The Letter From A Lifetime Ago by Leslie Roberts About the Author Used by express permission of the author, to whom all ownership rights remain reserved.  No portion of this work may be reproduced without written consent of Gary Reed

CRUFFLER.COM is pleased to share with our readership some of the best in short fiction.  We also encourage you to submit your writing to us for review and publication.  If you wish to submit a piece, please email it to:  fiction@cruffler.com.

The old drunk stepped with uncertainty, each move an adventure in his attempt to make the fifty or so yards from his shanty to the bar. Every few steps,  he’d reach for the bottom of his t-shirt and pull it to his mouth to wipe the spittle,  revealing a huge vertical scar running from below the belly button to well into the chest area. He was a thin, little stick of a man, barely any hair and shaking as he moved; he appeared on the verge of collapse, yet it wasn’t even noon yet.

One of the waiters met him at the door and refused him entry, gesturing then turning him around and shoving him gently towards the sidewalk. The old drunk stood there, perplexed, as if searching for a memory that evaded him; then, with a renewed determination, he took out a couple bills from an old black wallet in his front pants pocket and, holding them aloft, turned towards the frowning waiter and ambled back into the bar. Moments later, the drunk emerged with a brown paper bag in one hand and a lime in the other. Raw sunshine crashed upon his face as he staggered onto the sidewalk, barely missing a passing truck.

“ Oi, Tio, saida meia rua, se bebedo, sai!” the driver called out, shaking a fist as he passed.

The old drunk just stood there, the dust settling softly around him, a bewildered look on his face. “ Puta merda…” he grumbled before again stepping out into the street and wobbling his way towards home, wiping his mouth with his t-shirt every few steps. The shack stood at the edge of a little stream that flowed continually into  the bay.  Third from the bridge, it was a one-room decrepit wooden thing on a
platform maybe three feet off the ground, with open windows and no doors or glass. He struggled up the rotting steps, teetering side to side until he  mounted the final step and stood in the open doorway catching his breath.  Once inside, he took the bottle from the bag and cracked it, taking a long,  thirsty pull,

“ Ah, mim amigo!”

Satisfied for the moment, he carefully capped the bottle and set it down next to a chair by the door, but as he attempted to sit down, he nearly fell over, missing the center of the chair with his butt and almost toppling over before catching himself with both hands on the door-frame. The lime had fallen from his hand and rolled right  out the door, down the steps and onto the sand.

“ Merda…” he growled, staring at it but making no move to get up.

Usually a bottle lasted the better part of an afternoon, if you just sipped and didn’t drink; ah but sometimes a man needed a good drink, and it had been so hot lately, unrelenting. The rains would come soon, he knew, then the drinking would be done indoors, there’d be no more sitting in the sun, stomach and scar spread below the sky. Yes and the tourists, too, and thus his livelihood, everything gone when the season changed, but today there was  still drink, so drink, enjoy!  The bottle was empty sooner than one wanted, and evening found him, as did  most days, asleep in his chair in the doorway, t-shirt pulled to his chin.  A  shout from a passing neighbor roused him from his stupor.

“ Oi, Tio, acorda!”

“ Que?” The old drunk shook himself with a start and looked about.

“Obrigado pra nada, se merda…” he complained, rising to his feet and stretching.

The day was over, he could tell, it would be dinner-time; maybe there was some rice and beans left over from… well, whenever the last plate had been brought and neglected. It wasn’t really his fault he didn’t always eat everything they gave him, sometimes there wasn’t time to eat, things more important, a good bottle, friends, time… He searched the wall for the switch, finding it at last and flooding the
room with angry white light that made it hard to see. He rubbed his eyes and looked about. The single bulb hanging in the center of the room revealed a bed and bench and a few boards along the walls that served as shelves.  Clothing and erupting bottles and jars were strewn about, and a small brick woodstove sat in the center of the shack, spewing ash out its open mouth onto the floor. Cups and a few old utensils were strung on a wire over the  stove, and a picture of Christ as Shepherd hung above a bed littered with clothing and blankets.

