour shift.

“Listen, I can't say anything inside the plant but you're going to have to trust me here. If you meet me in the Credit Union parking lot at three you won't worry about the sleep you're missing.” I told him just as the seven o'clock horn sounded inside the plant.

Mikey didn't say anything else but only nodded before walking back towards the time clock an exit.

***

Maybe I was just getting use to my new situation, but I walked into the office section of the plant feeling a confidence that seemed limitless. Stepping through the door I glanced over to my right and saw what looked like an endless number of cubicles that stretched down the open office area. It occurred to me at that moment that in many ways the scores of unused cubicles were more depressing than the slower dying production area. However, I was only concerned with the section that was actually used by the Human Resources lady, Jill Miller.

I found her settling into her uniquely decorate cubicle with a cup of coffee. “Hello Jill,” I said feeling far too chipper for my own good taking notice of the latest plant she had brought to work. Jill's cubicle looked less than an office work space dealing with personnel and more like a small indoor jungle.

“Jason,” she responded, “I see here you called in sick last night. What was that about and did you go see a doctor and get an excuse?”

Jill was another victim of the crappy economic trends affecting the working class. Her situation made worse by a shit-for-brains husband who ran out on her and their baby daughter about the same time Emily and I were divorced. Jill didn't have the time to mope and become a semi-hermit like me. Jill had a daughter to clothe and feed which she went about with the determination of a mother bear naturally out to protect her offspring. Already working at Tightlock, she quickly became a master at office politics and stabbing people in the back not just to protect her job but move up the available ladder of advancement. It wasn't just the factory workers that were cut as the plastic container business went to shit, the office boys and girls suffered worse in some ways, all those empty cubicles being a testament to that fact.

The only problem though was that those actions took a toll on Jill's soul. Cold and calculating to the extreme, absolutely no one working for Tightlock wanted to get on her bad side. In fact, even though I had forty-two million sitting in the bank, I found myself more than a little nervous just getting ready to tell the woman I was quitting.

“I'm sorry Jill, I don't need an excuse because as of this very minute I am quitting my job.” I said fishing the ring with all the keys I kept related to the factory out of my left pant's pocket. Jill just stared at me as I laid the keys on her desk followed by the fancy ID/timecard card I wore around my neck.

“This is quite sudden,” was all she could say before turning to her computer and started typing. “You won the lottery didn't you, Jason?” She said in an offhand manner that could have either been her attempt at humor or a straight out insight worthy of a cop.

I just nervously laughed with the intention of giving here the same spiel I told my ex-wife at the Pancake Palace about the job on the island in the Pacific.

“I really don't care Jason,” she said while typing on her keyboard. “So save whatever story you made up for the suckers. I'm actually happy for you but one word of advice. Don't let the money go to your head, you could easily wind up broke and coming back here which would be a fate worse than death.”

Whatever Jill's faults she didn't really know me, except as one of the night shift maintenance bozos and in less than a minute she had correctly guessed the situation. What I found really curious though was that Jill didn't pull some stunt trying to weasel a monetary prize out of me for figuring out the truth. Call me slow, but at that moment I realized the assumption that Jill was just a remorseless bitch was totally wrong. Yes, she was still a victim of a dying industry and way of life but instead of retreating into a form of hopelessness, she had learned to play the game most men think reserved for themselves.

Realizing all this, an idea began forming in my head. I opened my mouth to say something but Jill turned away from her computer and looked at me with eyes that made it instantly clear to me she was far smarter than I could comprehend.

“What are you going to do, offer me some of your money because you feel sorry for me?” Jill said about to laugh. “You think I haven't already figured several courses of action when this place is finally closed. Don't insult me Jason, I've lived through more shit that you could possibly understand.

“Truthfully Jason,” she continued handing me a sheet of paper from her printer confirming I was free and clear of anything to do with Tightlock Corporation. “Up until this very moment if anyone working for this company needed to be felt sorry for, it was your dumb ass. Just go, save whatever stunt your little mind had conceived as a parting gift for the company for another time.”

Feeling both chastised and enlightened, I walked out of the building that up until last Monday had dominated my life, got in my truck and drove away without looking back. I had a couple of more errands to run, then have that talk with Mikey but after that I would be hitting the road.

