Days of the week

Mondays has that dreadful beginning of the work week feel, like the starting line of a marathon, and all one can see is the long track of black top laid out before them, going on into the distance and having it seems, no end. Especially the mornings of Monday, that pre work jittery feeling, that only a good cup of coffee and a danish can cure. That's why I recommend eating something sweet on Mondays, to make the day a little sweeter. Tuesdays have a similar feel. Except that you are in full swing of the marathon, you're already tired but still have twenty miles to go.

Tuesdays might even be worse than Mondays, because at least on Mondays you have something sweet to eat. Tuesday sweets are not recommended since to many sweets makes one fat.

Wednesdays have that hump day feel, especially at the end of the day. The beginning of the day has the climbing the mountain feel, but as the day wears on, the peak gets closer and one can sense its presence.

Thursdays are the start of bliss, but not the full on bliss one might experience at a party, or summer get together, no it is a mixed feeling, one of expectation yet one that also knows there are two more days to go. I recommended eating something sweet on Thursdays as well, to help balance that loathing, blissful feeling.

Fridays ARE full on bliss, nothing in the world matters, it's Friday for Gods sake. Oh, if only everyday could be Friday, things might actually get done, and get done with a joyful expectation. Fridays do tend to have a rough finish however, like someone who has to jump that last hurdle right near the end of a race, when there is barely any strength to do so, and all one can see is the finish line, the ribbon, the flowers the collapse. This usually makes one irritated, knowing that the day might drag on a little longer, and of not beating the Friday traffic.

Saturdays are the day everyone swears they will sleep in, catch up on some good ol shut eye, but rarely does one do so, there is to much to do, especially during the summer months. There is the beach, the park, the museum, the camping trip, etc. etc. Saturdays are the fun day, spending time with family, the kids, your sweet heart, making up for lost time that the work week has stolen from us. However this is where another part of the day comes into play, the Saturday night, where family and friend visits can run late into the evening and no one cares, there's nothing to do tomorrow, lets keep hanging out, wish this night would never end. But usually around two a.m. Or so, someone does remember that there is something to do tomorrow, if one is in the habit of going to church on Sundays.

Sundays, the wake up is good, one realizes he has another whole day of no work. And since they didn't make it home until around three a.m. Church is abruptly put off until next week, I promise Lord! Sundays are usually the day one actually sleeps in, with noon being the average rousing time. When realizing they have slept until noon, they begin dreading, knowing they have slept half the day away. By then it's one p.m. And depending on the time of year, the day splits into two branches. For winter months, there is football, even women loving a good game, rooting for the home team. This lasts until eleven p.m. That evening, with the one oclock game, the four oclock game, and the eight oclock game. With only a brief interval in between to make it to your parents house for Sunday dinner. Around eight p.m however, the Monday dreading begins, like someone who knows the rat race will resume again tomorrow. Butterflies fill the stomach, others talk, but all you can hear is that darn alarm going off at five a.m., six if your lucky. By nine your usually on your way home from families house, make it in around 9 thirty. This is the moment people wish it were Saturday night again. The house feels like it's closing in on you, it feels serene and empty, a lot like your life, which seems to revolve only around work, work, work. Of course this is nothing more than irrational foreboding, the hesitant dread of the imminent Monday. This feeling may be worse than the actual Monday itself, as one tosses and turns and watches the quick revolving clock. Why oh why does the time seem to fly by on Sunday nights? And then, just as you have dosed off to that beautiful dream world, where the sky is the limit and there are no duties, that darn alarm blares, waking you to an anxious arousal.

The Plantation

“THE PLANTATION”
by
Antonio Davidson


There were going to be changes, of that there was no doubt.
What those changes would be however no one quite knew. But the one
thing they were all aware of was that they were free, and there
was rejoicing on the plantation.

Claude Jones was in his early sixties, he had retired from the
fields a few years earlier when the arthritis had become more than he
could bare. He was allowed entry into the plantation home, where he
became the personal assistant to Mr. Donald Lyons, owner of the Lyons
plantation, which grew acres and acres of pure white cotton. Claude
had lived his entire life on the plantation, his mother having been
purchased by Mr. Lyons' father all those years ago. She had died a
few months back, right before the war ended. She Had dreamed of
seeing that day, the day of freedom she called it, often talking of
it's arrival as though she possessed some divine foreknowledge. She
had taught Claude that Israel was enslaved for four hundred years,
that the “Lawd” would not keep us in bondage any longer than that.
That the “Lawd” is no respecter of persons. If he had freed the
Hebrews from their bondage, he would surely free us. Claude had
grown into a man of faith also, holding on dearly to the prophesies
of his mother.

Claude made his way through the mansions servants entrance, not
knowing exactly why he did, just habit he assumed. He was thinking
he would go back out and come through the front door like a free man
would. However, he held a great deal of respect for Mr. Lyons, and
although he were free he did not want to give the impression he was
vindictive. He bowed his head when he saw Mrs. Lyons, who was also
in her sixties. She was a stale woman who never spoke much, at least to the servants. He often wondered if she were like that to everyone; cold, distant, eyes that revealed a life, but little to no soul. When she did speak it was usually short and to the point, and most of the time spoken rudely. She rarely called them by their names but rather used general titles such as 'boy', or 'you'. When she noticed Jones she also bowed, a snide little smirk plastered across her face. “I saw you come in through the servants entrance,” she said, “I half expected you to barge through the front door.” Her lips continued moving after the words had left them.

“No ma'am.” Claude responded politely, “I've been coming
through them there doors for some sixty years, not about to change
that on account of...” He stopped suddenly, searched for the proper
word, didn't know if he should use the word “freedom” or not, turned
his head instead to the kitchen, where Mrs. Margret, an older black
woman was cutting peppers for supper. He turned back to Mrs. Lyons, then smiled, hoped enough time had elapsed through his quietness. She did not smile, but rather remained standing, indifferent to the whole conversation.

“Well, lovely to see you again.” She said, “Mr Lyons is waiting
in his office, wishes to see you at once...that is if you will see
him?”

“Thank you ma'am! Yes ma'am, I wish to see him very much.” He
bowed again, then smiled. He watched her as she strolled away. Her
petite frame seemed to hover like a ghost as she moved through the
kitchen, and then disappeared into the parlor. He waited until he
saw her leave, smiled and winked at Mrs. Margret, then made his way
to Mr. Lyons' office.

Mr. Lyons sat behind a large wooden desk reclining in his chair,
puffing on a hand rolled cigar. On the desk in front of him sat a
small glass, half filled with whiskey. Lyons was enjoying the late
afternoon sun, as rays of yellow and orange penetrated the window to
his office. He lay his bare arm in the suns path to feel the warmth
upon it and rid his aching body of the chill it seemed to of had
lately. He looked up and noticed Claude standing at his door which
was open half way. Claude was about to knock when Lyons tossed his
cigar into the ashtray and beckoned the old black man to enter.

“Come in, come in!” He waved to Claude, who entered humbly
through the solid wood door. “Sit down old boy, pull up a chair.”
Lyons beckoned, sounding pleasant. Claude had heard him be pleasant
before but rarely to the help.

“Thank you Mr. Lyons.” Claude said sitting down in a chair
across from the desk. Lyons opened a humidor and offered a cigar,
Claude just looked it over, not really knowing what to do, how to
respond.

“Come on ol' boy, you can have one...” Lyons stated, then stopped, remembering. “I mean sir, go ahead sir, please take one.” Claude declined, then chuckled.

“That's okay Mr. Lyons,” he said, “I've been called boy my whole
life, don't make no difference to me.”

“Well, not anymore.” Lyons assured him. He closed the lid to
the humidor then placed it back on a shelf behind his desk. “Not
here, not by me.” He reclined in his chair again, returned the cigar
to his fingers, stuck it in his mouth, puffed on it a few times. “Yes
sir Mr. Jones, your a sir now yourself.” Lyons said, stressing the
word “Sir”. He placed the cigar casually back into the ashtray, then
stated; “Just like me.” Claude smiled at the thought, it was more
than just a simple title men gave one another, to him it meant
respect as an equal, that he too was someone of importance, if a
sir, than why not a “business man”, or maybe even “your honor”. He
wondered about that for a moment, as Mr. Lyons looked him over,
smiling with half his lip. Claude wondered what it was he would do
now, where he would go? He was free to do whatever he pleased, to go
wherever he wanted. He thought of Ellie, his wife. She had always
said she would like to go out west to the boom towns, even heard
there was a fortune to be found in California. Gold she had heard,
the riches of heaven.

“Mr. Jones, it appears that you and I are equals now,” Lyons
went on, interrupting Claude's thoughts, “And as equals we are free
to discuss certain business opportunities. Do you agree?” Claude
nodded, still smiling, the excitement of being a gentleman filled his
heart with the happiness of a free man.

“Yes sir,” Claude said, “I agree.”

“Good! Very good!” Lyons reached for the cigar again, then
placed it into his mouth, which Claude thought he chewed slightly.
“Because I have a business opportunity for you sir.”

“For me?”

“For you.”

“Mr Lyons I don't knows what to say...”

“How about thank you?”

