Everyone had something negative to say about my father. Especially, my grandmother, mom’s mom, the one that lived with us. She whispered out the side of her mouth, one saluting hand pressed against the side of her nose, blocking the venom from landing on anyone, but me. Mother was spiting venom in the other ear. Grandmother only berated my father part-time. She would shoot short, hard bursts, in order to give mother time to go to work or use the restroom. Grandmother said things like, "That father of yours, he’s a loafer, he is…I told your mother when she meet him, that he wasn’t ever going to make any real money? You know what my relatives say about him? That he is a ‘drunkard!’ Just look at him, he doesn’t do anything all day! He just hangs around at that old Garage, with the rest of the drunks!"

And the relatives on my father’s side, they just figured that he never applied himself, and drank a little too much. But you couldn’t put much stock in what they said, most of them owned dance halls or clubs, and said these things with whiskey on their breath.

As a child, I had the feeling that my father was somehow different from other fathers. I could see them all, on my way to school. They would pass me in a slow, parade of work-trucks and four-door family cars, carrying these fathers to some noble occupation. And I thought of my own father, still asleep at home, who’d still be sleeping when I got home. He’d had a hard night of drinking and needed his rest. It was apparent to me, that my father couldn’t work a nine to five job, like these honorable PTA Members, not that all of them were in the PTA, but I use it as an example. A nine to five, grind-job would have killed my father, at least it would have interfered with what he called, his ‘Nap-Time.’ Truth be told, he slept from after midnight to about three or four in the evening. But he would never consider himself a bum, oh no, he was a salesman, and a damn good one. And people in sales…you may not of thought of this, because none of my relatives had…salesmen have to wait until people are home to sell them their product. And Dad slept until the people got home from work, then he was rested and ready to strike. He was a Carpet Salesman by trade. A carpet salesman who would always sell one or two big jobs a month. Which burned my mother’s butt. It killed her that he made more off of one big sale, than she made in a whole month as a Bank Teller. And she was the one getting up at the crack of dawn and not getting home until after sundown.

And here’s a guy, who drank all night, slept all day, and still deposited more in the checking account than she did. In fact, I remember my brother and I sneaking into their room one Saturday. We where looking through dad’s dresser for Playboys, but what we found was money, a lot of it. My brother counted out thirty, crisp one hundred dollar bills. It was more money then we thought was in the entire world. We were busy counting it, over and over again, when dad rolled over in bed and screamed, "Put that money up! That’s for materials!"

We didn’t know exactly what materials were, but we figured that whiskey and gasoline had something to do with it, and ran out of the room. See, my father wasn’t what you would call, "Money Motivated." For instance…people would telephone the house to buy carpet, but if dad was ‘Napping,’ he’d get real pissed-off and yell at us to tell them that he was dead, sick, or out of town. Dad didn’t even ask us to take a name or number, just, "Screw’em! hang up!" But as mother and everyone else expected, dad went from selling one big job a month, to selling one minor job every three or four months.

To my horror, one of the jobs he sold was to my Junior High principle. And he insisted on taking me along for the ride. So, on the truck ride there, he told me, "When I ask you which carpet sample you like best, you say the green one. It’s the most expensive they make, and I got a friend who can sell it to me dirt cheap." So, I found myself sitting at the dinning room table with my father, whom I was embarrassed of, and my Principle, whom I feared greatly. They went over the same six samples of carpet over and over. Finally, dad turned and dropped the question on me. My voice quivered and cracked out a high-pitched sound that meant, "Tha Greeeeen one, I…I…I like the green one!" I felt my face and ears burning red-hot. If they would have asked me another question, I would have burst out in tears, tears that wouldn’t have been easily explained.

Both men laughed at my awkwardness. But my Principle, shook his head at me, and threw his hands up in he air, "Well, if the kid likes green, it’s good enough for me! Green is as good as anything else! Green! Let’s go with the Green, then!" And I was thinking, did my father know that this man had spent a lifetime trying to make children happy and confident, or did all salesmen know that a non-biased third party was needed to make the sale. See, the buyer wouldn’t believe the salesman, for fear of being overcharged, but a third party, say a little kid, one who shows a distinct preference, well now, the decision seems obvious!