Chapter Two: The Adventures of an American Misanthrope

 There was a time when my hometown of Quincy, South Carolina had a real identity. Situated thirty miles to the south of the state capital of Columbia, it was close enough to allow residents access to the advantages of a much bigger city but far enough away to keep its own businesses and personality. That was before suburban sprawl reached Quincy and it turned it into a colorless copy of every other residential community across the country. Truthfully, things have progressed to the point that Quincy is now just a rather distant section of Columbia since strip malls, national restaurant and store chains, along with mass produced subdivisions have physically connected the two.

The forced corporate amalgamation of the town has long since swept away locally owned hamburger joints, mom and pop restaurants, along with the independent department and grocery stores. The saddest loss for me was the old Mark Twain Book Store that was located on Front Street. It was a place I spent a large part of my Saturday mornings before the grumpy old bastard that owned it just gave a me a book so I would leave him alone.

From there I would make my way back to the legal office my mom worked doing boring research for upcoming court cases. Being the weekend, the bigwig lawyers were no where to be found so I would find a comfortable seat someplace and read my new book until she was ready to go home. My father worked at the long defunct steel mill and his hours back then were about as crazy and cumbersome as mine. But he was usually home by the early evening of those long ago Saturdays where we would sit together and just talk and enjoy each other company.

The exception to the mass destruction or assimilation of Quincy's local businesses was Peter's Pancake Palace. Established way back in the ancient 1960's as a diner close to my long extinct book store, the founder and chief cook for years, Peter Wilson, outlasted three of the national chains that usually run such local establishments out of business. So it was with a certain sense of pride that Peter's daughter moved her father's creation into one of those vacated buildings back in the late 1980's.

Despite the corruption of Quincy, the Pancake Palace remained one of the few locations that the two differing but equally obnoxious groups that made up the population of the town enjoyed. It was sophisticated enough for the upper middle class suburbanites, but yet offered a down home charm that allowed them to brag to the others of their subspecies that they mingled with the lesser common folk. For the long time residents, who for various reasons made up the working poor and less educated, the Pancake Palace could be thought of as an ancient temple that allowed the downtrodden natives to feel superior to the invading foreigners who now dominated their ancestral lands. It didn't take me long to start seeing both groups as not really human but more akin to two different species of insects who could not see the world beyond their own narrow perceptions.

That pretty much summed up my feelings about how I became alienated in my own hometown. When I left Quincy to join the army after high school there was only the slightest hints of the coming suburban sprawl. Hell, back then the only thing that could be said to connect Quincy to Columbia, besides the highways, was the weirdly fast growing kudzu vine. When I returned home in 1996 Quincy had all but changed into its current form.

That being said, my first destination the morning after my brush with the Twilight Zone was the Pancake Palace. I arrived a little before six o'clock and took a seat at the counter still figuring out how I was going to square away all the details of me leaving town. Quitting my job would be easy, I did want to make a bit of a memorable splash walking out along with helping one of my few friends. Then there were the arrangements to be made with my lawyer. We weren't friends by any means, but given the retainer I was about to lay on him to keep my affairs in order the man should be more than willing to kiss my pale, hairy ass. Then there was the situation with my two sons, my failures and circumstances had pulled apart our relationships but I was determined to say goodbye properly.

Since my night shift work schedule was ass backwards to all the good folks who lived their lives during daylight hours, the Palace seemed strangely crowded. On the days and times I usually dropped in the only chatter I heard was that of the wait staff talking with each other. That morning a cacophony voices made recognizing any individual person impossible. Which was just as well, it allowed me to concentrate on my own thoughts while I savored my breakfast. That is until I heard the voice of my ex-wife.

“Jason Lance,” Emily Langley called out like an angry elementary school teacher did to a student she thought mentally deficient and destined for a life of crime. “What are you doing here this time of the morning? Shouldn't you be at work?”

“Hello Emily,” I responded without turning around and after taking several deep, calming breaths. I desperately wanted to shoot back with a snarky response but I had long learned such behaviors were ultimately self defeating. Although, given my opinion of Emily and why she divorced me seven years ago, I figure forty-two million in lottery winnings now sitting in my bank account could buy a lot of peace of mind if I decided to tell her off. But there wasn't need to sink to her usual level of loathing.

“No,” I said taking the high ground, “I was going to give you a call later and ask if I could come over and see the boys before I leave town.”

“Leave town,” she almost screeched, “just where do you think you're going, especially the way you look, is it a Jimmy Buffett concert?” She asked with a detectable degree of ridicule in her voice.

