Cheers to New Beginnings

There are things in this world worth more than wealth.

As the seasoned gates opened, I walked passed the barbwire fence for the first time in fifteen years. The tangerine sun was like seeing god for the first time, simply mesmerizing. For all these years, I have only seen the footprints of its glory through a tiny window ten feet high. The baby blue air was crisp, and fresh, foretelling a chance for a new start. Now that I had finally been released to freedom, there was only two things on my mind, to grab a beer and smoke a cigarette.

            I called for a cab, which took twenty-five minutes for the foreigner to show up. The cab smelled of week-old curry, and taxi yellow urine. I have smelled worst things, I thought to myself, and told the guy to head to the nearest bar. After seven minutes of nauseating Arabic music, we arrived at one of the worst-looking hole-in-a-walls I have ever stumbled upon. But when you haven’t even seen booze, or a cigarette, you will go anywhere you can find the forbidden enchantments. So I paid the driver, and strutted into the bar.

            Since it was only noon, there was expectantly only a couple of poor souls in the joint. There was an ogre looking bartender, three drunken Indians, and an old cowboy drinking alone. The old man caught my eye, because he looked strangely out of place. Like a picture inside of a “Where’s Waldo” children’s book. So I grabbed a I.P.A, and approached the cowboy.

            “Is this seat taken, old school?” I asked. He lifted his hat just high enough to show his age, and said “I don’t suppose why not, go ahead and knock your boots off. So what brings you to these forgotten parts feller?” I chuckled and said, “well I just was released from the D.O.C., and had an itch for some familiarity.” He reached out his withered hand, and said, “congrats, welcome back to civilization. What do you plan to do with your recovered freedom?” The old man asked. “Well, I plan to head out East to some family out in Indiana.” I replied. “What do they have that Nevada doesn’t?” The old man asked as if hurt by the comment. “I just need a new change in scenery, I guess. I plan to eventually start writing stories.” I said with a newly sparked grin.

            The old man lifted his hat, and inspected me. As to look inside, and conjure up my demons. “So what should I call you traveler?” He requested. “My name is John Goodnight, but most call me Goodnight.” “Nice to meet you Goodnight, I’m Niccum.” After that he took off his hat revealing his hidden face. From looking at him I would have to say he was in his early sixties. He had a red face with slicked back gray hair, accompanied by a matching horseshoe mustache. “So what does a nice guy, like you, end up in a bar full of criminals, such as myself?” I said with a jester grin.

            After he took a big swig out of his mug, he began telling me his life story. How he grew up in an impoverished neighborhood tucked inside of Harlem, during the civil right movement. On one of several accounts he admitted to stealing groceries for his mom as a child. Then when he was freshly eighteen he left home to follow his dreams. Eventually landing in Des Moines, Iowa, when he had his heart stolen by a farmer’s daughter. He took a long pause, savoring that last thought of a sweetheart.

            “We were inseparable for thirty-five years.” He said with a broken voice. With that he finished his beer, and said, “well I think I have bugged you with enough tales of an old man. I wish you the best in your new endeavors.” “Wait, slow your roll old school. You can’t just leave me hanging there, I want to hear more. Come on, the next round is on me.” I said cheerfully.

            He stopped, and turned around to see if I was joking or not. Then he grinned, and said, “well I suppose I could remember some more stories to tell.” The bartender slid two beers down the table, and once the old man caught the icy mug he started talking again with a cheerful tone. He began by describing how he started working for her father as a farmhand so he could have more chances to see her. At first it was just small talk, and a couple of jokes to clear the tension. Later, their love bloomed over the summer until they were absolutely inseparable.

            Some years later they married, and had two boys and a girl. He eventually worked his way up the ladder until he gained control of one of his father-in-law’s farms. “It was just a small swine farm, but it was perfect for me.” He recalled the last time he saw all of his kids together. “It was probably three summers ago at my oldest boy’s wedding.” But instead of looking cheerful, he now wore sadness across his face. “Heck, I can’t even get them to bring my grandchildren over unless they want something from me.” He said.

            He paused again, looking into his glass after taking another swig of its humbleness. “But Helen, and I, did the best with what we could. Maybe I could have played catch more with the boys, or took Cathy to get some ice cream. Yet, I was too determined, I worked too much. I can remember some nights Helen would have to come drag me from the fields to get some sleep. ‘One of these days you’re going to turn into a pig, since you spend so much time with them.’ She would say to me.

            Then she got sick. She was diagnosed with stage four cancer some years ago. “She didn’t go without a fight, though. She was the strongest woman I had ever seen. Although her treatments it still seemed that she was taking care of me.” He said with a gleam of pride in his eyes. She eventually passed after a year of fighting. We talked for what seemed like hours, after that. Well, until the ogre lady threw us out for getting too “rowdy.” Once we stopped laughing, we decided to part ways.

            Some years later, while I was watching the news before work. I saw the old man in the news. “Nevada millionaire surprisingly passes away,” the news headline stated. “Well I’ll be damned, I dined with royalty.” I joked to myself. While the story ran, it showed that he did not leave his inheritance to any of them. “Who is the mysterious benefactor?” The newscaster questioned to the glass. About a week later I saw a yellow package on my welcome mat. The sending address was from all the way in New York. Stamped across the front was “Tyson Incorporated.” Inside was a letter from the old man, stating that he was leaving all of his farms and bank accounts in my name. Under the legal paperwork was a small card. “Sometimes memorizes are worth more than money, but I thought this would be enough to help you along with your stories. Cheers my friend, the next round is on me” �" Old School.