He stepped toward the sink, an old washbasin sitting on two milk crates with a hose that served as faucet running through the window; empty plastic bottles sat below and alongside, filthy washrags draped over its sides. No, no food there, he learned, turning around to continue his search and taking in the room. A furry memory kept nagging at him; hadn’t they brought a plate just the day before, or maybe two days before, had he already eaten it, or did the dog… no, the dog was dead, merda, where had he put that plate?
He walked about the room, turning over his possessions in vain. No food anywhere, and he knew he should eat; when had he last eaten? Tired now, he found the chair in the doorway and sat down, cleaning his mouth out of habit. There was nothing to eat, he could see, nothing of any value really, no books or radio, no TV; an unstrung, thoroughly beaten acoustic guitar lay in a corner holding up a towel. The place hadn’t been swept in many seasons.  Not that it needed it, as far as the drunk was concerned. Brooms are for brujas, not for men.

Well, tomorrow he would eat, he’d go to the beach and try the tourists. Yes, there was still sun, there would be plenty of them out there… wouldn’t there? Suddenly he felt afraid. What if they had already left the island and the season was over? Why, he wasn’t prepared, it had come and gone so fast.  An odd thought seized him as he got to his feet: maybe he should have saved a few cruzieros instead of spending it all on… no, drink is an investment, just like food, an investment in happiness, worth any price.

Slowly he made his way down the steps, at last touching the soft sand of the lane with his bare feet, and began walking towards the bay. His shanty was like any other hut along the lane leading to the bay, perched above the rocks lining the creek where the men stood every evening and tried their luck with the nets. Voices coming from the stream told him they were at it again. Lightning flashes in the distance signaled the impending change in seasons but served to light the way for the drunk as he made is way towards the fishermen, hoping there was a little something extra, be it food or drink, for a thirsty, hungry old friend. Soon he found a seat on a rock beside the men and was most appreciative of the bottle that came his way, passing the next few hours there with his companions, enjoying their company
immensely; only in the early hours, the bottles long since gone, did he weave his way back home. Fishing this stream was anything but a reliable affair. Usually it took a  good thirty casts or so before you’d land anything, and then it might only be a crab or small sunfish. For the drunk, who could barely muster the strength to arc his netting past the rocks, fishing was not much of a solution to his hunger, though occasionally he surprised himself, or someone with better luck would take pity on him and offer him a couple under-sized
tainha or even a bucket of sardinhas. Unfortunately, the handouts were becoming less frequent, what with the discovery of a pile of rotting fish dumped behind his house, fish he had forgotten about, he claimed, though the others knew he’d probably been too drunk -as usual- to prepare, a typical enough circumstance but still no less frustrating, for who had endless fish to just waste like that?

Yet he’d somehow survived all these years, however many since his arrival on the island, who could really tell? He’d been there so long, before anyone could remember, but he was never really a burden on anyone; for the most part, he took care of himself, didn’t complain, and never gave people reason to dislike or mistreat him, though that scar he kept showing off on his belly provoked no small measure of speculation. True, he was friendly enough to everyone, gave what he could when he had it to those in need, but there was always a sense of mystery surrounding him, people were never fully comfortable in his presence, no family or friends ever came to visit, no one
really knew anything about him, even Ricardo, his only friend, and that could be disturbing, especially in a place where rumor serves as the town’s news service.  What he could catch in his net, the white rice and beans the women brought by once in awhile, and the occasional piece of fruit found along the way -plus the booze- were his staples. Sometimes, too, he’d sneak a plate of fish untouched by the picky tourists at one of the outdoor cafés along the road, though he could really only make a few hundred yards in either direction of his shack, and that on an especially good -sober- day; in essence he only frequented the same two restaurants, usually Enrico’s for
rum, the closest, or Tony’s Barbeque down the other end of the road, first place you come to, though sometimes as far as Luanna’s Market if the urge should strike, but usually not much further. There really wasn’t any point in going anywhere else. Nights, of course, were spent drinking there at the hut, at Ricardo’s next door, or maybe the pier and sometimes even the beach and a fire, but that was rare, and rarer still since the dog turned up missing.

Old Pepper, grown as feeble as the drunk but a constant and truer companion you couldn’t find. Every day he missed his old friend. They’d been together  so long that seeing him without her as he stumbled about town looked not only odd, but somehow wrong. Gossip and speculation swirled; where did the dog go? Though the poor thing’s body was never found, most people believed he’d neglected little Pepper and she’d finally starved, some other animal had dragged her off, or, as most of the old women insinuated, the drunk had
employed the dog in a nefarious macumba or black arts ritual. Since each day was a blur after it passed, the old drunk, though he couldn’t really be certain and never publicly denied it, refused to accept that he had had a hand in his old friend’s death. But people cling to suspicion and, never popular in the first place, with his faithful dog’s disappearance, the old drunk became even more of a pariah.