“Well, thank you!” Claude said happily, standing, reaching for
Mr. Lyons' hand to shake it. Lyons stretched it forward, shook the
work calloused hands of the former servant turned business man.
Claude sat back down in the chair, smiling, not believing his luck,
he always thought of Mr. Lyons as a good man, but never imagined him
this good. Maybe the war had changed things after all. Years of
fighting and killing taking it's tole on the souls of men, causing
them to hate the very things that sent them there to begin with.

“Well?” Lyons asked. “Do you want to hear the business
opportunity, or just sit there and smile?”

“Oh, yes sir.” Claude replied, trying to wipe the smile off his
face, but the more he tried the harder it became.

“Good!” Lyons went on. “What I have to offer you is a chance
of a life time Claude, not only for you, but for all those families
out there who look up to you. I understand that you are a kind of
tribal leader to them, correct?” Claude did not respond at first,
thought about that statement for a moment; “tribal leader” What did
that even mean? He knew the others looked up to he and Ellie, but
he did not feel as though he were the head of some tribe. Perhaps an
elder, but surely there were others who had better skills at leading
folks then he?

“Tribal leader?” He asked.

“You know, it's a metaphor. Believe me, I meant nothing by it,
just that you have a great deal of influence over the others and I
thought I could ask of your assistance. With nice benefits for you
of course.”

“Yes sir Mr. Lyons,” Claude replied, “Anything you need, just
let me know. You and your wife, yall been so good to me and Ellie, and we appreciates you letting us all stay here on the plantation, till we gets our stuff together and find work somewheres!” Lyons waved his hand as if his gesture of good will to the former slaves was no problem at all, but rather a help to him as well, as the former servants continued their daily routines of picking cotton, cleaning the mansion, cooking, or whatever else there was to do.

“Truth is Claude,” Lyons said, “That is why I called this
meeting with you. I'm afraid I have some disturbing news.” Claude's
smile faded, a look of concern replaced it, large dark wrinkles
creased his forehead as he shifted in his chair, suddenly
uncomfortable.

“I thoughts this was a business meeting Mr. Lyons?”

“Oh, yes, well, it will be Claude, but first I have to deliver
the bad news, and I'm afraid it is very disturbing indeed.” Lyons
puffed the cigar again, blew the smoke out his office window. The
sun had set a little more, replacing the golden rays with light reds
and oranges.

“I see.” Claude replied, his eyes staring straight through Mr.
Lyons, worrying about what could be so disturbing.

“No need to get all flustered Mr. Jones. What will be will be,
and theres not much we can do about it, just kind of adapt if you
will.” Claude snapped out of his stupor, regained his pleasant
disposition. He knew Lyons was right, he had heard his mother say
very similar words to him when he was little. The others did look
up to him, he knew it, Ellie knew it also. Most would do as he
instructed, believing with all their hearts that he had their best
interests in mind, which he did. When the war had ended several of the people had left to try out all this freedom stuff. He begged them to consider what it was they were doing, offered his
advise that they should be patient and wait for the right time. Most
had listened to him, however there were those who were not eager to
heed sound advise. He thought about them for a moment, he had known
them all personally, and wondered how they were getting along, hoped
they were all right, hoped they were making their way in the world.
Several had returned, begging Mr. Lyons for their places back on the
plantation. He was not very eager to oblige, felt that those who had
left had deserted everyone, and couldn't be trusted. But after
speaking with Claude, Lyons had had a change of heart.

“Anyhow,” Lyons went on, “The problem that is arising is that
government inspectors have been going around these parts checking all
the farms and plantations, making sure that we are complying with
recent emancipation laws, and as you know Mr. Jones, we have the
appearance of not complying. Oh, I know you all have your freedom
and are free to come and go as you please, but that's not what their
looking for.”

“What exactly will they be looking for Mr. Lyons?” Claude
asked, searching Lyons' face for the answer, staring straight at the old mans eyes which were small squinty slits that seemed to sink into the skull. They were gray in color, and only seemed to open wide when he got excited.

“Well Claude, they will be looking to see whether I am paying
you folks or not. I mean the days of free labor is over...not that
it was ever free to begin with, but you get my point.” Claude
nodded, he knew that the plantation was still operating like it had
prior to the war, prior to the emancipation laws.

“You just doin us folks a favor Mr. Lyons, that's all. They'll
understand that...wont they?”

“Afraid not.” Lyons answered. This whole issue is rather political, and they will be looking to find folks not complying, to make examples out of them. Even though you and I, and the folks outside know the truth, it will make no matter to them. They will skin my hide and feed me to the dogs. The plantation will be closed, and the property sold to some carpet bagging Yankee. Don't think I haven't seen them sniffing around here lately. Why just last week me and a few of my boys had to run them outta here with a couple of shot guns.”

“Lordy!” Claude exclaimed, “shot guns? Did y'all have to
shoot one of em?”

“No, no,” waved Lyons, “Nothing like that, just a few warning
shots, and you know them Yankees, they hear shooting and run for the
hills.” Both men chuckled at the thought of it, almost like they had
been old friends forever, ones who never knew the terms “slave” or
“master”, had never heard of some “emancipation proclamation”. No,
where they came from, words like that did not exist.

“But that brings me to my point Claude,” Lyons resumed, “and
that's the business opportunity I have for you.” Claude sat up,
became more attentive. The sun had set in front of him, and the soft
gray night was rolling in. “I believe I have an idea that will be in
the best interest of all parties.” He leaned forward and
extinguished the cigar, rubbing it into the ashtray with forceful
twists, the back of his hand revealing an ocean of wrinkles. “Claude
I will begin paying the workers effectively tomorrow. I will pay
them in silver coin, they will receive their wages at the end of each
month.”

“Oh, that's wonderful Mr. Lyons.” Claude expressed. “Just
wonderful. The peoples gonna be so happy!” He laughed with joyful
rolls of bellowing that came from deep within his stomach.

“Well...” Lyons waved his hand. “It's the least I can do, I
mean the way I see it both parties are in a bit of a pickle. You all
need jobs to provide for your families, and I need workers to keep my
farm running. If we come to some kind of mutual agreement, we both
benefit. Do you agree?”

“Yes, yes.” Claude responded, his eyes lost in fantasy as he
pictured real money jingling in his pocket, buying something
exquisite for Ellie, like a pretty new dress from one of them fancy
stores. An unintentional smile rested on his face. All his life he
wanted to be treated like a real man, to receive wages from a hard
days work. He never minded the work, in fact he would seem to loose
his mind when cotton was out of season, or if Mr. Lyons had nothing
for him to do around the plantation. He would find things to do,
things to fiddle with to pass the time. It often bothered Ellie who
wanted him to spend his free time with her, walking the plantation or
sitting down to a good old game of cards, which they played with a
few other older couples.

“Now Claude,” Lyons began again, his gray eyes darker now that
the sun had set, “I want to put you in charge of this whole thing.
Now, don't look at me like that, I know you have it in you, the
people will listen to you.”

“Yes sir Mr. Lyons, what's you want me to do?” Claude asked.
Lyons sat forward, wrinkled his nose, began to speak;

“I want you to convince the people to stay. Tell them, if they
don't go along with this idea, I will be forced to ask them to leave
the Plantation, families and all.”

“Well, Mr. Lyons,” Claude chuckled, “I don't think the peoples
gonna have a problem with making some money now.” Lyons nodded like
he understood, but his eyes revealed something else, and he seemed
hesitant to continue.

“Of course not.” He stated. “However...there is one other
thing.” He stopped, gave Claude time to inquire. Claude's dark eye
brows lowered in thought, Lyons knew he wanted to ask, but waited.

“What other thing, Mr. Lyons?”

“The people will no longer be able to live in their homes free
of charge Claude, the houses in which they reside belong to the plantation, to me, and I can no longer afford to pay wages and the up keep to the slave quart...” he stopped, caught himself before he finished. “I mean, workers houses.”

“Hmmm.” Claude thought, searching for the right words, but
found none. He had never had to pay for his own needs before, every-
thing on a plantation was supplied free of charge, as long as the
workers worked their hardest, and that had never been a problem for
old Claude.

“Not only that Claude,” Lyons continued, “but I will no longer
be able to provide three square meals a day for the workers, they
will have to use their wages to buy their own food. I know, please
don't look at me like that, I cannot afford to continue the daily
rations, it's simply not feasible.” Claude appeared worried, Lyons
noticed but didn't say anything to comfort him, moved instead to
light a lantern since the sun had completely set, and only the faint
glow of it's residue could be seen behind the horizon. “Seems to be
getting darker these days.” Lyons remarked, breaking the momentary
silence, as the lantern came to life. “There we go, now we can see
each other again, face to face.” Claude nodded, his hand on his chin
stroking the salt and pepper whiskers that encompassed it.

Lyons returned to his recline, took out another cigar, lit it,
puffed on it a few times, then set it down in the ashtray. Claude
watched as the tip burned, his eyes somewhat transfixed on the whole
process. The brown paper slowly transformed into a gray ash, like
that of the human body he thought, as we succumb to mortality. He
had witnessed Lyons progress from a boy into a man, and then from a
man into an old timer, just like himself, he and Lyons being roughly
the same age.

