Implication

A shaggy head poked out of the tent flap, the white hair and beard like old St. Nick.  His puffy, red-cheeked face scanned the perimeter and popped back inside. 

“All clear,” Scotty said.  “Let’s get out of here.”

“Hold on,” Buck said, straightening up the bedding strewn on the dirt floor.  “We’ll go when I say so.  Help me clean this place up.”

Scotty stuffed an armful of soiled clothes back into an orange crate.

“I know it’s here somewhere,”  Buck said, opening a rusted coffee can stashed behind the bed.

“You surmise it’s here.  Doesn’t mean it is.”

“Don’t give me that surmise crap,” Buck said.  “You saw him same as me.  Jake wears that T-shirt and gym shorts when he goes down for his bath.   No place on him to carry a stash.”

“But he’s too paranoid to leave something valuable unsupervised.”

“Maybe so,” Buck said, as he pulled a hunting knife from his belt and pried the lid off of a five-gallon plastic pail.  Inside were two books, some newspapers and a box of friction matches.  Closing the lid, Buck froze.

“I heard something,” he said.  

Scotty peeked outside.  “He just turned up the path.”

Slipping out of the tent they slunk from Jake’s clearing and followed the path away towards the railroad tracks.  

“That was close,” Buck said, wiping sweat from his red-rimmed eyes as the two men clambered onto the tracks.  “We best go into town and stay there for a while,”

“Hold on a minute,” Scotty said,  puffing.  “You think that’s a good idea, us going to town together?”

“Hell yeah.  If Jake notices somebody’s been in his tent, we don’t want to be nowhere around.”

“Think about it.  You and I don’t go to town together.  And when I go in I usually take my bike.”

“You’re right.” Buck rubbed his stubbled beard.  “You go back.  I’ll head into town.  That way nobody can put us together and we’ll each have an alibi.”

“I wouldn’t call it an alibi, not without corroborating witnesses.”

“Alibi or not, we better split up.”   

Scotty nodded. 

“Let me have a chaw for the road, would you?” Buck asked.

Scotty pulled a plug of tobacco from the pocket of his stained gray sweatpants.

“Thanks partner.” Buck reached for his knife.  “Where is it?”  he patted the empty sheath and searched his pockets.  “My knife -- it’s gone.”

He ran back to the spot where they had climbed onto the tracks and searched the path.  “It’s not here,” Buck said.

“Where did you have it last?”

Buck sat down on a rail and scratched his head.  “I slipped the knife in my belt on my way to take a leak this morning.”

“Did you have it at breakfast?”

“I used it to open that can of beans.  And then I…  I had it at Jake’s. Used it to get the top off that pail.”

Scotty blinked his eyes.  “And?”

“That’s when you saw Jake coming and we skedaddled.”

“You sure you didn’t put it back in the sheath?”

“I just can’t remember,” Buck said.

Jake trundled up the path from the river, his black brow a shelf over his ominous  dark eyes.  His rangy hair and scraggly beard gave him an unkempt appearance. But Jake was fastidious by local standards, faithfully taking his morning sponge bath.  He was the only man at the outpost to do so.   

The occupants of the tented enclave had adopted “the outpost” as a fitting name when Scotty had showed up five years ago.    He was good at finding the right words for things, a former educator, Scotty was the brightest of the dozen men that called the outpost home.

The outpost was perched on a wooded hillside a mile outside of town.  Just over the hill to the north was the interstate highway.  To the south lay the railroad tracks, a river below them.  The only way in was the rail bed, followed by a climb up a steep slope.

Jake halted at his tent.  The bottom corner of the tent flap was unhooked from a twig he had placed there as a security measure.  Had a breeze blown it loose? 

Just inside the tent flap Jake found a plastic cup on its side, spilling the twigs it contained.  The bed roll was too neatly laid out, the clothes crate sat at an odd angle.  Reaching for his coffee can, Jake stepped on something – a hunting knife.  Picking it up, he noticed a chink in the blade at the hilt.  He pulled a small brown wad from the chink, touched it to his tongue, then sniffed it. 

“Those bastards,” Jake croaked.  “We’ll see about this.”