Survival, in most cases and wherever you are on the planet, often comes down to money. Since he had no income, during the season, the old drunk would walk the beach-as best he could- demanding change from the tourists, usually procuring enough for another bottle and some smokes, sometimes more.  Tourists are notoriously sensitive to the unsightly; anxious to be rid of the pitiful monstrosity, on most occasions he’d receive at least a few coins, and no one ever really gave him any grief, except once when a German in a wheelchair
violently objected to his outstretched hand, planting the old drunk face-first in the sand, the wheel-chaired man sitting atop him, savagely pressing upon his head until he nearly passed out. Thankfully, that was really the only time his begging had become an issue.

The seasons were changing; days had been gray lately, tourists had slowed to just a few on the weekends. His credit, no good at all now at the bars, had been stretched at Luanna’s and he’d have to come up with something soon if he was going to get back in her good graces. And the women had been less regular in their coming, fewer plates of food and hardly any change, so it took much longer to rustle up the money he’d need for drink than he could remember. Times must be tough for everyone, he mused, if a good-hearted
drunk had to spend the whole of his day scraping for coins. His neighbor, Ricardo, who had been on the island almost as long as he had, agreed with him, things had turned for the worse, even the tiger fish in the stream below the huts, the last resort for the fishermen, were thinner and smaller than in memory. The old drunk had learned to respect the younger Ricardo, who could hold his booze so much better than he, and seemed to understand things where perhaps the drunk didn’t; they were drinking partners, friends in good times and bad, and if Ricardo said it was a sign of disfavor from above, all the machines taking over everything, and this was their punishment, no fish and no drink, then it must be so. Yet how could a man live?

Morning came with a loud shout. “ Acorda, Tio, voce tem uma carta!”

A young boy was waving a piece of mail in the open door of his hut.   Struggling to his feet, he thanked the boy and took the letter, but since his eyes were none too good, he stepped down from his shack and called for Ricardo, who carefully studied the letter, an official request for his appearance before the Justice-of-the-Peace. No other explanation was included, just the date and time for his arrival. They spent the remainder of the day-and another bottle- trying to figure out what it might mean, but no one came up with a satisfactory explanation.  Regular mail was an unusual enough occurrence on the tiny island, but official communiqués from the government were unheard of. The letter and what it meant quickly became the subject of speculation throughout town. Why had he been summoned, what had he done, and when? Was it to criminal charges he would be forced to answer, some civil complaint or long-standing judgment
against him, a debt he’d long forgotten, perhaps an aggrieved neighbor who, in a drunken fit, he’d abused or assaulted? He had no wife or children that he’d ever mentioned, no close relatives, or none that he could remember, for the truth was that in his years on the island, he’d all but forgotten the greater part of his life that had come before, everything a wash of jumbled memory fragments and disconnected scenes and in the end, it did him little good looking back.  No explanation for his arrival on the island, or the scar running along his  belly, had ever made sense to him, no memory came to aid him, and as the years passed, he -and the rest of the islanders- gradually lost interest, until, that is, the appearance of the letter.

The whispers continued: the letter was an omen, a foretelling of doom, only bad could come of it. A fearful pall was thrown over the town, affecting everyone. No tourists came those several weekends before his appearance at court, few fish were caught, and people were unusually short with one another. But the worst luck of all was when the weekly delivery truck somehow slipped off the back of the ferry and everything, including all the bottled water and most of the town’s shipment of beer and liquor, had been dumped into the deep, blue bay. Children couldn’t dive for the cargo, sitting well over sixty feet on the sandy ocean floor, but several fishermen did their best to retrieve what they could, at last hauling up, with hooks and tether, a wooden box with a case of cola and mostly broken bottles of
spring water. Every available reserve of water and booze was hoarded and metered out, and the generally festive mood of the people began to turn as they awaited the next truck. Like a gathering storm that begins with just a few sparse clouds and concludes in a sudden swirl of atmospheric mayhem, many quietly began to blame the old drunk and his mysterious letter for their change in luck, though, too, no one really knew what the letter actually meant, and how could he be held accountable for something he had no hand in bringing to
pass? Still, rumor held sway over reason, and soon open grumbling could be heard wherever people met, the old drunk and his letter the chief subject for the idle and their speculations.