Lyons was shorter than Claude, much shorter, in fact the whole
family had been short, his father before him, his brothers also. But
what they lacked in stature they made up for in ambition, having
become some of the richest planters in North Georgia. He, Lyons
routinely wore a white suit, white dress shoes, topped off with a
white brim hat that had a black sash around it. His white beard was well trimmed, and had specks of gray and black spread throughout. He
had a long red nose that was pudgy at the tip, which some attributed
to his whiskey. He wheezed at times when he was not attentive to his
breaths, listening for the whistle that came from within in his
lungs. It appeared to had gotten worse over the last few months. He
worried about the coming winter, knew that a bout with a cold might
be the death of him.

“So you see Claude,” Lyons began again, “that is why I need
your assistance. I need you to ease the peoples fears, remind them of their new freedoms, teach them that freedom means that they are
responsible for themselves now, and that they can no longer rely on
me, nor the plantation for their needs.

“Yes sir Mr. Lyons, I'll do my best. I know they's will have
some concerns and all but I'll tell em the way things gonna be
around here from now on.” Lyons nodded, picked up his cigar and
puffed it again, keeping it between his teeth. He and Claude spoke
for several more hours, as Lyons laid out for him the new policies of
the plantation, and the new benefits that would emerge because of
them. When Claude left Lyons' office it was well after nine o'
clock, a cool damp fog hung low in the air around him, and Claude
could see his breath in front of the lantern he carried. He reached
his house a few moments later, Ellie was still awake waiting for him.
She had supper made and sitting on the table, a piece of ham with two
slices of bread. He sat at the table and tore into the ham like a
hound to a bone, the meeting having made him famished. Ellie watched
as her husband devoured the meal, she was wondering what had kept him
out so late, but did not ask, waited for him to tell her in his own
good time. Though as frail as a sheet of glass she had a boldness
about her that resembled a traveling evangelist. She could be as
fiery as the devil when things did not go as she planned. She knew
when to hold her peace however, and give her loving man a moment to
enjoy his meal. Claude finished quickly and Ellie removed his plate
for him placing it into a bin, where she washed it with soap and cold
water. She set it on a towel allowing it to dry. Claude strolled to
his favorite chair and sat back, kicked off his shoes, stretched out
his feet, resting them on a stool. Ellie placed the shoes by the
front door, then took her seat also. She searched him over, knowing
it was only a matter of moments before he unloaded his day on her.

“Had myself a little chat with Mr. Lyons tonight.” Claude said,
breaking the silence. Ellie sat forward, ready to listen.

“Tis that right?” She asked, her big smile revealing the
whithered remains of a few teeth, which were brown and rotten.

“Yep,” he continued, “Seems I gots myself a little good news and
a little bad news.”

“Well?” She asked, her eyes wide open with anticipation.

“Which one you want first?”

“Hmm,” She thought, “Since I loves the good news, give me that
first. We can handle the bad news by thinking about the good.”

“You always have a way of putting things Ellie, I'm sure gonna
need you tomorrow when I break the news to the others.”

“Break what news?” She asked, that fiery resilience which came
out of her unintentionally.

“Now Ellie, don't go get yourself in a furry. Mr Lyons has come
up with a great plan to keep everybody working and eating, without
him having to break any laws.”

“Well, I knew this day was gonna come eventually. I told you
Claude. We should have left months ago, when the war was over. I
still hear theys got work in Ohio, and they asking any former slaves
who wants a job to come.”

“Ellie,” Claude mumbled trying to appease her, “Ima old man.
Who gonna want to hire an old man?”

“Hmmph!” She muttered, turning her head. She reached for a
shaw that she had been knitting and resumed where she left off.
Claude didn't say anything else, his mind was to tired to continue
speaking. He had a long day ahead of him tomorrow and he needed his
rest. He closed his eyes and reclined further into the old plush
chair which had been a gift from Mr. Lyons several years back, a
reward for all the hard work he had done. Before long Claude was
snoring away, Ellie still knitting. After a few minuets she finished
the shaw, then placed it comfortably over her husband. She leaned
over and kissed his forehead which was cool to the touch, then went
off to bed herself.

Donald Lyons still sat in his office, still smoked the cigar,
still sipped the whiskey, his hands trembling slightly from the
alcohol and tobacco. The window was still opened, and he enjoyed the
the cool damp air which seemed to help his breathing. He had turned
down the lantern slightly, only allowing a soft illuminating glow to
remain. He could see the glass of whiskey in front of him but it no
longer sparkled from the fiery light of the lantern.

Another man sat where Claude had sat earlier, he too was older,
wore dark clothes, a dark hat which seemed to conceal his face. He
also smoked a cigar and sipped a glass of whiskey. His legs were
crossed, sitting comfortably as though he were accustomed to sitting
here often. His name was Martin Sheehan, he had a long and slender
build which was mostly accredited to his lengthy legs, as though he
walked on stilts. He was from Ireland originally, had come to
America when he was sixteen years old, having run away from home. He
joined the army and fought with Lee in Mexico. Other than that no
one knew to much about him, what he did for a living or how he had
attained his wealth. Some had heard he had stolen a treasure of gold
from the Mexican government, who were still on the hunt to retrieve
it. Whether there was any truth to such stories, no one knew for
certain. However, he had money, lots of it, and was the envy of most
of the aristocrats in North Georgia, especially since it seemed that
he spent most of his time doing nothing, except for enjoying his
wealth.

“How'd it go?” Martin asked Lyons, his Irish accent almost
gone, but still recognizable. Lyons blew smoke out the window, then
set his cigar in the ash tray, twisting it out, finally finished for
the night.

“As easy as pie.” Lyons recalled, smiling.

“Good, that's real good!” Sheehan said, blowing smoke out of
his mouth.

“Indeed.”

“When the Yankees come looking they will find a fully functional
plantation, filled with paid laborers.”

“And free men.” Lyons added, suddenly laughing at the thought.
Martin raised his glass and the two touched them lightly together, a
toast to some achievement. “Here here.” Lyons said, then both men
downed their drinks. Lyons reached into his desk drawer and produced
another bottle, holding it up for Martin to see. “One more?” He
asked, then poured himself a glass. Martin waved his hand, politely
declining.

“Hmm,” Lyons uttered, his eyes searching the dark figure before
him. “I thought you were Irish?”

“And English.” He answered. “So I somewhat control my depraved
self by my civilized self...thus the reason behind my constant self
confliction.” Lyons laughed again, almost loosing the swallow of
whiskey he had just taken, the buzz in full effect. A nice breeze
blew through the window hitting Lyons on the cheek. He closed his
eyes and enjoyed the moment.

“Ahh,” he moaned, “Nothing like the weather just before fall.”
Martin nodded, then glanced at his pocket watch, it was just after
midnight. He returned it to his pocket and looked up at Lyons who
was still enjoying the air.

“I'm sorry to ruin your moment Donald,” Martin started, “but I
think there is the issue of the loan?” Lyons came to, sat up,
adjusted himself in the chair. He had been sitting there for hours
and his hide end was on fire.

“What issue is that?” He asked.

“When do you need it?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Tomorrow?”

“It is tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Do you have it with you?”

“I will have to get it.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, tomorrow, or today tomorrow?”

“Your drunk.”

“Indeed.”

“I'll have it to you by noon.” Martin assured him, then lifted
himself out of the chair, his slender body seeming to go on forever,
and a drunken Lyons thought he would go right through the ceiling.

“Very well.” Lyons agreed, also standing, stretching. He
looked up and realized he was only half of the man who stood before
him. Lyons tipped his hat as Martin left the office, then he grabbed
the lantern and made his way into the hall, closing the door behind
him. He was drunk but he knew every square inch of this house, as he
made his way up the stairs and into his bedroom, where Mrs. Lyons
lay, sound asleep. He did not unclothe, but rather joined his wife
in their bed, coat jacket and all, and soon was snoring loudly.

“The morning sun hit the earth brightly and without hindrance,
as not a cloud in the sky could be seen. The fog had lifted sometime
just before sunrise. Old Claude Jones had been up since that time,
shining his shoes, and eating a bite of breakfast, letting Ellie
sleep in. The sounds of the farm were in full swing as men and
women prepared to hit the fields to pick the cotton, the season
coming slightly earlier this year than usual. Claude watched from
his window, wished he too could hit the fields, cursed the blasted
arthritis that filled his joints. Most folks hated to pick the
cotton, the thorny bush that pricked their skin, but not old Claude,
cotton had been his life. When he worked the fields he envisioned
all the people wearing clothes made from the cotton he picked, the
babies with their diapers, the little girls in their flowery Easter
dresses. It brought a smile to his face and he rarely complained
about it. Production was the essence of a mans life he always said.

He walked through the fields searching for a few of the other
men who were hard at work, the sweat pouring down their faces,
dripping off their noses. Their bodies wet as though they had been
swimming in a pond. Claude noticed Jeremiah Barnes, a man in his
thirties, and approached him. The man looked up when Claude came
upon him, whose large smile ran from ear to ear.

“How are you Jeremiah?” Claude asked, stretching his hand
forward to let the man shake it. Jeremiah hesitated at first, his
hands grimy with sweat and mud. “Oh, that's okay,” Claude said,
taking the mans hand by force. “My hands been in that mud a hundred
times, make no difference to me.”