Scotty made his way back up the hill.  Through the slanting rays of morning sun, wisps of smoke rose from the campfires of two nearby tents.  No one was stirring, just another quiet morning, with no sign of Jake.  Scotty ducked into his tent and stretched out on his cot.  His hands behind his head, he stared at the backlit, blue tarpaulin roof and  considered the situation. 

Better if I hadn’t heard about that check Jake got or seen him walk out of the bank with that thick envelope.  Ignorance is bliss, Scotty reflected.   Now a dangerous greed had been awakened and Jake was not someone to trifle with.

The outpost community knew only two things about Jake’s past.  One was that he came from out west, near Seattle, because he talked about the fish there.  The other was a story that came from a hitchhiker who had passed through a year ago.  This guy knew Jake from somewhere and had let on how Jake had been incarcerated ten years ago for manslaughter.  Jake was livid when he found out what the guy had been saying.  But no more was learned about it because the next day the man was gone and not heard from again. 

I should have kept my mouth shut, Scotty thought.  Once Buck got wind of Jake’s money, he wouldn’t let it go.  We had to go in there and toss the place.  Now Buck’s gone and lost his knife, Scotty scoffed, shaking his head.  If he left it at Jake’s there will be trouble, that’s sure.  But what if he lost it somewhere else?  We would be in the clear. 

Scotty decided some reconnaissance was in order.

“Hey, Jake!” Scotty said, approaching the tent.  “You in there?”

“Who is it?” Jake replied.

“It’s Scotty.  I’ve got a new plug here and thought you might want a taste,”  he said, pulling the tobacco from his pocket and wiping spittle from his chew-stained Santa beard.

“Come on in,” Jake said.

Scotty lifted the flap and stooped into the tent.  Jake was sitting on his bed whittling something in his lap.

“Have a seat,” Jake said, indicating towards a plastic pail.

Scotty handed his tobacco to Jake and sat, the pail making three sharp snapping sounds as the lid resealed itself.  Jake’s head turned towards the sound with a faint  crooked smile.  Reaching into his lap, Jake retrieved a pen knife and cut off a chunk of tobacco, lifting it to his mouth with the blade. 

“Tastes pretty good,” Jake said, sniffing the plug and returning it to Scotty.  “What kind is it?”

“Cannon Ball.  Hard to get sometimes.”

“I like it,” Jake said, resuming his whittling. “You’re partner over there, Buck, you fellas been running together quite a while, haven’t you?”

“Almost three years.  That’s a while.”

“Know each other pretty well, huh?”

“I suppose so, as far as it goes, you know, rooming with a guy.”

“One the boys asked me, ‘What’s Buck’s last name?’  And I said, ‘darned if I know.’  I been here almost two years and I don’t remember hearing the name.”

“It’s Walker.  Buck Walker.” 

“So that’s it.  Well, mystery solved,” Jake said, continuing to carve, thin curls of wood dropping to the floor. “You guys are running mates, aren’t you?”

“I guess so,” Scotty said, growing uncomfortable.  He’d never heard so many words out of Jake at one sitting.

“Like the Lone Ranger and Tonto.  Find one, and the other fellow ain’t far behind.” 

“I don’t know, I go to the library three or four days a week.  Buck, he never does.  And he frequents that girly bar over on Broad Street, and that isn’t my thing.”

“I see what you mean,” Jake said.  “But besides that you guys are together a lot.  You eat together.  Go down to the river together.  Sleep together.” 

“What’re you getting at?”

“Nothing, just commenting.”  Leaning closer, Jake said, “Tell me, Scotty.  Are you Buck’s ol’ lady?”

“Huh?  What are you talking about?”

“Are you boys close like that, you know, homo?” he said with a wink, sitting back, his lip curling.

“Are your nuts?” Scotty said, rising to his feet.

“Calm down.  I’m just pulling your leg.  Here…” Jake said, reaching into his back pocket and producing a bottle.

“Take a pull on this,” handing the fifth of gin to his offended guest.  “No harm done.”

Sitting, Scotty took a long draft, draining a third of the bottle.  Jake picked up the wood he was whittling and examined it closely.

“I need a bigger knife to finish this,” Jake said.

Reaching into the crate next to his bed, he retrieved a hunting knife, watching for a reaction out of the corner of his eye.  Scotty fidgeted in his seat and blinked his eyes, reaching for his tobacco.