He spent most of his days alone now, a forced sobriety only mitigated upon occasion by the sympathy of a neighbor with a remaining flask. Twice before on the island he’d tried to get clean, but the violence of his body’s refusal, and the lack of compelling reason to live without drink -other than for his ‘health’ and the nuisance of acquiring the means to purchase it- made it easy for him to take it up
again. He could vaguely remember a time, almost another lifetime ago, when he thought his life had been much different, before the scar -but how had he gotten that scar anyway? Ah, memory- when it seemed he hadn’t drank like he did now and maybe he…well, it was all a fog, that life before this one and if he could remember little from it, perhaps it was best after all. Maybe it was meant to be.

Soon there was no drink to be had anywhere on the island; those that had it, kept it, and those without, went dry. These were trying days, tensions high and patience short; everything seemed to be tied to the arrival of the letter. Some even ventured that by opening it, the old drunk had brought a curse upon them all, an idea that grew in popularity as it circled the town. On the night before the next delivery truck was to arrive, a contingent of locals, including Ricardo, came to the old drunk’s hut and offered the remainder of a bottle if he would simply camp that night, under escort, at the far end of the beach, where it was believed no bad spirits held any power, to which he agreed, passing the evening sipping his rum under the nervous, watchful eyes of his guards. When morning came and its inevitable
hangover, he made do by wading into the surf and washing himself, contentto let the truck arrive unmolested without further suspicions of wrongdoing on his part. Plus he had been promised another bottle should the delivery be made without incidence, which it thankfully was.

But those broken days of growing hostility, scant drink and bright, unwelcome sobriety only soured his mood as he approached his court date. He found even less reason to share his thoughts with his fellows down the lane and when he wasn’t drunk, which was less and less often due to diminished charity and few tourists, he stayed indoors in his hut, rarely moving from bed for the aches and fevers he suffered, only water and the occasional sweet bread touching his lips, cautious gifts from the women who were told to stay away but whose compassion towards his plight could not be moved.

Finally the day came for his much-awaited appearance before the court. Once universally ignored, he was now almost feared. Like some exaggerated grand procession, accompanied by what seemed to be the entire town, there at the head of the group in a horse-drawn cart, the old drunk was brought through the streets and carried up the steps into the two-room courthouse with great hubbub and excitement. There, along with Ricardo, he sat down before His Honor, a middle-aged, serious man who came from the mainland once a month and then only for a few hours in the morning, to mediate the trifles and petty squabbles of these backwater heathens.  The Judge was lean and taut, whitened, close-cropped hair with a nearly bald crown and long, puffy arcs of ashen gray under each eye, the stress of too many hours spent pouring over manuscripts and pages meant only for his eyes. On this particular morning, he seemed impatient and anxious to have things concluded quickly, rattling his fingers against the desk as he read the brief before him, the entire crowd breathing in hushed anticipation. As soon as this business was over, as was his custom, he would take in a delicious shrimp-and-potato lunch and, time permitting, enjoy a visit with one of the local girls who so freely gave themselves to those of importance.  Everyone was packed into the small courtroom. The Judge, taking note of the pressing throng, set the brief aside and asked the old drunk the meaning of
his coming with all these unrelated witnesses. Stammering out a reply, knowing so many eyes were upon him and all with such vested interest, he replied that they were here, one and all, to help him understand what was happening, being old and poor of sight and hearing. His Honor, not privy to the gossip surrounding the letter, let loose a short stream of tirade, allowing only one witness of the old drunk’s choosing to serve as interpreter if he wished but all the others immediately to void the building. This was met with rousing disagreement but the two policemen appointed sergeant-at-arms quickly dispersed the crowd, leaving the old drunk and Ricardo seated, while the others were allowed to stand outside, pressed close and in a pack against the glass doors.

“ Isso nao vai demorar (this will not take long),” the Judge said at last, satisfied that his courtroom was arranged appropriate to his specifications.

He then read a rather long, officious statement which said that he, the Judge, was required to read upon the issuance of the completed trust, which had now come due and, after the various fees and taxes had been extracted, was to be presented to the old drunk, should, of course, he agree to the minor conditions.