The deal was made. They shook hands on it. And so it was. Then Dad said something that neither he nor I could ever take back. "Say, do you want to go out with us to feed the cattle? We can have a few drinks, and I’ll show you the best dove hunting place in Texas?" And my Principle, still pumping my father’s hand says, "You know, I think a ride in the county would do me good, let’s go!" Things were getting progressively worse. And I knew, from experience, that what would happen was inevitable.

A short time later, I was sitting on my hands, beside my Principle, in my father’s truck. My father had abandoned us behind the swinging doors of the liquor store. The truck engine was off, so we had no air conditioner or radio to drown out the unbearable silence. I tried to look preoccupied by breaking pecans in my fist. It failed; he wanted to know about my grades and how my science teacher and I were getting along. He wanted to know about my brother, which college he was going to, and the name of his apartment complex. But a grown man can only handle so many, "I don’t knows," from a kid. So, after awhile, we just sat in the awkward silence. I prayed for my father to come out and save me. It seemed to be an eternity before he came bursting out the door. He had a big, brown paper sack full of supplies. I knew what was in the bag. It would be two plastic cups, one three litter of coke, and a bottle of whiskey. It didn’t matter, I was just glad to see him. As my father approached the truck, my Principle gave my knee a little shake, "Of course, you know, what happens outside of school, stays outside of school, right!" I was still shaking my head ‘yes,’ when my father fired up the engine and roared off.

A short ride later, they let me out to open the gate. After they drove through, I shut the gate and jumped into the back of the truck. Finally, I was free from both of them. I let out a sigh of relief, and waited for the truck to move. But it took them several minutes to get their drinks just right. It didn’t matter to me, I was imagining a whole separate world that I was living in. I was a Navy Seal, on a secret mission. I was with a posse looking for Billy The Kid. And I had a vivid imagination, because I’ve been on a hundred rides like this before with my father. There was one thing different though, I was usually the one in the passenger seat. But now, my Principle was getting the tired, drunken tour that I’ve endured countless times. I already knew the route we would take. We’d make circles around the pond, he’d point out where the doves land for water, then it was down the fence-line to inspect the wild peppers growing down there, and to finish up, he would point out each and every one of our fifty cows, and how he came about buying them. He would go into great detail about the day, time, and price per pound he paid.

It was really a twenty-minute drive around the whole place, at five miles an hour. But dad could turn it into days, weeks, and even years, as long as the whiskey held out. Fortunately, my Principle couldn’t handle alcohol as well as my father. By the time we got to the twenty-third cow, my principle was puking blood out the window and pissing his pants. Dad had me open the gate, and motioned for me to get into the back again. We drove, swerving between fences all the way back to town. I was shivering cold in the back, as we drove a tire over the curb in front of the Principle’s house. His wife Jan was standing on the front porch. Guess what? She was my English teacher! And Miss Jan walked out into the night in her housecoat. She came up to my father’s window, and he drunkenly rolled it down. The smell of whiskey must have lifted her nostrils, because she quickly stepped back a few feet. The Principle leaned over my father, with puke breath, and yelled at his wife, "Green! We’re getting green carpet! And the hell if you don’t like it!" Miss Jan forced a smile, and looked at me in the back, shivering. "Paul," she says, "maybe we should give Mr. Lark a ride home, and he can get his truck tomorrow." And my father leans half his body out the window and takes her hand…and kisses it, "I thank you, my sweet, but I assure you, that I will be fine." Meanwhile, the Principle is dry heaving out his open door. Miss Jan pulls her hand away and insists, like she does in the classroom, "No Sir, I believe that I will drive you and your son home tonight, and you can get your truck tomorrow." She makes a quick hand motion for me to get into her car, and I go.

The Principle shuts the truck door, and has some man to man whispering with my father. Finally, my dad throws his hands up and says, "This is bullshit!" He jumps out and staggers around the yard for a while before he finds her car. The principle says that he is going into the house to get some sleep, in his slurred speech. Jan tells him to get into the car, and shut up. She picks up the truck keys that my father had dropped. Now dad was leaned over in the front seat, with his arm around Miss Jan; he was talking dirty about having a three-way with her and my mom. And I was in the back seat with my Principle, who was face first against the window; he was rolled up in the fetal position.