“I'm well Mr. Claude.” Jeremiah replied, shaking Claude's hand
back firmly, a low deep sound coming from his throat. “Cept this
darn heat, tis about to kill us.” He wiped some sweat from his brow
and tossed it on the ground. Claude reached into his pocket and
pulled out a hankie, then handed it to him, it was old and worn,
stained with many a hard days work. Jeremiah took it gladly, wiped
his forehead, didn't know if he should hand it back or not, Claude
waved his hand, begged Jeremiah to keep it, saying he didn't need it
anymore, and that it was a darn shame to let a nice hankie go to
waste. Although nothing more than a tattered rag, Jeremiah accepted
it thankfully and stuck it in his own pocket. “Don't know how much
longer I can do this.” Jeremiah stated, he looked around to see
where the overseer had gone to, then remembered there was none, the
last one having been fired a few weeks earlier. Jeremiah had
actually replaced him with the newly formed position of foreman. He
had twenty-five people underneath him. He took to his new position
well, working his people like dog's. Claude looked over the men
searching their spirits. He knew it was hot and that usually lowered
moral, he knew that several more might want to leave soon, knew the
same feelings Jeremiah was having others were having also.

“Jeremiah,” Claude asked, “I need a favor from you.”

“Sure Mr. Claude,” Jeremiah answered, as drops of sweat rolled
down the bridge of his nose. “Whatchu needs me to do?”

“I need you to get all your people together tonight, right after
supper, in the field by the mansion, and pass this on to the other
foreman's too.”

“Sure thing Mr. Claude, but what's this all about?”

“I needs to talk to to everybody...it's very important that I
gets everyone there, especially the men of the houses. So please, do
me this favor and I'd be much obliged.”

“Yes sir Mr. Claude,” Jeremiah nodded, “I wont let ya down.”
Claude smiled and patted Jeremiah on the back, his shirt wet with the
warm sweat of the day. He turned to walk away and felt the men
staring as he did, the arthritis giving him a slight limp. He knew
he would soon need a cane, but put it off as long as he could, the
cane representing one more symbol of his old age.

That evening after supper, Claude stood on a small crate the men
had set up for him to better address the people. He stood like a
campaigning politician staring them over, searching their demeanor,
looking to see how they might take the news. He could not
tell, only noticed that they seemed anxious, perhaps eager to hear
what was going on, and he did not know how they would take it. He
saw Jeremiah and the two other field foreman trying to get their
people to settle down, even asking some of the mothers with small
children to go back home, that their husbands would let them know
what was going on. One woman argued, even pushed Jeremiah slightly.
She was holding a baby and seemed to to be more interested in the
gathering than her screaming infant. Claude noticed Jeremiah
pleading with the womans husband, who, grabbed her arm and escorted
her home, as she tugged and yelled the whole way. Claude raised his
hand to quite the crowd and when they saw him do so, a silent mist
fell all of a sudden, as though an angel had descended, and they were
enraptured with it's presence. Claude glanced over at Jeremiah who
nodded, seeming to give his permission for Claude to start.

From a window on the inside of the mansion, Donald Lyons watched
the gathering as it proceeded. He cracked open the window slightly
to hear what was being said. He heard Claude mention the new wages
plan and the people erupt in applause and joy. He then heard the
same joy turn to moans as Claude revealed to them the new rent and
provisions policies. He hoped that the old man could ease his
people's fears with some wise patriarchal utterances that only the
elderly who had lived through thick and thin could give. Claude went
on talking, assuring the people that everything was going to be okay
and that living in freedom meant taking care of ones own needs, that
freedom was the one thing they had all dreamed of most of their
lives, ever since they had heard of the sweet word in their youths.
His reasoning seemed to work, seemed to calm the tensions the people
were feeling. Lyons smiled from behind the window as though he had
achieved some great victory. He knew now that he still retained his
labor force, knew that honestly, nothing had changed.

He had received the loan from Martin Sheehan earlier in the day,
had already made provisions to begin paying the workers who would
receive their first wages in a few days. The next part of his plan
would take some time, he had to allow this portion to set in first,
before he moved on to the next phase. The plan had been developed
before the wars end; it was he and Martin Sheehan who had devised
it. Other planters became aware of it as well and desired that they
too sit in on the proceedings. They all knew the war was close to
over, knew that the south was going to loose and thus, the
emancipation law would become effective in their regions. Something
had to be done, thus, Lyons and Sheehan developed the plan. The plan
included a rash of steps all to be subtly worked into the plantation
over time, so not to hit the former slaves with it all at once. They
would offer their laborers wages which they knew would go over well
at first. The former slaves being excited over their newly found
fortunes. Then, they would be quickly hit with the realities of
their new freedom and the responsibilities that come with said
freedoms. They would be forced to pay rent for their houses, which
they had never before had to do. They would also have to provide
their own necessities, like food, clothing and doctor visits. The
plan, manufactured of course, was meant to send a shock throughout
the plantation and produce a discouragement that would allow the
proprietors of this plan to pull the peoples strings like that of a
puppet master.

Martin Sheehan stood to profit as well, his loan assisting Lyons
make the first rounds of wages until the cotton season began
producing a profit. He would receive his money back in the form of a
percentage of Lyons' profits, in which Lyons intended on passing down
to the laborers in the form of a plantation tax, due each month.

“The plan was genius!” One planter praised, his fat body
jiggling with the jolliness one could imagine coming from Saint Nick.
Another man asked if it were legal, did not want to reap the wrath of
the Negro loving radicals he knew had taken over Washington,
especially since the murder of Lincoln.

“Of course it's legal,” Martin Sheehan responded, his Irish
accent garnering a lack of trust from several of the old southerners
present. “We're paying the blasted beasts aren't we?”

“But it's not right!” One man shouted, his presence not known
until he did so. He was loud and obnoxious, like that of a fire and
brimstone preacher, who spits in your face while reminding you of
hell and damnation.

“Then don't participate!” Martin Sheehan yelled back, “Go on
home to your Negro loving Yankee friends.” The man sat back down,
realizing his outburst had been more of an affirmation from the
others, but none came, the others seemingly agreeable to both the
legality and morality of the issue. The plan, they thought, was a
Godsend.

As the time past, the people seemed to be content with their new
lives of freedom. They worked hard and received their wages like
Lyons had promised. They also paid their rents and bought their own
provisions like Lyons had promised as well. What Lyons paid them in
wages however he received back almost a quarter of in rent, but he
was still not satisfied, because he felt as though he were still
loosing to much money. Especially since the first cotton season
since the wars end had come and gone without being prosperous.
Paying the bills of the Plantation were growing more difficult by the
day and he felt as though it would all come crumbling down if
something did not change.

The beginning of the year had arrived. The deep winter sky
seemed to remain a constant gray, a continual reminder of the dreary
depressing life of the Southern States. The sun was trying
desperately to explode through the dreariness but the haze held it
back like a thick wool blanket. Lyons sat in his office again, still
smoking cigars, still drinking whiskey, of which he said helped
warm his body during the winter. There was a panic in his eyes as
he flipped through some papers, resting his whiskey glass on one
corner of their edge. Sheehan sat across from him, he was not
drinking, he had no look of concern on his face, in fact, a faint
smile in the creases of his lips told otherwise. He wore a long
brown trench coat, like that of a western outlaw, brown leather boots
and a black brim hat.

“I think it's time.” Lyons told him. He quit flipping through
the papers and instead rubbed his forehead. It was hurting again,
had been for sometime. Some blamed it on the cigars and whiskey, as
they did every ailment he seemed to have. He told people he drank
because of the pain, saying, it helped ease it temporarily.
“I think your right.” Sheehan responded. Lyons looked up, his
disposition changing suddenly, his eyes widened and a small grin
appeared.

“Yes?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“That quick?”

“You disagree?” Lyons reclined, thought about it for a moment, thought it might take some time, knew he may need another loan, knew Sheehan would be eager to lend it. Out of all the debts the plantation had, Sheehan's loan was paid first and foremost. He had loaned it on the agreement that if Lyons ever defaulted the plantation would become his. It had been a hard decision for Lyons to make at first, the plantation having been in his family for three generations. But as the war came to an end and the new emancipation laws became a reality, the thought of having no labor force to continue the planting, he saw no other choice.

“I may need another loan,” he said, adding; “for construction costs of course. As I am sure you're aware of, no bank will lend a planter money right now, with the uncertainty of the market and all.”

“Of course.” Sheehan agreed, his long legs folded, the right
one over the left. The tip of his muddy boot touching Lyons' desk
slightly.

“Then it's settled,” Lyons went on, “When can you get it to me?

“Tomorrow.”

That next day Lyons met with Claude Jones again, the old black
man was done up in a fancy new suit. His job paid him quite
handsomely, as he had become Lyons' routine liaison between he and
the people, almost as though he were an elected official representing
the will of the people to an established government. Lyons looked
him over, smiled when he saw the old man reveling in his new get up.

“Well look at you!” Lyons remarked, his small ailing body
covered by a gray wool blanket. They were outdoors and a chill
seemed to linger in the air. Claude Jones turned about, showing off
his new suit. It was black with a white button up shirt tucked
neatly into a pair of black wool slacks. His shoes were a soft black
leather and he wore a small top hat which he tipped after turning
around for Lyons.

“Yes siree! Claude laughed.