The old drunk sat dumbfounded, pulling his t-shirt to his mouth as he sat and thought. A trust, but from where? He scanned his memory for who might have bought it for him and when, but nothing came to stir his mind and it was clear the Judge was eager to conclude the matter and issue the old drunk his funds and be done with it. Through the open rear door of the courthouse could be seen one of the local girls sitting on the hood of the Judge’s car, shoeless and kicking at the sand, her envious girlfriends catcalling from a distance. Yes, the Judge had better things to be doing and the matter was but a simple one: sign the papers, and the court turns over the check.

How long had it been since he’d signed his own name? Shaking and with a nervous laugh upon placing the pen in his hand, the old drunk scribbled his signature-as best as he could recall- and sat in amazement as one of the policemen brought over the check and placed it before him. When he dared to look at the actual amount, he was astonished. How could this much money be his? Ricardo leaned over and examined the check, muttering to himself; the crowd outside, seeing the paper there on the table and the two old men looking at
each other in clear amazement, began excitedly babbling amongst themselves.

The Judge understood that, for a fragile old man to come into such a large sum so suddenly, and in his condition, in no time he’d be robbed of everything and probably killed. Surely the money would attract every unscrupulous operator in the area; someone had to be appointed to assist over the old drunk’s new fortune, and quickly. Folding his papers into his briefcase, he looked at the old drunk and knew that, like it or not, it was within the scope of his responsibilities for him to intervene, for the good of all.  The Judge motioned to the policemen to approach the bench; after a short conference, he addressed the old drunk, asking at first what his plans for the money
might be, to which he received an incoherent reply, the drunk all but saying he didn’t really know. Then, as understandably as he could, the Judge suggested the proper course of action ought to be the immediate hiring of a reputable accountant, of which he could recommend one or more, and the investment of the funds in something safe and conservative by which the old drunk could draw upon and live out his days in relative ease and comfort.

To this suggestion, the old drunk seemed more than agreeable. Yes, someone who understood money and what to do with it, yes, that was sensible, but might he first have a small amount to take care of immediate needs?

(The text shall be translated into English)

“ Why, it’s your money,” the Judge replied. “ Do what you like with it.”

“ Then I’d like some money now,” the drunk said. “ Afterwards your friends can hold it.”

“ But that’s not how it works,” the Judge said, growing impatient. “ You must deposit the money first, set up your accounts and handle the transactions legally.”

This the old drunk couldn’t seem to understand. He sat licking his lips and then drying them across his sleeve, staring down at the check but not touching it. His thoughts were not coming as they should. If he was younger, maybe, but he was old now and the best thing to do, why, that just wasn’t clear. Nothing, in fact, was clear. No, he’d prefer some money now and not be bothered by what happened after. As long as he could go to the bar when he needed and take care of friends who’d stood by him -yes, that, too- the rest did not matter.

“ Are you aware how much your check represents?” the Judge asked. “ This is a rather unusual amount of money, and you must follow the rules of banking, you cannot just demand your money and be done with it.”

Ricardo tried to explain to the old drunk that they had no choice, they had to first go to the bank, then the money would be his. The drunk, flushed with excitement, and fear, never having dared to imagine himself the owner of anything approaching such wealth, sat quietly, trying to come to terms and sort out a plan. And where had the money come from? Well, no matter, it was here and best be spent properly. Ricardo, the Judge and the two policemen waited while he pondered. After a moment of thought, the old drunk stood and, check in hand, declared that, yes, he would like to go to a bank and begin this business of the money, only he’d like to take his friends outside with him to celebrate his luck and show them all he and his letter had not been a curse but a boon to everyone. Why, maybe he could even help pay for the repairs to the ferry, was there enough money in the check for that? The Judge nodded, yes, more
than enough, and seeing that the old drunk was now coming to his senses and beginning to operate logically, agreed with his decision to go straight to a bank but, as gently as possible, suggested he ought to wait until he had returned after his business was concluded and then begin the celebration and plans for the spending, however he chose.

“ I strongly advise you not to say anything to your friends until it is safely deposited and you have returned,” the Judge cautioned.

Ricardo agreed, the drunk slowly understanding the Judge’s careful statement.  Shaking his head, the old drunk announced at last, “ I will do it.”

With that, the Judge rose to his feet and stepped towards the back of the courtroom, smiling as he stepped through the door to greet the waiting girl.  The last the old drunk saw of the Judge, as the door closed behind him, was the lecherous man, with an arm around her waist, pulling the pretty girl to his face. The two policemen, taking the initiative in the Judge’s absence, suggested a car should be summoned to take the old drunk to the nearest bank on the mainland without wasting another moment.