Dad started rattling off carpet prices, the difference between good carpet and bad carpet, and other incoherent things. And I wished to the depth of my soul, that he would just pass-out. But no, he said the first thing that came to his drunken mind. He ruined some pretty funny jokes, until we pulled up in our backyard. Miss. Jan actually had to cut him off by saying, "Well, here’s your house. I guess we’ll see you tomorrow." Dad looked lost for a minute, and did another thing, to my horror. He grabbed her hand again and began kissing it. She pulled it away and told him how much she was looking forward to the new carpet. He said something that nobody could understand and opened the car door. Mom was on the back porch, she cut on the light, and it was too much light anyone wanted on this scene. Dad swung his legs out of the car, grabbed the windshield brace and the roof, heaved himself out, and on his feet. He looked like a huge dinosaur, dragging his ass out of a Tar Pit.

Mom stood by the driver’s side window, while dad staggered toward the house, and my principle was snoring and pissing himself in the back seat. Jan and mother exchanged knowing looks. And Jan backed out. I saw the headlights for a while, and then the red taillights moving away from the house. That’s when it happened. Dad stumbled on something in the yard, and fell hard. Mother and I jerked on his arms to get him up, but he was not responding. "Go get Jan! Tell her we need some help!" Mom’s words hit me like a mantle, like I was the only one alive that could salvage the wreck that had been coming for years. Dad was dead, dad was drunk, who knew? Momma wanted me to catch Jan, and I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me. I cut in-between the shed and the house, knowing that she would have to stop at that intersection. And I got two taps on the car trunk before she pulled away from the stop sign. Luckily, she saw a scared little kid waving his arms in the shadows of her brake lights. She put the car in reverse, and backed up slowly.

She found me breathing hard, and unable to speak. "What happened? What’s wrong?" she said, with a puff of cigarette smoke. I felt the dashboard lights on my face as the words came in slow, gasping breaths, "My dad…Dad! My dad…he fell down in the yard! He…can’t…get…up!" I’ll never forget how she closed her eyes and let out a sigh. She never told me not to worry, that this is what adults deal with, or that my father would be fine…she just sighed, and put the car in reverse. I could still hear her husband in the back snoring.

Between her, my mother, and I, we got him into the house. After all the drama, we were tired, worn to the bone. Mother walked my teacher back to her car. Mom was breathing hard, and trying to explain how my father must be ill and how this had never happened before, then Miss. Jan turned around and lifted one finger. It was the same finger that shuts us up, in class. "Darling, you’ll get used to it…or you’ll leave him!" And that was all she said, before she disappeared into the night.

To my surprise, nothing was ever mentioned about that night, not by anyone. I had Miss. Jan’s class everyday and she sent me to the Principle’s office on a regular basis. But this subject was never discussed. I guess we all had the right to bear our own private crosses. And I understand now that I’m older…what is done in the darkness, doesn’t have to be made known in the light. So, the days passed, and the seasons came and went, I went to school, they were happy with their carpet, dad sold other jobs, and the green planet kept it’s pace around the burning star.