“Ain’t she a beauty,” Jake said, holding up the knife.  “Lucky me, I found it down by the river this morning.”

“No kidding?  That is lucky,” Scotty said, biting off some tobacco, his mind racing.  Buck wasn’t down at the river with that knife. 

“Well, I should move along,” Scotty smiled, wiping his lips with the back of his hand and pulling at his beard.  “Thanks for the drink.” 

Scotty ducked out the tent.

Laying down his whittling wood, Jake picked up the pen knife and began carving on the handle of the hunting knife.  When he had finished carving, he scratched a pinch of dirt from the floor, rubbed it into the carving and polished it with some chaw spittle.  Jake turned the knife to examine his work, the rosewood handle deeply engraved with: ‘BW’.

It was near dusk as Buck reached the outpost.  The air was smoky from cooking fires and there was movement throughout the camp.  Back at their tent, Buck found Scotty asleep on his cot, his back to the door, with a blanket pulled up snugly over his head.

Buck downed a couple of swigs from his water jug and said, “Scotty, where you got that tobacco, partner?” 

Scotty didn’t answer.  Buck helped himself to the pockets of a heavy flannel shirt he found hanging on a peg above Scotty’s bed, but found nothing.

“Wake up, would you?” Buck said, giving the sleeper’s shoulder a shake, with no response.

Shaking him again, Scotty’s body rolled towards Buck, his vacant eyes staring at the blue roof.  A prominence showed under the blanket a few inches below the chin.  Buck pulled the blanket down revealing a knife, the blade plunged to its hilt in the center of his best friend’s chest.  On the rosewood handle he read the initials ‘BW’.  

“What the hell?” gasped Buck, his throat constricting.

He felt the neck for a pulse and turned to leave.  In sudden impulse, Buck pulled the knife from the body.  He ran out the door to dispose of the weapon by tossing it down the hillside towards the river.  Buck turned to make sure no one was looking and he froze, his heart thumping in his chest.  Jake was walking across the clearing with two policeman in tow,  gesturing in the direction of Buck and Scotty’s tent.

Buck dropped the bloody knife behind him, kicking at it awkwardly.  It tumbled a few feet and came to rest on the edge of the path.

Buck sank onto a log outside the tent and sat, his head in his hands.

© 2012 Craig Roberts

Undue Influence

“Arnie, you have a customer waiting for you in the break room,” the receptionist said.

Arnie took a sip of coffee and stood, vigorously rubbing his large hands into his scalp then smoothing out his thinning grey hair.  Walking down the hall he tugged at his belt stuffing his disorderly shirttail into his pants under his prominent belly.

Arnie Miller owned Acme Masonry, a mason’s supply shop selling to local contractors in northeast Pennsylvania.  He was a small town operator with thirty years in the trade.

“Good morning,” Arnie said, entering the break room.

“Are you Arnie Miller?” asked the stranger, a man of average height and build, wearing a pork pie hat, brown leather car coat, black pants and black shoes.

“Right.  Can I help you?”

“Yes, you can.  My name’s Louie.  I’m from Jersey.”

Arnie nodded.

“You do business with a friend of my mine.”

“Who’s that?” Arnie asked.

“Pauli D.  He’s a builder.”

Pauli D’Angelo was a general contractor, operating under the name Excelsior Homes.  He was aggressive with an overbearing demeanor, which he attributed to growing up in Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan.  Pauli had hit town on a roll, well-financed with three condo projects on the books, which he’d taken over from a contractor who had busted out. 

“Sure.  I know Pauli,” Arnie said.  “Have a seat,” gesturing to a chair and pulling one out for himself.

“No, that’s alright.  This won’t take long.” Louie shifted, clasping his hands in front of him at his waist, his Rolex watch prominently in view.

“Okay.  What can I do for you?”

“You made a phone call to a third-party.  And now, because of that call, my friend can’t do what he wants to do.” 

Arnie paused, studying the man’s face.  Louie tilted his head and stared back from under the brim of his hat, his pock-marked face was expressionless and still.

“That’s a nice hat,” Arnie said. 

“You think so?” Louie tilted his head to the other side, an eyebrow raising. “I’m here to ask you to make another call and undo what you did.”

“It’s not that simple. Pauli and I have a deal… ”  Louie raised his hand, waving off Arnie’s reply.