“ And like His Honor said, if I were you,” the elder of the two cops said, “ I’d be mighty careful who I told just exactly how much you got there, if you know what I mean.”

The old drunk shook his head. Yes, he understood, he would wait to reveal his great secret and put everyone’s fears to rest later, when he returned.

The younger cop, blond and tall, asked to see the check. “ I know what I’d do with that money, why, I’d…”

But the old drunk, having placed the check in his front shirt pocket, ignored the boy and, reaching for Ricardo, whispered something in his ear.  Satisfied with Ricardo‘s reply, both men embraced. Beaming, the old drunk asked the elder cop to open the door, where he stepped out only to be surrounded by the shouting, anxious horde. Questions came pounding at him, but before he could utter a word, there arose from the back of the crowd a chorus of impatient, angry demands.

“ What did it all mean?”

“ What was in the letter?”

“ What did you put in your pocket, tell us, tell us now!”

The old drunk stood amidst the chaos, faces, excited and fervent, all pressing in. Frightened yet feeling a strange, almost magical calm, he raised his hands above his head and asked for silence that he may speak.

“ Some good news has come, good news for everyone and I am going to help us out, the whole town shall benefit, you’ll see!”

His answer satisfied no one.

“ But what is it, what happened, why can’t you tell us?”

Ricardo answered for him. “ It is best we leave the details out for now, let’s just say."

“ Tell us, we have a right!”

“ You brought a curse upon us, you must tell us!”

“ No!” Ricardo replied, shaking a finger in the air. “ It was no curse but a great gift, a gift for all, everyone will know soon enough, in good time. First we must go to the mainland and then afterwards, everyone will know.”

He gripped the old drunk’s arm and tried his best to make their way down the steps, but the crowd was tight and would not let them pass. One of the cops had radioed for a taxi to be brought by ferry, but it might be another hour before it arrived and there were no other cars on the island save an old Jeep that barely ran, so they would have to wait there with the crowd. The old drunk, when the cop told him this, never lost his smile, clinging to Ricardo and calling out over and again as he stepped amid the crowd,

“ Good news, my friends, it is good news for all!”

At last they reached the base of the steps where they could go no further, so many people, nearly the entire town now gathered to find out for themselves what the old drunk’s letter meant. The elder cop and Ricardo formed a barrier on either side of him, and all three stood on the last step and waited, the sound of people all about, murmurings and questions peppering the air. For the first few minutes there below the courthouse, the scene was excited but controlled; occasional shouts or questions could be heard amidst the burbling gossip, but for the most part, people were composed. The old drunk, glowing with pride, smiled to anyone who asked and, wiping his mouth every so often with his shirt, kept repeating,

“ It is good news, the best news but we all must wait, please, everything will be explained.”

Visions of the good he would soon bring to everyone -and the vodka and rum, and in what quantities, never a dry day again!- filled his thoughts and swelled his chest. Yes, this was a good day after all.  An old woman, one he’d rarely seen and never having talked to, purported to be a bruja of some renown, appeared at the edge of the crowd and pushed her way forward. A new chant rang out.

“ She knows, the Seer knows!”

“ Tell us, tell us what his secret is!”

The old woman, studded with beard and darkened by the sun, held up a withered finger, pointing it towards the drunk. Everyone hushed.

“ His secret… surrounds his scar!”

She turned and withdrew without another word, the crowd parting as she passed, returning with greater vigor to surround the old man and his protectors, anxious and having lost its patience.

“ Tell us, tell us about the scar, why are you waiting, why can’t we know, what are you hiding?”

Someone shouted, “ He’s running away, they’re bringing a car for him and he’s running away!”

“ No!” Ricardo implored. “ No, it’s not like that, we do have to go to the mainland first but then we’re coming back and then you’ll see!”

“ Tell us why, you cannot leave until you tell us why, tell us the secret of the scar!”

The crowd, enraged, was close to riot. The older cop pushed away several people pressing close to the drunk, who’d tired of standing and
had sat down on the steps, frightened by the violence he could feel threatening to explode around him.