Now, concerning my father’s usual mind. Dad dreamed of doing things like opening a grocery store out in the middle of nowhere. I mean, in a desolate, god-forsaken location. And people would come, just because they didn’t believe it was really out there. Then, dad could sell them groceries and have drinks. He also wanted to raise Reindeer, and rent them out around Christmas time. Dad even came up with an idea, to run a taco stand at the local Park and Ride. I can remember him getting me up at four o’clock in the morning, to make tacos and be at the Park and Ride by six. We had a huge ice chest filled with tacos wrapped in aluminum foil. I couldn’t help feeling dad’s anticipation as we set everything up. We had a big sign that read, ‘Two dollar tacos!’ I unfolded some chairs and pulled out the ice chest. We were the only ones in the lonely parking lot. I ate three tacos and fell asleep. Dad woke me up around six forty-five. "Hey, wake up! There’s two cars! Take some tacos over there and tell them that we’ll be here every morning with two dollar tacos!" So, I grabbed a hand full and scurried away with dad’s dollar signs in my eyes. I walked up to an older lady getting out of her car with a cup of coffee and a doughnut. I startled her so much, that she dropped her coffee and reached for some mace. I must have looked strange in my father’s camouflaged jacket from Vietnam, with a cheap hair cut and even cheaper Wal-Mart shoes. She probably thought that I was a homeless man with a knife wrapped in aluminum foil. I started explaining myself to her, trying to calm her fears. I told her that we had a taco stand here now, that we had two dollar tacos and they were very good. By that time, a man walked up behind me and said, "Is there a problem here, Mary?" I tried to explain to him that I was selling tacos for my father, but he cut me off quickly, "We don’t want any damn tacos, and shame on you for scaring the hell out of this nice lady!" I made a beeline back to my chair and sat down. Dad looked at me for a second and asked, "Well, what did they say?" I shook my head and looked at the ground. They said, "We don’t want any damn tacos!" Dad looked at the woman getting in the man’s truck and the other cars pulling in, "They will! Oh yes, they will! Just give them time! Once they taste our tacos, we’ll be catering every wedding and birthday party in the whole county!" He had me run up to at least a hundred cars that morning, but we didn’t sell one taco.

When we got home about nine in the morning, he said, "Don’t worry, boy. Rome wasn’t built overnight. I’m going to get some sleep, you go on to school. We’ll sell out tomorrow. Now, that they know us, they will expect a good taco to be there for them every morning." So, I went to school and slept through all my classes. When I got home dad was still asleep. I went to a friend’s house and got home late. Dad was out. So, I went to bed and set my alarm for four o’clock. And lay down. It seemed that as soon as my head hit the pillow, the alarm was going off. I got up, put on my clothes, and went into my father’s room. He was snoring something fierce, with whiskey on his breath. I shook him a couple of times, but realized that it was a lost cause, and went back to bed with my clothes on. I think my brother took the tacos to one of his beer parties. Either way, I never saw that ice chest again.

While my mother had Night Terrors, my father had these craziest dreams. I can still see his big belly in underwear and undershirt sitting on the side of his bed rubbing the sleep from his eyes, saying, "Damn, I had the craziest dream last night!" He would always tell my brother and I about his dreams. They were always about falling from a great height and landing like a feather, learning a language that doesn’t exist, or aliens coming to Earth in prehistoric times, splicing their DNA with the apes and then the apes having human babies. At least he could get some sleep. I was awake all night listening to my mother’s ankles pop as she paced the floor after waking up screaming.

But the people that my father called ‘friends,’ were the best. You see, to the community at large, my father was still an industrious, upstanding citizen. Not so much for what he did, but for what he was: ‘White.’ We lived in a big house and he drove a fairly new truck. That’s pretty much all you had to do to be considered an up-standing citizen in our town. Hell, when we first moved there, they had actually asked him to run for mayor. Of course, the town dodged a huge bullet by him deciding not run. It was too much responsibility for him. Plus, he found out early, what the town was all about. If dad had become mayor, we all would have been burned at the stake. But he did learn to keep his mouth shut, and be anonymous. Dad got some useful advice one night, sitting in the only bar/liquor store in town. He was gossiping with the rest of them, ragging on people in town when an elderly black man asked to speak to him in private. "I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Lark, but I think you should know something about this town. Don’t ever speak no bad about people in this town. See, they’re all kin to each other. It’s OK for them to talk bad about their kin, but if you repeat the same things, you see yourself in a whole mess of trouble! Mr. Lark, don’t you let them pull you in that trap!"

My father never forgot that sound advice, and wanted to learn more about this black man who had saved him from a lot of trouble. He started going to the bar just to see this man, and gave him rides home at night. His name was Alvin and he was the first black man that I had ever really got to know. From then on, no matter where we went, either to check the cattle or buy some carpet, Alvin was with us. By no means, was it a nigger/master relationship. My father loved Mr. Alvin’s company and Alvin loved being with my father. They were bound by their love of whiskey and joking around. That is where I discovered, or naturally learned that all of us are truly equal. But I soon learned that not everyone felt the same as father and I.