“I don’t want to get into that,” Louie said.

“But you want me to make a phone call.”

“That’s right.”

“You don’t understand.  Pauli’s been talking to Allied Concrete.  Those guys are bums, making all kinds of lame promises and...”  Louie waved him off again.

Arnie was selling pre-formed concrete stoops and patio pavers to Excelsior, moving a couple thousand units and making good money.  Pauli never quibbled about the price.  But after six months he wanted a piece of the action, demanding ten-percent of Excelsior’s purchases to be kicked back to him personally, off the books and in cash.  That put two or three grand a month in Pauli’s pocket.

Arnie was a little queasy about that arrangement, but he went along, afraid of losing the account.  The kickbacks had gone on for eighteen months without a hitch.  Then two weeks ago Pauli came up with a new demand.

Allied Concrete had gotten to Pauli and cooked up a scheme to over-bill Excelsior by thirty-percent on each order.  Allied would split the over-billing with Pauli fifty-fifty.  Pauli wanted the money but didn’t want to change suppliers, so he pitched Arnie on Allied’s scheme.

Arnie had gone along before but he drew the line at phony billing.  That was fraud and he wanted no part of it.  Instead, Arnie offered Pauli another five points to sweeten their kickback arrangement.  But Pauli wasn’t going for it because he figured the phony billing would net him another five thousand a month.  

They had reached an impasse.

That’s when Arnie decided to use his influence.  He had an exclusive territory with the distributor for the stoops Pauli was buying.  So Arnie called the distributor demanding they honor his exclusivity and decline any orders from Allied.  The distributor agreed and Allied was shut out.  Arnie would keep Excelsior and Pauli all to himself.

 “I’m asking you politely,” Louie said.  “Make the call.”

“You kidding me?  Excelsior is a good customer and I want to keep it that way.”

“Mr. Miller, you’re not listening to me.  You need to make a call so my friend can do what he needs to do.”

“You want me to give up my contract and hand it to Allied?  That’s what you’re asking?” 

“That’s right.”

“Why would I do that?”

Louie shrugged.  “Because I asked you.”

Arnie huffed and shook his head.  “I’m going to talk to Pauli and clear this up.”

“No need.  It’s a done deal.  Now it’s in your best interest to make that call.  Understand?”

Arnie shrugged.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Miller.” Louie turned to leave.

Arnie followed him out, wanting to say something but not knowing what.  As Louie exited the building Arnie turned to the receptionist, “What was that guy’s name?”

“Louie,” she said.

“Last name?”

“Just Louie.  He didn’t give his last name.  I thought you knew him.”

“Never saw him before,” Arnie said.  He went to his office, his stomach doing flip-flops and his face feeling hot.  Looking out the window he watched the late model Lexus coupe with Jersey plates pull out of the lot. 

Arnie’s head was spinning.  Who does this guy think is he is?  How do I even know he’s a real wise guy?  Maybe Pauli put some punk friend up to this.  So I’m going to roll over because some guy with a hat and a Rolex tells me to?   If he’s for real it could be serious trouble for me.  Should I call my lawyer?  The cops? 

Arnie sat at his desk and drew a deep breath.  He picked up his phone and made the call.

Alkie Insight

“Go ye therefore, and teach all nations.” 

As a Christian, I'm responsible to share the good news of Jesus Christ with those who have not heard.  But how can I reach someone at that level?  Is it possible to speak genuinely with a stranger about their personal life and what they believe?  Can I interest someone I don’t know to consider the Bible for solutions to their deepest life questions?  I had struggled with these questions for years.  The answers eventually came in an unexpected way.

“Hello, my name is John and I’m an alcoholic,” the speaker said.  “The first time I got drunk I was thirteen years old.” 

Over the next sixty minutes, sitting with twenty other people in a fire hall meeting room, I heard my own story being told as the speaker unwound his tale.  Although the characters were different and the story set in another time and place, it was my story nonetheless.

John continued, “For the first few years I mostly drank my father’s booze, anything we had in the house.” 

In an addiction recovery meeting, the speaker tells the story of a struggle with addiction,  which builds a bridge of common experience with the audience.  As John spoke I was drawn to listen closely, frequently nodding my head, affirming the narrative’s authenticity.