This was all too much, and no one would listen, no one would believe him. For the first time in his life -that he could remember anyway- something good had finally happened to him and, not being a selfish person, he’d quickly thought of how his fortune could be turned to the greater good of the people he cared for most. He’d never been able to adequately explain his arrival at the tiny resort town, nor the huge scar that bisected his chest and belly. He had always been treated as an outcast, with scorn and derision, or roundly ignored, and he’d learned to live with it and adjust and make a life for himself there on the stream running down to the bay, out of everyone’s way and careful not to make enemies or offend.  And now this money, and with it, the changes he could bring. The ferry could be repaired, maybe even the dock, why, perhaps a new road and, too, some new shacks along the stream, shacks for all his friends, something close to real homes, built for one and all, why, anyone who so needed, he would help, he’d turn no one away. The money was not really his anyway, how had he earned it, and what did it have to do with his scar? No, it was a mystery why it had come to him at all; in his mind, it was money for the island, in his name perhaps but to be spent for everyone.  These thoughts had been buoying him since he’d walked out into the open day on Ricardo’s arm and so swept him up that it came as a shock, the idea that the people, his friends and neighbors, might not understand his intentions or think he would act in any way with selfishness or against their best interests. It finally occurred to him that, to avoid further confusion and even resentment for his silence, it was his duty to explain what had happened. He would reveal the details of the letter, settling upon the task of confessing to the crowd then and there, if that was what they asked. Yes, for his friends, he must explain. Perhaps it should have occurred to him sooner. A drink, he knew, would surely have helped him come to his senses
quicker. Ah, well, soon enough. He stood again and raised his arms. The crowd barely turned down its volume, raw anger now sweeping amongst them. His first few words were lost in the mayhem.

“ …old woman, but please listen,” he said as the noise died. “ I do not remember how I got this scar but it does not matter, I want to share with you."

But the rest of his speech went unsaid. A tidal wave of resentment crashed amongst the crowd and nothing he could say or do would make any difference. Shouts, inches away, came with direct threat,

“ Liar, you are evil, it is a curse, the bruja was right, liar!”

Protesting, Ricardo was violently yanked to the ground by an arm ‘round his neck, the policemen sent this way and that, pushing and swinging, the old drunk left unprotected, isolated and alone in the eye of the storm. Suddenly he, too, was shoved to the ground, cries of,

“ Evil, he’s a liar, he’s evil!” all around and closing in.

“ No, it isn’t true,” he tried to say, struggling to his feet, “ I’m not evil but. . ."

The first bottle hit him flush against the temple, exploding amidst a flash of green and red. Blood coursed down his side and along his chest. The old drunk gasped, spitting red steam, too much blood to stop. Another bottle, then a boot to shut out the light, another boot and fists and soon, the sun and the day, all of time had been blackened out. There were so many attackers, all coming at once, and to the battered, confused policemen attending the dying drunk, who could they arrest if everyone had played a role? One moment, the entire town swarmed over the old man like angry bees; the next, like smoke on the wind, they were gone. Ricardo lay on the steps, more dazed than wounded, unable to do anything but watch his old friend die. He found it hard to even look over at him, but at last reached for his hand, though the life had already left his body. The old drunk’s clothing had been nearly shredded, the scar on his chest fully revealed, blood and marks all over his upper body and face. In their blind rage the crowd had overlooked the check, which lay folded and soaked with blood in his front pocket. The policemen gently lifted the drunk’s body into the courtroom, covering it with a sheet of canvas discovered out back. The ride to the mainland would be stopping now at the morgue, a shorter tripthan the bank.

The unsigned and blood-spattered check was retrieved and turned over to the Judge, who was found at a nearby café along with the pretty young girl. The entire situation disgusted the judge. In such cases where there are no living heirs, the Judge would be forced to turn the money over to the State, a disheartening development, knowing the money would be quickly gobbled up by greedy bureaucrats. His lunch and subsequent dalliance with the girl irretrievably interrupted, and with a mixture of impatience and pity, he
followed the taxi onto the mainland and waited for the coroner to conclude his report.

Strange, thought the Judge as he sat in the coroner’s office, here was a man who had once been everything the world might call successful, yet seemed to have no memory of it, nothing. Amazing that the old drunk, when his mind was still whole, had had the good sense to put some money away in a long-term bond specifically for his post-surgery recovery -an odd stroke of forethought- then forget all about it, in fact, forgetting all about the life he once had, wandering off to some desolate island to live like a broken pauper. What had happened between then and now? How had he gone from executive to indigent?

Ah, that wretched drink; what a shame, what a waste.
 
 
 

HOME