We were showing some carpet samples in the giant house of a respected county judge. Dad told me that he was made fat by corruption. I didn’t know what kind of food corruption was, but I promised myself that I would never eat it. Dad and I were in this huge house, with pool tables, a wet bar, and a giant TV set playing the football game. Suddenly, the judge looked up from the samples and yelled, "Hey, where the hell is that nigger you always got with you, Alvin?" My father sat up straight in his seat and looked around at all the lawyers and school board members. They had stopped what they were doing to hear dad’s answer. "Uhhh…Well, he’s out in the truck, he didn’t feel comfortable coming in here." The judge exploded in laughter, "Get your ass out there, and get Alvin! My Goddamn house is his house, Goddamn it! That’s the grassroots people who I serve, and they get me elected every year! Go get Alvin, hell, what’s going on here? There ain’t no reason for him to sit out there in the truck like a dog, get his black ass in here!" So, my father jumped up and ran outside. I was sitting there with everyone exchanging looks at one another, and whispering about how drunk the judge was. After a couple of minutes, Alvin and my dad walked in. I’m sure Alvin got the speech about how his presence would help sell the job. Alvin was smiling, a few piss spots on his pants, with his hat in his hand, and he sat down. And even I, as a kid, could feel the tension in the room. The judge jumped up and shook his hand vigorously. "Alvin, can I get you a drink or something to eat?" Alvin shook his head no and smiled at everyone. "Bullshit!" said the Judge, "You aren’t leaving my house without a drink in your belly!" Alvin spun his hat in his hands for a minute and shyly said, "Well, if it’s all the same to you boss, I’ll take a Jack and Coke, heavy on the Jack." The judge threw his head back and laughed, "Sure! Sure! Mr. Todd, fix this man a Jack and Coke!" He was yelling over his shoulder at a young lawyer from a neighboring town. And this law school graduate didn’t like it one bit. He shuffled nervously around, rolling his eyes at the other lawyers. And they were saying under their breath, "Fuck that, don’t do it!" But he was the one who was on the spot and tried to play it off by saying, "Come on, Judge! You must be joking, I’m not fixing that nigger a drink!" Then he tried to disappear quickly into the crowd of other lawyers. The Judge’s face got red and he leaped over the couch. He was moving extremely fast for a fat man. The crowd parted quickly, exposing the young lawyer. The Judge grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. His feet were dangling a foot or two above the floor. Dad later told me that this judge had grown up hard, dirt poor, farming and ranching. You know, hauling big square bails of hay and lifting hundred pound bags of feed. Anyway, this lawyer was choking, suspended in midair. The Judge said, "You spoiled bastard, you’ll fix Mr. Duncan a drink, and keep it fresh until Mr. Lark and I are finished with our business or I’ll snap your neck like a twig!" The Judge let him down, and the lawyer choked and coughed all the way to the bar. He brought Alvin a drink and said, "Mr. Duncan, whenever you need a refill, you just let me know." And Alvin said, "Thank you."

And the night went on with selling carpets, playing pool, playing darts, bullshitting one another, and Alvin getting his drink filled after every sip.Alvin sat there smiling, like the fox that was hired to watch the chicken coup. The judge said, "You know why I love you Alvin, because I bet you would take a bullet for Mr. Lark! I bet you would do anything for Mr. Lark!" Alvin took a sip from his drink and nodded his head, "Almost anything, Sir!" And the whole party erupted in laughter.

On the way home, Alvin said that he would give me two pieces of advice that I could use for life, and it would only cost me a dollar. My father was watching me, so I reached into my pocket and dragged out a dollar bill. We stopped at Alvin’s house, he got out and snatched my dollar. As he was slamming the door, he yelled out, "Don’t ever whittle toward you, and don’t ever piss in the wind."