“You look like you belong in Atlanta,” Lyons remarked, “Maybe
even Washington.” He pulled a half smoked stogy from his jacket
pocket and placed it unlit into the corner of his mouth, chewing on
it.

“Washington?” Claude thought, then imagined himself as a
congressman, lifting his hand in opposition to some piece of
legislation. “Well, I'll be!”

“You just very well may,” Lyons went on, “if you keep making all
that money.” The two men shared a chuckle as they began slowly
walking through the workers quarters. Both men seemingly as feeble
as the next, Claude with his limp and Lyons with his ailments. “I
understand the people have had a difficult time in retrieving their
provisions?” Lyons asked, then coughed. He pulled out a white
hankie and spit what came up from his lungs into it.

“Yes sir.” Claude answered. “Seems the nearest stores are out
of walking distance. Many of us having to pay some of the white
folks down the road to drive us into town and they be making a pretty
penny at it too...doesn't seem right.” Lyons nodded, his cheeks and
nose turning red from the chill.

“Your right Claude, it aint right. I have tried my best to
allow several of them to utilize the horse and buggies I have, at a
fair price mind you, however I haven't but the two buggies.”

“Oh no Mr. Lyons,” Claude stopped, turned towards him, “You
been real good to us. We all really appreciates it. Don't you go
beaten up on yourself now, your a good man and we alls know it.”

“Thank you Claude.” Lyons replied smiling with half his mouth.
“That means a lot to me.” They started walking again, Lyons looking
over the houses making sure they were all in good standing. “I think
I have an idea Claude, one that I believe will help the people out
tremendously.” The two men continued walking, their slow paces
taking almost an hour to walk from the workers quarters, to the edge
of the fields and back to the plantation house again. Lyons revealed
to the old man his desire to build stores on the plantation, ones
where the people could buy food, clothing and other essential things
for their houses. He told Claude of his idea of adding an assembly
hall where the people could come together, hold meetings, facilitate
dances and whatever else one could come up with to use it for, as
long as a fair price to rent it was paid. As they reached the
plantation house Lyons told Claude that he also desired to hire a
doctor, build him an office so the people would always have their
medical needs met. Claude raised his hands to heaven and thanked Mr.
Lyons, as though he were praising a saint.

Claude went back and relayed the new ideas to the people, who
were over joyed to hear such things, the burden of hiring others to
drive them into town to buy their needs bearing hard upon their
backs, like the former yoke of slavery had only months earlier. The
realities of life becoming clearer to each one, just as Lyons and
Sheehan had predicted.

Within a few months the stores were built. Shabby little put
togethers thrown up by several of the men from the plantation. The
workers quarters now resembled a small town, with a general store, a
clothing store, a doctors office and the assembly hall, not to
mention a small church that had always been there, that Lyons had
remodeled. The people felt they were in heaven, that the promises of
glory had finally come down, just like they had always heard the
preacher say. Life would be easier for them and their every desire
would be at their finger tips. A few men and woman ran the stores,
some where put in charge of managerial type duties, others were
general laborers, all chosen by Mr. Claude of course, Lyons leaving
the decision at the discretion of his most loyal employee. Every
month, each worker would receive their wages from the plantation and
each month they would turn around and give most of it back through
the stores. So busy in fact were the stores that the ones in charge
could barely keep up with it's orders. Inventory flew off the
shelves, people snatching it up as soon as it was stocked, even if
they didn't really need it.

By that spring, planting had resumed. Lyons looked over the
fields with a disposition of gratefulness across his face, he was
thankful to have survived another winter. He traded in the wool
blanket for a light jacket. Though the sun was victorious over it's
battle with the winter haze, his aging body still felt a slight
chill. He was praying that this cotton season be more prosperous
than the last, knowing that if it were not he would default on his
bills, and that the plantation would become Sheehans. He was hoping
that Sheehan would be a reasonable man about it if the season were as
disastrous as the last. Surely he would understand and give him one
more season to make good on his debts. He had heard that Sheehan was
a reasonable man somewhere, although he could not recall where he had
heard it, but hoped it were true. He heard that Sheehan had never
owned a slave nor a plantation, in fact had no desire to do so
according to his sources, so why would he want to now? The man would
make out better if he were patient, waiting for the profits to come
rolling in once the economy was better. Surely, Lyons thought,
Sheehan would give me more time if I needed it. He comforted himself
with these thoughts, trying to cast the ones concerning the poor
house out, knowing in the back of his mind that if he were to loose
the plantation, he would surely not survive it.

Since the institution of the stores the money had balanced out.
What Lyons paid the workers in wages he received back almost a
hundred percent, the people blowing through their money like some
poor man winning a lottery. There were however a few who did not
blow through it, but instead saved it, or hoarded it as Lyons
referred to it. He knew who they were, Claude had revealed it to
him, knew they were onto his little scheme and were saving their
money to purchase land of their own. They became the laughing stock
of the others when they spoke of the conspiracies that had been
perpetrated against them. They became outcasts, like preachers who
warn of an impending judgment of God, standing on a street corner,
holding up a sign, yelling at the tops of their lungs, “Repent, turn
from your wicked ways, or perish!” Lyons even began circulating a news letter, straight from the horses mouth he called it. He used it
as an opportunity to relay to the people the condition of the
plantation, it's finances and the state of affairs, all manufactured
to appear better than it was of course. He also used it as a tool to
denounce those “hoarders”, the ones who were spilling lies about him
and his intentions towards the people. He never called them out by
name, but all the people knew who they were. Soon those dissenters
quited down, afraid they would be kicked off the plantation if they
did not do so, afraid they would be forced to leave before they had
saved enough money to buy land of their own.

Soon, harvesting time was upon them, the people were happier and
worked harder that they had ever before. They seemed content with
their new lives, having stores to buy from, shops for clothes, an
assembly hall to dance the night away and a so called freedom to do
whatever it was they desired. There was barely anything outside of
the plantation one needed that could not be bought on the plantation.

The little church Lyons had remodeled seemed to grow into a
vacant building, except for a few faithful believers who were there
every time it's doors were open. The preacher was a short black man
named Harvey, who would yell and spit about all the ungodliness that
was going on around them. “Why, just the other day,” he sang, “I was
a walking down the road and I seen two young people committing
fornication right out in the open, with no shame tat all!” A few
hands waived back and forth and Jesus' went up into the rafters from
the faithful few who had gathered. “We needs to pray,” he sang
again, “Pray for the people to wake up, beg God for his forgiveness,
so he will not bring his judgment and wrath upon us!”

“Amen!” An elderly woman shouted, a few more following right
behind her. “We needs to get out there and tells them people about
their sins.” More amens rang out and the preacher wiped his brow
with a hankie.

That afternoon the few members of the small plantation church
took to the towns streets, preaching out against the greed and
wickedness the people were reveling in, shouting that Gods wrath was
coming upon them all because of their attachment to the material
lusts of the world. One man shouted back at them, almost hissing
when he did; “We aint never had nothing...what's wrong with us using
the money we worked hard for to buy ourselves nice, new things?” He
asked, others nodding their heads in agreement.

“Nothing!” The preacher shouted back, “So long as you owns them
things, and not them things owning you.” The church goers raised
their hands and shouted a few amens in unity. The line was drawn in
the sand and the stand off appeared like battle lines with the church
goers on one side and everyone else on the other, the church goers
resembling the Spartans who stood their ground against the Persian
empire. The faces of both sides red with anger, as fists were raised
and fingers pointed. Although the church goers continued their
street preaching every Sunday after noon and Wednesday evenings
nothing really changed, in fact things seemed to grow worse, the
people spending all they earned on useless toys, knick knacks or
candy, all the while arguing their right to do so. Saying they had
never had anything before, and where was God then? Lyons was pleased
with the peoples attitudes, stroking his beard as he glanced over
financial reports, very happy that he and Sheehans master plan
was paying off, or so it seemed. To him, everything was back to the
way it had been before the war.

By the end of the cotton season Lyons bit his thumb nervously, as
his accountant read the latest cotton sales report, it was
disastrous. The economy was twice as bad as it had been the previous
year. Lyons knew his days were numbered, he would no longer
be able to afford the bills of the plantation. “Damn Yankees!” He
shouted, catching the old accountant off guard, nearly giving the man
a heart attack. “Sorry.” Lyons apologized, the accountant holding
his hand over his chest as it nearly beat out of it. “But them God
damn, Negro loving Yankees got their way.” He stood behind his desk
and paced nervously back and forth. “Is there any way I can get a
loan?” He asked, already knowing the answer. The accountant shook
his head.

“Looks like your already in debt to much.” He stated, trying
not to sound to indifferent to Lyons' situation. “No bank is gonna
give you any more line of credit, until you pay down some of what
you owe now.”

“Well how the hell do you suppose I do that?” Lyons yelled
again, catching the accountant off guard, again.

“I wish you wouldn't do that Mr. Lyons.”

“I'm sorry Edward, I just can't bare the thought of loosing my
home, my farm, my life to that blasted Irish bastard.”

“Well,” the old accountant said, indifferently, staring down at
some papers, “Your not the only one.” Lyons suddenly stopped pacing,
he turned and stared directly at the man and simply asked;

“Excuse me?”

“Your not the only one around these parts who's gonna lose out
to Mr. Sheehan.”