Emily had always taken a dim view to the clothes I wore, but I was kind of insulted with her degrading the Hawaiian shirt, jeans, and beach sandals I was wearing to celebrate what amounted to a lottery winnings inspired independence day for me.  Realizing Emily wasn't going away until I dealt with her, I spun my bar stool around to look her in the face. The one thing I had to admit about my ex-wife was that she was still quite beautiful. Dressed in stylish skintight exercise apparel, it was obvious she wanted to show off that fact to as many people as possible.
Having turned forty-five years old a few months back she could have easily passed as someone in her mid-thirties. Which wasn't just because she was now a gym rat, my sons had let it slip that Emily had several secretive sessions with a plastic surgeon down in Charleston. The two differences that were obvious since the divorce though was how she dyed her hair blonde and and her posse of sycophants.Three women who would not have given Emily the time of day until she married the hunky Mark Langley, DDM.

Despite it all, I actually liked Mark, we had known each other since high school and I was one of his first patients when he established his practice. All jokes aside, he was a great step-father to my kids. Since management at my work had long since locked me into being permanent night shift, he had taken up the slack in being there for Wilson and Barry as they grew up. Yeah, I did resent the hell out of him showering the boys with gifts and other expensive junk that I could never afford, but there was worse things a step-parent could do to children. Over the years though, Mark's gifts had taken a toll on the relationship I had with my sons.

The one thing that did piss me off about the man who for years was Quincy's most eligible bachelor and raging Lothario was the suspicious timing between Emily divorcing me and them becoming a couple. I would be lying if I didn't say there was probably a period of time that while Mark was still my dentist, he was playing a different type of doctor with my wife.          

Standing in the middle of the path customers used to get to the restroom and wait staff traveled to get to the kitchen, Emily was the picture of everything I felt wrong about Quincy and people in general. Seven years after the divorce Emily had evolved two different personalities when it came to dealing with me. The first was almost human acting and only appeared when no one else was within hearing distance. As far as Emily was concerned, I was the dead bug splattered all over the windshield of her life. But on the good side I was the father of her boys so on rare occasions she sort of acted nice to me. The second personality was the one I was dealing with now, it was the one that appeared in public and treated me as if I was a mushy, wet pile of dog poop she couldn't remove from her expensive shoes.

I hadn't expected to roll out my cover store about leaving this early, but like the younger version of myself that appeared in my bathroom mirror the day before, life likes to throw four dimensional curve balls. “Yeah, this is something that's been in the works for several months. One of my old army buddies and I stumbled across each other on Facebook and he offered me a job after finding out what I do. He runs an engineering business and has several overseas contracts that needs more people. After a leisurely drive across the country spending my hiring bonus, I'll be living out on a tropical island in the middle of the Pacific for at least five years fixing equipment on the military base located there.”

Getting back to my theory on how the current, mutant natives of Quincy just couldn't conceive anything out of their own narrow existence, I could tell from the look on Emily's face her now upper middle class mind was utterly blown. “Your joking,” was her response “surely you would never leave the job you've had since before we got married.”

“No, I'm not joking in the slightest and do not call be Shirley .” I said feeling a small opening for a harmless bit of post-marriage snark. After several seconds though I could tell the information had finally sank into her brain was processed.

“I'm sorry, you can't see the boys, they're with Mark in Chicago at a convention and won't be back until Friday. So you'll have to postpone this joy ride until then.” Emily said regaining a bit of her composure, being stumped by her lackluster ex-husband in front of her coven of suburban witches was simply something that she couldn't allow.

“Well, then I'll send them an email when I stop and rest along the way.” Feeling my blood begin to turn hot. “I'm glad Mark has taken the boys, that way you won't have to worry he's returned to his old ways. I hear the clerks at the Hide Away Motel still whisper his name in admiration. We all know how often he used the place, on an hourly basis.” Just because she had ticked me off, I really emphasized that last part while looking her straight in the eyes and loud enough that the other people at the counter and the the nearby tables all went silent. While Quincy wasn't the town of my youth, the Pancake Palace was still the best location to get the latest gossip.

It was probably good that I was leaving that day because Emily stormed out of the Pancake Palace with her small coven trailing behind. Knowing how things ran among the natives, word of my heavily implied accusation was already burning up the cell towers. Emily would be in damage control mode among her social circle for weeks. I just turned around and enjoyed the rest of my breakfast.