Every time dad sent me into Alvin’s shack, I knew that I would find him dead. He would be lying there in the piss soaked bed, motionless. I could shake him and shake him, but he would only revive after I said, "Alvin, dad’s got some whiskey out in the truck for you! Get up!" Alvin would throw his feet over the side of the bed and scratch his head. It wouldn’t take long for him to venture out into the sunlight for some liquid breakfast. I always knew that I would be the one to find him dead. And I was. It was Christmas Eve, and dad planned to go to the Super Wal-Mart to finish the holiday shopping. All we needed was Alvin. So, dad let me out, and I could see my breath in front of my face as I walked up to the shack. I pushed the screen door open, and stepped in. I went to his tiny restroom and pissed in the frozen water. My urine sat on top of a sheet of ice. I half-heartily nudged Alvin. I could plainly see that he didn’t look right, not like Alvin, more like a mannequin in some storefront window. His piss pants clung to him, frozen solid. I went out and told my father that Alvin was dead, but I said it like it was no big deal. It was the feeling of expecting something to happen for so long, that when it does happen, it’s barely noticed. He told me to get in, and he drove to the nearest pay phone, and called the police, "I think there is a man dead at 306 Coldridge St. And no, I don’t wish to leave my name." Dad hung up the phone, got into the truck, and we drove to Wal-Mart for last minute Christmas shopping. At the store, dad was really picky. He only got half the gifts on our list. He said that one gift a person was good enough, and we drove back to town. Before we went home, dad went by the Funeral Home and wrote them a check to cover the first payment on Alvin’s funeral. The Funeral Director said, "This is the first time I’ve been paid, before I even knew somebody had died!" When he got back in the truck, he complained about going deeper in debt, and how crooked Funeral Homes were. Dad never attended Alvin’s funeral.

Dad killed the pain of Alvin’s death, by drinking more with his other friends. We often stopped by an acre of old cars, and buried automotive parts. Dad and I went there everyday after Alvin’s death. We would follow the little path through the old carburetors and transmissions, until we found an old white man named Tom. He was always covered in grease and dirt. Tom lived in a small trailer behind his shop. He would fix my dad’s truck for a drink of whiskey. Tom drank his whiskey out of an old tin coffee cup. But before I tell you about Tom, I want to tell you about Benny. Benny lived just up the road from Tom, and when he saw my dad’s truck, he’d walked down the street to visit us.

Benny was an old Hispanic grandfather. He had no formal education. I had once written a poem on a piece of paper and handed it to Benny. He held it out before his thick glasses for a second, then handed it back, patting me on the head. "Good, Good!" he said. Later, my father pulled me off to the side, while Benny was taking a piss beside a tree. Dad bent down and looked me square in the eyes, "Benny can’t read, son." Then he patted me on the head and went to fix himself a drink. He didn’t give me an explanation, a scolding, or any instructions. Father knew that those few words were enough. I wasn’t the type of kid who would hop up and down around Benny chirping, "Why can’t you read, huh, Benny? Why can’t you read? I can teach you to read, huh, Benny!" No, I learned my lessons hard and fast as a child. Like the time, my father was talking to one of his carpet layers. They were talking about the job they were fixing to do. I could see the man’s tattoo peeking out from under a shirtsleeve. This Layer had always been very playful with me, and we had a good relationship. I wanted to see it better, so I thought nothing of just reaching up and exposing the tattoo. He jumped back like I had been stuck him with a knife. Both he and my father glared at me, as if I had just farted in church. My dad said, "Hey, you don’t do that! Go wait in the truck until I’m through here! Go, get in the truck!" I was so surprised…that I didn’t know what to do, except walk backwards and get in the truck.

I just sat there for about an hour, waiting for my father to come out. I spent my time replaying the scene, and wondering where I had gone wrong. Finally my dad came out, jumped in the truck, and fired up the engine. He reached over and patted me on the shoulder, "I’m sorry about that, son, but he got those tattoos in Vietnam, and he’s not too proud of them!" He threw the truck in drive and we were gone. But that’s how I learned things, hard and fast. And to this day, no matter how much I am tempted, I’ve never asked anyone to show me their ‘Tatts.’