“How do you mean?”

“There are six other planters from this region he lent money to,
all defaulting on their loans due to the economy.” A cold aching
chill ran down Lyons' spine, which caused him to shiver as it did.
He placed his hand into his mouth and bit down angrily upon his
fingers, his face turning blood red. His eyes opened wide and a half
smirk which seemed ironically out of place crossed his lips.

“That son of a bitch!” He declared, then turned to look out of
his office window. He saw a horse drawn buggy pass by, packed to the
roof with someones belongings, a local planter he assumed. Jesus, he
thought, soon that will be me, leaving this place, with a few of my
things, packed to the roof of my buggy, if he lets me take my buggy.
I'll leave behind everything my family has worked hard for over a
hundred years to that Irish bastard. His thinking grew more intense,
as he saw Sheehans indifferent little smirk jeering at him as he
handed over the deed to the plantation. He clenched his fists while
biting deeper into the skin.

Suddenly, and without warning Lyons reached into his desk drawer
and pulled out a revolver, the accountant nearly came out of his
chair when he saw it. Lyons loaded bullets into the chamber, then
spun it around. “I'll show him!” He yelled, then darted out his
office door and down the hall, leaving behind the old accountant who
had nearly wet his pants. He sat breathing heavy, trying to regain
control of his heart, it was beating out of his chest.

After a moment or so the accountant relaxed. He gathered up his
things and headed out of Mr. Lyons' office, exuberant to be doing so.
He made his way down the hall, and noticed some commotion just up
ahead, a few people running outside, Mrs. Margret the cook yelling,
“Lawdy no!” As she ran. The accountant stepped out into the front
lawn of the plantation, the warm sun meeting his face as he did. He
noticed someone lying on the ground, face up, with others huddled
over the limp body. He moved closer to see what had happened and realized it was Lyons, his fingers still clutching the revolver. His
face was turning white, his eyes open and blood shot, his mouth wide,
like a hollow dark hole. His wife lay atop him, weeping, praying for
God to bring him back. The plantation doctor came running up, bent
down and checked his pulse, then declared the old planter dead. The
accountant took off his hat and offered his condolences to Mrs. Lyons
as Margret took her inside.

News spread quickly through the plantation village of Lyons'
death. People were saying he was dead and that the plantation was
going to be sold. Soon, loud lamentations filled the warm nights
sky where no moon was present, the darkness an eerie reminder of the
church goers prophecies. Old Claude sat in his chair, he and his
wife holding onto one another, grieving for the man they had grown to
love. He grasped her tightly, sobbing, knowing they were all each
other had in this world, that all their money had vanished, spent on
useless knick knacks that now made their house feel empty. Feelings
of anxiety crept into their minds because of the un-surety of the
situation. The same anxiety made it's way around the plantation
like the angel of death, striking each one with thoughts of what fate
beheld them. Soon repenting went up, the people pleading with God to
have mercy on them, to forgive their sins of lust and greed.

The very next day Old Claude was summoned once again to the
plantation house, summoned again to the office of Mr. Donald Lyons.
Claude half believed the old man had not died, that the doctor was
able to fix him up and he'd be back to smoking that cigar, drinking
that whiskey, reclining in that chair, ready to tell Claude some
funny joke he had heard, both men sharing a chuckle.

He came to the tall wooden door and knocked once. “Come in.”
He heard a strange voice say, one he had never heard before. He
opened the door and looked up. There stood the tallest man he had
ever seen in his life. “Hello Claude,” the man greeted him, “My name
is Martin Sheehan. Please, have a seat.” Claude entered the office
and sat down in the chair he had sat in many times before.
Everything looked the same, nothing had changed, except the giant who
now sat behind Mr. Lyons' desk. “I am the new owner of this
plantation farm,” the man said, gaily, as though he had no
indignation in his voice at all, as though it were not possible for
him to do so. “I understand you were extremely loyal to Mr. Lyons?”

“Yes.” Was all that Claude answered, nodding.

“Good, good,” Sheehan went on, “Then may I expect the same
loyalty to me?”
Claude took a deep breath, thought it over for a moment, thought
about his own fate, and the fate of Ellie. He knew things were going
to be different, he could tell that about this man, he was to
cordial, almost to an act. Claude exhaled and smiled, his dull red
lips cracking as he did so. “Yes sir Mr. Sheehan, how may I assist
you?” Sheehan also smiled, his big mouth revealing gigantic gray
teeth.

“I have a few new policies,” he continued, “That I think will
better fit the peoples lifestyle here on the plantation, of course we
should give them some time before we hit them with it all at once,
maybe a month or so.” He stopped, reclined in his chair and placed
his long arms behind his head. “You see Mr. Claude, I loaned Mr.
Lyons an incredible amount of money, of which I was never paid on,
many of the things you have, here, on this plantation, such as your
stores, assembly hall, doctors office, were because of that loan, and
now, I own this plantation because Lyons defaulted his debts to me.
What becomes of this plantation is at my discretion soly, do you
understand that Mr. Claude?” Claude only nodded. “Good, very good
indeed, I feel you and I will get along marvelously Claude, may I
call you Claude? Good, you may call me Martin. Now, here are my
intentions, and believe me Claude, it's with the best interest of
the people that I do these things, however, effective in two months
all stores will no longer accept gold or silver coin as payment. It
is much to hard to deal with and quite frankly I have no idea how
Lyons didn't go mad. We will convert to a paper currency, which the
plantation will print off and the people can come and exchange by
turning in their gold and silver coins. Please, Claude, don't look
at me like that, of course I will still pay the workers in silver
coins, however, the stores will no longer accept it, that's all.
Like I said Claude, it is now my plantation and I can choose to run
it the way I feel best and in the long run I assure you, you all will
agree, this is best.” He stopped for a moment, looked over at Claude
to see if he were paying attention, he was, the old black mans brown
eyes transfixed onto the giant who spoke before him, like he were
listening to the words of some Greek God, or Celtic deity. Not that
he was learned in such things, but had only heard of them. “One
other thing Claude,” Sheehan added, “in order to recover the money
I lost from Lyons, I will begin collecting an income tax from each
persons pay. “I'm sure you understand my reasoning for this? I don't want to befall the same fate as Lyons if the next cotton season
is not good.”

“I understand.” Was Claude's only response. Sheehan nodded at
him, then winked. He held up his large hand, showing Claude to the
door. Claude stood, placed his hat back on his head the tipped it as
he left.

He walked through the muddy little streets of the village, a
quick summer shower had come and gone as he sat listening to Sheehan.
There was no work going on today and he still heard the sobs coming
from the peoples houses. He understood that they were not
necessarily for Mr. Lyons but rather for their own selves and the
un-surety of their future. He knew he needed to call a meeting soon,
to tell everyone that things were going to be okay, that nothing much
would change, except for a few minor details, but he would wait,
would let the people have their day of sorrow, let them continue
feeling hopeless and distraught, continue calling out to God, begging
him for mercy. Then, after a few days, like a miracle from on high,
he would give them the good news and once again there would be
rejoicing on the plantation.

That wonderful first kiss

That wonderful first kiss

The clouds swooped in like falling sky. Large, black, billowing puffs of smoke that resembled used, dirty cotton balls. They were thick with storm and cast a large shadow over the entire play ground, where a few of my friends and I were playing. We were all roughly fourteen years of age. A bit to old to be swinging on swing sets and climbing on jungle gyms, but we had come here mostly to hang out with one another. To talk and joke, and have a good time. I came particularly for one person, Jodi Kelly. She was the girl I had been in love with since the beginning of the school year, which had been a little more than eight months ago. School was set to end in a few days with summer break about to begin. We were all meeting at the playground to say goodbye so to speak, as many of us were going off to summer camp or vacations out of State.

The rain came upon us suddenly, with loud explosions of thunder followed by bright flashes of lightening causing us to take shelter where ever we could find it. I could tell Jodi was nervous, so I grabbed her soft gentle hand and led her inside the tube of a covered slide. We hide inside the tight cylinder, snuggling close to one another. I could feel the pounding of her heart as she lay there, anxious about the lightening. She smiled when I placed my hand on her cheek trying to comfort her, and I could tell that she slowly began to relax. I was staring at her in her beautiful green eyes, which seemed to sparkle each time the lightening flashed. They were the most radiant things I had ever seen and I was hoping this storm would last forever. I leaned my head forward in hopes of tasting her pouty red lips, which I could smell the wonderful aroma of strawberry bubble gum upon. She didn't chew, but rather nibbled at it, like a lady not desiring to give the appearance of a cow chewing cud. She turned her head away quickly when I leaned in and a sudden burst of rejection filed my heart, like how the injection of a speedy drug fills the veins. She lowered her head, and I could tell she was searching for the right words to say. “I'm sorry Billy.” She apologized, “It's just, Ive never kissed a boy before.”

I looked up, once again inspired with the confidence of a teenage boy. I knew then she wasn't rejecting me but rather sharing with me her fears. “Its okay.” I said, grabbing her hand and holding it to my mouth, “we don't have to do that, we have all summer to get to know one another.” She nodded in comforted agreement, relaxing a bit, realizing that I wasn't the type of boy her mother warned her about. I leaned my head back against the cold plastic slide. Touching it sent a chill up my spine, but I closed my eyes and imagined the coming summer. While most of my friends would be away, Jodi and I would be left to spend as much time together as we wanted. She only lived two blocks behind me, and with the short cuts I knew I could be at her house within three minutes. I was aware of that fact because I had timed it several times before. Once, in the middle of the night I snuck out of my house and walked the two blocks. When I got there I stood just outside her window. Her room faced the road, and I sat down behind a large oak tree in her front yard, imagining her pretty face as she slept. Just realizing how close I was to my sleeping beauty made me feel impervious to the dark night around me. She had no knowledge of that of course, and when she gazed at me lying in that covered slide, I could see the innocence in her eyes, as my one time fantasy had now become a reality.

Soon the rain passed us by. A short spring shower that often pops up during these months. Liquid sunshine as the older people referred to it. I was saddened when it ended, not wanting the moment to ever pass. If I could have stayed in one place for the rest of my life, it would have been there, under that slide, listening to the rain and the pounding of the thunder, holding Jodi's soft hand and rubbing my fingers through her straight brown hair. She looked up at me when the last of the rain drops seemed to fall, making faint tapping sounds on the plastic. I knew she was thinking it also. Thinking if she could pause this moment forever, she would do so. We didn't move, but rather continued lying there, staring into one another's eyes. I could see my own reflection in her glass like pupils. I was smiling, and then realized that I looked like a smitten little puppy.

We heard the whispers of our other friends who seemed to come alive from their hiding places. They were looking around for those of us who were still hiding. It sort of became a game. Jodi and I remained where we were, the tunnel tight enough to shield our bodies from the others line of site. Rain drops still fell from the slides opening and we watched it not saying a word, giggling into our hands, as our friends passed us by. After a few moments Jodi looked directly in my eyes. I could tell what she was thinking, she wanted this moment to be that moment. She leaned in towards me, her head somewhat tilted, her eyes completely closed. Her slightly opened red lips touched mine sending a sensation up my spine that I had never felt before. I kissed her back, as our awkward lips rubbed upon each other the way we had seen others do it on TV. It was the most amazing feeling one could ever imagine, and I thought it would go on forever. However, as soon as it had started it came to a crashing end. “Ewe!” I heard a snot nose voice cry out. Our lips quickly unlatched. We looked back through the opening in the tube, and there squatted Beverly Billingsworth. She giggled into her hands then pointed us out to the others. We tried our best to get out of the tube before they all caught site of us, but it was to late. We pulled ourselves out and the girls began singing the kissing song. Soon, our once pale cheeks were burning red with fiery embarrassment. My buddies were smiling, and nodding their heads. Her friends were giggling, and whispering into her ear. I knew then that everyone in school would know what had happened by first period tomorrow and that the last day of school would be one of embarrassing pointing.

As I walked home that evening however, all I could think about was that kiss. It had been my very first one. As I walked, skipping over cracks in the asphalt, jumping from one side of the yellow line to the other, I was hoping that every kiss here after would be with Jodi Kelly.

Paying the bills

It was that time of month again, the time every person has come to dread. The time that sends butterflies flying rampant within the lower regions of the belly area. That notorious moment which has caused more problems in peoples lives than most anything else. That moment called bill time.

First of the month for most people usually means mortgage payments, Electric bills, car payments, cable bills, phone bills and whatever else one may fancy for their lives. With each passing year seeming to bring new kinds of bills to the table. The table, whether it be the small round breakfast kind located conveniently against a large bay window, or an enormous hand carved piece of beautiful red oak laying magnificently in the center of a dining room, like that of some beloved leader lying in state. Whatever it is, it is usually covered at this time of the month with white envelopes of every kind, from many companies, all demanding the same thing; payment of their money.

Jeremy was is in his mid twenties. Married, with a little boy on the way. He worked hard every day and had allowed his wife to quit her job to raise the child. The bills and the burden of providing was on his shoulders squarely now, just as it had been on his fathers, who awoke every morning bright and early to deliver the mail. Jeremy worked as a general contractors superintendent, building commercial buildings, making sure they were built on time, often staying well beyond normal working hours to make sure the project was one of picture perfect quality. The money was decent, but only gave them enough to make it from month to month. With their bills being many there was usually little left over for any other luxurious.

The bills however continued piling up, with doctors copay's, increased taxes, fees on utilities, and ever increasing grocery bills, which caused thoughts of distress to run rampant through out Jeremy's mind. Anxiety often fluttered his heart giving him cramps in his upper chest. Though he was young and in relatively good shape, the stress of life was catching up to him, and catching up quickly.

He reached for one envelope in particular, which read; Santiago Mortgage Company. The price listed inside was $1200 for the month. Jeremy grimaced when he noticed it. Not that he had never seen it before, just that each time he did seemed more terrible than before. He ripped out a check which had the logo of his favorite baseball team imprinted upon it, the Houston Astros. It was the team he had grown up watching on tv with his dad, as the old man reclined in his favorite chair, sipping on his favorite beer and stroking his only sons thin blond hair. Jeremy thought about his dad for a moment, the old man had died suddenly a few months back from a massive heart attack. He wished he had the rough and rugged man here with him now, he needed his advise, needed his encouragement, needed him to tell him everything was going to be okay. He wrote out the check for the mortgage and reluctantly signed it. Then he placed it in the envelope, sealing it with his thin moist lips, kind of like the seal of a kiss.

The next bill was the dreaded electricity bill, which seemed to increase in size every month, and quickly had become one of their biggest bills. He thought back three years earlier to when they first moved into this house. He remembered the power bill then, a measly one hundred dollars. He looked over the current bill, it was now a gut wrenching, three hundred fifty-nine dollars. A sharp pain struck his chest and he grabbed it in agony. He thought this might be the big one, but then after a moment remembered he was to young to have a heart attack. The pain soon subsided, and he wrote out a check to the all powerful electric company.

His wife came into the room, her soft blond hair flowed with the draft of wind that passed as she strolled, like the wake of a motor boat. He looked up at her, noticed her enormous pregnant belly, it seemed as though it were about to burst at the seams. "Hi hunny." He said, a defeated look upon his face.

"Whats the matter darling?" She asked, sitting down at the table next to him. She had to ease her way down because of the large center section of her being. "You look worried."

Jeremy rubbed his fore head, pain began to throb at his temples. he leaned over and kissed her belly, smiling, trying to comfort himself with his future son, telling himself that it was all worth it, his wife, her magnificent beauty, her tall, slender body, that had been the envy of many a young girl. The child she was carrying, his pride, his joy, the son he would one day turn all this over to, if he could make it that far. "I am." He simply replied, leaning his head on her chest, hoping she would pet him, comforting his heart. She stroked his medium length brown hair, twisting it around her fingers as she did so. He reeled in pain when she pulled it slightly.

"Sorry." She said, then began to pat his back. "It's going to be okay hunny, I have faith." For some reason this struck the wrong chord with him, as though she was being nonchalant about the whole thing, as though she were dismissing his concerns and trying to deflect his attention.

"faith?" He asked sitting up, almost demanding an answer. "Faith is not what pays the bills." He pushed her away slightly, then flipped his fingers thorough the pile of bills resting on the table. "Faith doesn't pay these." He continued. She sat there, staring, not knowing exactly how to respond. He had always been a man of faith, one that believed that God would always take care of them, and to hear him talk like this was not normal.

"Hunny," she uttered, her voice calm, reassuring, "God has always taken care of us. Isn't that what you always say?" His head spun around from her, not wanting to look her in the eye when he responded to the question. He thought about it for a moment, yes, in the past they had always been taken care of, they had always had exactly what they needed to survive, they had never gone hungry. But for some reason, that no longer seemed enough, something felt like it was missing, even though he had heard a thousand sermons at church on God giving us just enough to survive. Those sermons at this moment in time felt like lies, as though someone had created such stories to keep people like him wrapped inside some false faith, barely surviving, barely living. He desired more, and it felt right to do so.

"Your right darling." He finally said, turning to look at her, her crystal blue eyes sparkled with light from the chandelier. "But for some reason, that doesn't seem like it's enough." His words caught her by surprise, he was always the one preaching that God provides just what we need, right when we need it, and anything more is excess, and not godly. She had bought that philosophy hook, line and sinker, and always was content with having just enough, because just enough seemed like much more than what most people had. She glanced around at their home, it wasn't a mansion, but it was surely big enough for them, and certainly big enough for two or three children they may have in the future. It was four bedrooms, two thousand one hundred square feet, with a two car garage. A lagoon like pool sunk beautifully into the back yard, surrounded with tropical forest style greenery. She gazed at the large screen flat panel television that hung stately on their living room wall, attached to wires that brought them every channel one could imagine. She looked back at him, thinking he couldn't be serious, he had to be joking, what did they lack, what did they need, what else could a man want or desire? She did not understand, and when she finally spoke she made sure her voice carried the tone of her lack of understanding. "Hunny, what more can you want? Look around, look at everything we have, we have more than most people in the world, we are truly blessed."