Benny had wisdom that came from the dirt, not from books. He rolled his own cigarettes and spoke in small poems that should have been written down. My father would say something about our corrupt government, Tom would quote a work poem by Walt Whitman, and Benny…Benny would shake a few rocks in his fist and say something like, "When the bear forgets how to swim, and the bird forgets how to walk, man will be something else, something that is not yet know, may have been before, but not known to us now!"

A whole book could be written about Tom. He fixed cars for whiskey and groceries. Tom was always filthy; if he walked passed me with a clean shirt on and a hair cut, I would not recognize him. Tom was an old German man. He still spoke with a heavy accent. Perhaps he was a first generation American. It was said of Tom that he had moved here from Detroit. He arrived with his wife and children. They walked by a certain piece of property. Tom spoke to the owner about buying it. And the owner agreed, payment by payment, because it was useless for farming anyway. There were too many mesquite trees on it, and the owner figured Tom would clear it, then miss a payment and the farmer would get it back. But he didn’t know Tom. They lived out there on that land for two years, collecting cans and doing odd jobs to make the payments. They cleared all the mesquite trees and the brush, and made side deals for tin and wood to build a shop. They spent their nights cooking rabbit over an open fire and sleeping in tents. Town folk came around with rent houses and spare bedrooms for them to sleep in, but Tom refused and said, "We’re not a welfare case!" He took the blankets and the lumber they brought, but took everyone’s name and number, promising to pay it back in full. The Lutheran Church said, ‘enough was enough,’ and took up a collection for the family. And Tom took their money along with everyone’s name who had given a cent to the fund. They thought it was a joke when he promised to pay them back. But he kept saying that he would fix their cars for free, as soon as his Shop was built.

Once a few acres were cleared and burned, Tom could have started on a house. But he chose to start on the Shop, so he could start paying people back. So the family weathered another winter in tents, while their father tore down barns for free, to get lumber for the shop. All he wanted was the lumber, and the farmer’s were more than happy to have their old barns torn down. Another local church group could take it no more. They took up three offerings, and bought Tom’s family a Travel Trailer. It had running hot-water, a working toilet, and heat. They didn’t consult Tom. They just showed up on the property, with a brand new Trailer. They dug water and sewer lines, and put up a meter loop for the electricity. The Church group gathered around after all their work, and brought out some Pot-Luck dishes and prayers, Tom was busy writing down their names and numbers, promising to repay them in mechanic work as soon as the Shop was complete. And they presented his wife and children with a whole wardrobe of clothes. But Tom’s family didn’t know how to deal with so much attention, and his wife asked him in German, "Are they helping us, or trying to embarrass us? Why do they think we have it so hard?" And Tom told her in German, "I don’t know, but we take nothing for free! We are not beggars!"

Within four years Tom’s Mechanic Shop was the talk of the County. Everyone within a hundred miles pushed, pulled, or hauled their cars to Tom. And he made good on his word. Half of the day was spent working on the vehicles of anyone that had showed his family the least amount of kindness. There were those who took advantage of Tom, of course. They may have donated an old, out of date biscuit, but got their whole tractor over-hauled. Tom spent half his day working on the vehicles that belonged to the people on his list. He spent the rest of the day on paying customers, to pay the rent. His wife and three daughters were perfectly happy in their small trailer and attending public school. The children came home, eager to do their homework and help their mother. The town was primarily Hispanic, but the children were easily accepted, they were clearly poorer than the most destitute Mexican family in town. In fact, even the cruelest of kids would compliment them on the beauty of their odd, hand-made dresses. Many of the townspeople came by Tom’s shop and said that their children wanted to have Tom’s children over for dinner and to spend the night. And they went. And Tom would add a new name to the list.