"Truly blessed? He asked, almost demanding, with a tone of doubt in his voice, of which she noticed immediately. "You see this..." He ran his hands through the pile of envelopes again, disheveling the order he once had them in. "Is this truly blessed? Do you know what I have to go through each day in order to pay these bills? Do you know what I have to go through every month, when I sit down to do so? Do you know the pain that strikes my chest every time one of these cursed envelopes enters our mail box, as though my heart knows exactly the moment the mail man places it in there? How can you call this truly blessed? Is it because you know you have no dealings with it whatsoever, and that it is squarely on my shoulders?" He stopped, realizing he had just said a mouthful, realizing that he had said enough to actually make him winded. She said nothing, however, just stared at him in the eyes, as though she was searching for someone else, as though the man she married had been possessed by some outside force, who was now placing this doubt in his heart. He turned away, suddenly ashamed of what he had said. Instantly sorry for having said it. He knew she was shocked. Knew she was hurt. knew that if she stood up to leave him at this moment he would not stop her. Knew she had a right to do so, and perhaps for her, it would be better. He imagined his life without her, knew that he would never be the same. That he would live an empty, wandering existence, like that of a transient, going from place to place, hoping to find the joy he once enjoyed. Then, he thought about her, her life without him. HHow she deserved much more, how her naturally gentle heart would go on, surviving, finding another man to take his place. How she would one day forget about him, forget about the life they had once shared together. He looked back towards her, her eyes filled with tears, her mouth trembled slightly, he knew what she would say. He stood however, not wanting to hear it, not wanting to know what she thought of him at this moment. That hearing it would be to hard to bear, that if he heard it, his heart may give out for good. "Don't go." She gently said and reached her hand out to him. He stopped, didn't turn around, simply waited for her to say it, knowing that he deserved to hear whatever she had to say. "I know you are stressed over a lot of things, but I love you, and I know you love me too..." She stopped, patted her belly softly. It seemed to move with the child's kick when she did so. "I know you love us." His head fell into his hands. Loud sobs arose from his mouth, and soon seemed to rise from his entire being, as his body convulsed with each cry. She rose up quickly, as best she could, and wrapped her arms around his neck squeezing it as hard as she could. He continued sobbing, soaking her light pink night gown with his tears.

"I'm so sorry!" He cried, "Please, forgive me. I love our life, it just seems hard sometimes, especially around this time of month, when piles of bills lay on our table, staring at me in the face, almost mocking me, telling me I am not able, I am not capable, I will never be free." He sobbed some more.

"I understand." She said. "You are not the only one who feels that way. I hate that you have to carry this burden alone, if there was something I could do to relieve some of the stress on you, I would do it. I love you darling. You are my everything, and I am eternally grateful for what you do."

"I know you are my love. You never do anything to make me feel other wise. I had a momentary melt down, I promise, it will never happen again."

"Oh hunny," She responded, her voice, tender and nurturing, "Of course it will, and when it does, it will be okay then also. For I know you love me, and that you would never give up on us." Her words seemed to trial off when she completed them, his heart filled with comfort once again, as he knew now that she was one of the most understanding people in the world, and that he was truly blessed. Not because of the material things he possessed but because of a possession much more valuable, her love and understanding. He thought of that as she released him, and he went back to the table, wiping his wet eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. She watched him as he took his seat again, separated the envelopes and once again placed them into an orderly fashion. She smiled, knowing that his confidence was returning and that they would be okay. She left him to his business and went off to make him breakfast, knowing that each one of them contributed what they could to make this life work, to make one another happy.

As she flipped the pancakes in the pan, she looked up, he was smiling as he filled out the checks and placed them into the self addressed envelopes that came with each bill. She knew he was thinking about their blessings once again. Thinking about the life they shared together. Thinking about the life they had created together. As she tossed the pan again, flipping the hardening batter inside the pan, she felt a moist spray fall from her pelvic area, and looked down realizing that she was now standing in a pool of her own fluids.

A radiant spring day

The sun had finally broken free of the chains that had been a cold and dreary winter. The warm golden rays penetrating through the heavy gray clouds that had hung in the sky like a thick wool blanket, replacing them with soft fluffy white ones. The sky had returned to it's pale blue color filling the horizon with birds of every kind. Their happy chirping signifying that wonderful change in season which causes the heart to be filled with the joy of the new and living.

The warmth of this day was enough to arouse the little ones from their wintery comas and take to the streets on their bicycles, turning about in culdesacs, and jumping small ramps. Large, green oak leaves hung low over sidewalks, on sagging branches, which the children ran their bikes underneath, slapping the tops of their heads in an amusing fashion. They would start at one end peddling quickly, then jump the cracks which the oak trees roots had caused, lifting themselves in their seats, letting the soft leaves graze their heads. They giggled as though no one else had ever done such things, and that this moment in time was uniquely like no other.

Sounds of lawn mowers and weed eaters filled the air around the neighborhood, as folks took to the outdoors allowing the warmth of the sun to melt away what remained of the wintery slush. Their frozen souls dethawling with each strip of grass cut or row of weeds clipped along dull gray chain link fence lines. Beads of sweat now replaced cold shivers, and white tank tops, thick snow jackets.

Barbecues were lit once again; chicken legs and shish kabobs turning into scrumptious family get togethers, grilling atop open flames, filling noses everywhere with the smells of the new season. Children running around the yard with flash lights, hiding from one another behind thick trees and plush lawn furniture as the unlucky finder counts to thirty. Moms and dads enjoying the company of adult friends, sipping on frozen margaritas and cold beer, talking about other friends who couldn't make it. Ice tea that had brewed earlier in the open sun being stirred with two cups of sugar and slices of lemon, mom serving it to their friends, as dad sets out dishes of potato salad and baked beans. Paper plates, plastic silverware, sparkling glasses, joyful children, good friends, all fixtures of a radiant spring day.

Herb Eaversgood

Herb was not a handsome man, in fact he was not even your average Joe; he was homely at best. He had a pale white face, two tiny beads for eyes which resembled a brown marble, and a nose the was broken. His teeth stuck out of his mouth like an old mule, they were stained with a yellow residue that nothing he bought over the counter could whiten. When he talked, people stood at a respectful distance, one that didn't reveal that they did so to avoid the ass like smell that was his ora.

He had never had many friends, had often wondered why? Had asked many a girl out in high school, but never walked away victorious. He once was turned down by a crack whore, who had been Jonesing so bad she would have done anyone, except for him. When he came of age he had called many an escort service, but when they came to his house to turn the trick, and saw him, they asked, pretending; "would you like to buy some girl scout cookies." However the trick was on them, because Samoas were his favorite. He had gotten naked with a girl once, however she was unaware that he was hiding in the next room when he did so, having snuck through a window in her house. Her name was Betty White, not the actress, and not white. He had fallen in love with her while in junior high, she was a cheer leader, he wasn't even considered a nerd, not even a dork, in fact, he was not considered at all, except when he passed by somone and the smell that followed penetrated their noses.

When he walked it was with a slight limp due to a small hump on his back, that he played off as a large zit. Once, a doctor tried to pop it but when he did it bit his head off, and then spit it out. The hump became his only friend, they would go on and on for hours talking about nothing imparticular, carry on goofily. The hump, he named Raul, was a hairy little thing, that reaked of puke and fecis, was red around the edge, and often spewed forth pus. Raul one time had gotten sick, and the pus was worse that day. He caughed, and puked, and did not get any better. Herb grew concerned, Raul was his best friend, and he believed he might not survive if something were to happen to him. In fact, after taking Raul to the doctor, Herb was told because Raul was sick, he himself would not survive, that Raul was cancerous, and was spreading the foul junk throughout the rest of his body. Herb left saddened, not for himself, but for Raul, because the only way to save his life, was to have Raul removed.

Herb decided against the operation, even though Raul begged him. Raul became so angry about it that he would swell casuing severe pain to Herb, who just took his morphine to ease it.

After a few months of dealing with it, Herb died, Raul not long behind him. When Herb did die, Raul cried, but he was the only one, as no one had come to the funeral, except for he.

First description

She had a round face with long sagging cheeks, a double chin that graciously fell into the thick of her neck. Her eyes were two large dark holes that seemed to sink into her skull because of a protruding forehead. The eye brows, brown and thick, touching slightly at the middle. She plucked them routinely, but to little avail due to her high testosterone levels. Her nose was long, with nostrils that almost curved back around to the bridge.

She had shoulder length brown hair that was kept pulled back most of the time, the bangs hanging slightly to left just above the eye, which she tucked neatly behind her ear. The lips of the mouth were thick, which was appropriate for the large mouth she had. When she smiled it seemed to cover her entire face like a badly drawn cartoon.

She was built with the body of a large woman, even though when younger she was thin. She began gaining weight in her twenties, after a bad relationship which she never fully recovered from. They had dated through high school, and then into college. They moved in together shortly after she graduated, he was already working having dropped out a year earlier. He found work as a plumbers helper making a little more than minimum wage, it was a constant source of arguments between them. She thought he had more potential than that of a plumbers helper, he thought otherwise, suffering from a severe case of depression. He routinely degraded himself, and even took to snorting coke to make him feel better. After a few months of drug use, abuse and wasted money, she left him, headed back to her parents home in Milwaukee. She got a job there working at a local bank. Started out as a teller, but soon worked her way into the mortgage department. Sitting behind a desk is where the weight started to build. No excercise, mixed with a bad diet placed the weight on her quickly.