Within eight years, Tom’s family was living in a huge house in town. They were well respected, and Tom had hired three hands to help him at the shop. He and his wife drove nice cars and their cabinets were filled with food. Tom had paid everyone back, but still fixed cars for people who couldn’t pay. Tom witnessed his girls growing, dating, going to Proms and going off to cheerleader camps. Tom’s callused hands and the grace of God had brought them through. But, as things often do, it all changed in a heartbeat. What had taken eight years or more, if we knew the whole story, changed in an instant. Tom’s wife took the girls grocery shopping. An hour later, a police car pulled up at Tom’s shop, which was no big deal, because Tom did all the police mechanic work for the whole county. So, when a police car pulled up, it just meant more work. But more police cars pulled up. It was one police car at first, then two, then six, then eight. An officer that Tom knew well was suddenly standing over him. He was busy washing spark-plugs in a coffee can full gasoline. "Tom…" he said as the other police officers gathered around him. "Tom…you’re family has been in an accident! We need you to come with us!" Tom was silent for a while. He just kept cleaning his spark plugs. Then he looked up, "Tell the hospital, that I can’t pay them outright, but I will work on their vehicles for as long as it takes to pay the bill." The officer had tears in his eyes when he knelt down beside Tom. He put a hand on his shoulder, "Tom, you’ll have to talk to the Funeral Director about that." And then the other Officers broke down and cried.

Tom rose up, washed his hands in an orange smelling soap, and went with them. Everyone in the county came out to the mass funeral. Tom shook from head to foot when his wife and baby girls were placed in the ground. That was the last time anyone saw Tom in clean clothes. He went back to work, but never returned to their house. After a couple of years, it was sold for back taxes. Tom was often seen, before daylight, changing the oil and air-filters on the Funeral Home hearses. The bill was paid in full long ago, but they wouldn’t tell Tom who had all paid it. So, he did what only seemed natural.

A wealthy family in town had mailed him a letter saying that they would pay the taxes on the house, and they expected nothing in return. Tom wrote a letter back saying, "Thank you, but I can never step foot in that house again. Besides…" He wrote, ‘Way too many cars to pay you back. Please, everyone leave me in peace."

Tom was here now, with my father and Benny, drinking whiskey and living in the old travel trailer. These men never moved, but seemed to dance around the fire, celebrating the Sins of the World. And my dad was a part of this, like the Judaism belief that twelve people, who were once angels, carry on their shoulders all the world’s suffering. But these old angels never knew why they hurt so bad, and they never spoke about it. They just were. Pulled together by the need for one another. And legend says that Indian shamans could suck the illness out of a person. Shamans were built, or wired different than the others. They could take the sickness, when others couldn’t. It was no doubt, that my father was a part of a small tribe; they took on the filth, puke, shit, and heartache of the world around them. Like the Shamans of old, they stood apart from the tribe. While the others were busy with the mundane things of life, like hunting, fishing, and building shelter, the Shamans were seeking The Maker of the deer, fish, and wood.

When I got into high school, I read about the great philosophers of Rome and the questions they asked about life and death. It made no sense to me at the time. I preferred rather to sit at the feet of the three philosophers of my time.

Too many who drove by Tom’s Shop only saw two white man, who were once respected businessmen in town, being taken by the alcohol. There they were, in a junkyard, drinking corn whiskey with a greasy, welfare Mexican. Yeah, that’s what people saw when they passed on by. But, that is exactly what the men wanted them to see. Unapproachfullness and disdain were their covers, their cloaks of invisibility. The fact that people didn’t want to be seen with them was proof of their genius. They alienated all those without a pure heart. If you were filled with pride, vanity, judgment, or any other ego trip…their humble attire kept you at bay. They were, ‘Outcasts.’ And it kept the vain from seeking the wisdom that wouldn’t be understood anyway. To the unenlightened, the truth was veiled as silliness or drunken ramblings. So…the three left the hunting, fishing, and the building of things to others. As for them, they were content, vocalizing or not vocalizing the Demons of Existence. What normal people feel…but quickly drowned out with the distractions of life.

Yes, my father had a bad name in our town, and we grew-up poor, but I learned a secret that is worth the world’s weight in gold. And now I am a grown man, with children and responsibilities of my own. But every once in a while, when I can, I slip away. And I find myself in the office of a small, back-alley bookstore. That is where I sit and discuss the meaning of ‘Pure Illumination,’ with the aged bookseller. And we entertain a few weary travelers along the way. Strangers in a strange land, who’ve haphazardly stumbled upon ‘The Great Secret,’ and how well it goes down with whiskey.