“I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin,” he said.  “My insides didn’t match what I saw on the outsides of others.  Alcohol became my equalizer.”

My close identification with the story created a connection and a sense of intimacy.

“Whether at work, at home or with friends, I needed a few drinks just to function.  It got so that I was either drinking, thinking about my next drink or drunk.”

About halfway through his talk, John said, “I realized I could not go on.  My life had become unmanageable and  I was desperate.  Somehow, something had to change.” 

I was hooked.  John was describing the desperation that had brought me to the meeting that night.  Like a dry sponge, I soaked up every drop as John shared his recovery experience.  I stayed after the talk was over, met some people and came back again the following week.  I continued to listen and, over time through their stories, I began to make changes in my life.  Why?  Because as I got to know the stories of the people in those meetings and I wanted what they had – sobriety.

My own story is that I came to faith in Jesus Christ as a young man and later developed a serious drinking problem that eventually led to my involvement in addiction recovery.  I am grateful for the recovery experience and have been sober for seven years.  Surprisingly, it was through addiction recovery that I discovered how to better communicate on a spiritual level.  My alcoholic friends taught me to build bridges of mutual identification with people by sharing my own shortcomings, just as John had done for me at that first meeting.  Two principles emerged that I have applied to sharing my faith. 

First, my primary job is to listen. 

‘If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a clanging cymbal.’ 

For many years I had been a clanging cymbal.  In conversation, I could be classified as an over-active listener, responding point-by-point to what the other person was saying.  Eager to share my thoughts, I often did so in the middle of the other’s sentences, even to the extent of running commentary.  My intent may have been good, but the trouble was, when my mouth was open, my ears were closed.  Recovery meetings taught me to listen quietly, absorbing information without comment.  As I listened more closely I realized that many conversations didn’t require me to say much of anything.  Sometimes just listening was enough.

The second principal is to lead with my weakness.  Scripture sets forth numerous paradoxes – the first will be last, and the last first; the poor will be rich; the foolish will shame the wise – and biblical paradox inserts itself here also.  When talking to a struggling person, it is in my own weakness that I can be strong, for in my own struggles God has met me and applied his strength.  

In answering the call to “Go ye therefore…” I don’t need to stand on the street corners of life, clanging away at passersby, I need only share my experience with people.  Our lives are texts, the experiences of life form for each of us our own unique narratives.  By telling my story  – how it was, what happened and how my life is different today – I can be a witness to the redemptive power of Christ.  It doesn’t require a graduate degree in Biblical studies to share the good news, only an open ear and a willingness to share weakness. 

When someone tells me about their struggles, their fears or failings, I listen for shared experiences.  Perhaps a few pages from my story relate to their situation.  They’re probably not looking for someone to tell them what to do, or tell them if they’re right or wrong.  To communicate at the heart level with struggling people, it’s far better to show them through glimpses of my story what God’s mercy and power has done for me.

Thanksgiving

Thank you for family, for my children and the promise the future holds.  

Thank you for parents that gave as best they could that I might grow well and prosper.  

Thank you for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  May I never forget the privilege you have bestowed on me, that I might call this country home.  

Thank you for my countrymen who work hard and steadfastly honor their commitments.  

Thank you for our defenders, those special few among us who dedicate their very lives for our well-being.  

Guard those who face the tide.  Uplift the weary.  Shelter the weak and nourish the poor.  Use my hands wherever I am able.

Help me to stand in Your strength, to cherish right character, and to honor the gifts You have lavished upon me through how I live my life.

Childless America

If there were no children there would be no playgrounds.

No cartoons.

No penny candy.

No diapers.

No elementary schools.

No little league.

No training wheels.

No guilelessness or perfect trust.

No greeting cards drawn in crayon.

No bubble stuff.

No hair ribbons or little dresses.

No Santa Claus.

No Happy Meals.

No Mother’s Day.

No nursery rhymes.

No baby teeth or tooth fairies.

No baby shoes.

No footy pajamas.

No wonder.

More than a cost factor or ledger balance. More than an impingement on plans or convenience. Children are a blessing from God. A mirror of who we are and a window into who we can become. They add richness and purpose to life. They are Mankind’s legacy and hope. They, more than we, are our reason for being.     

Selah

[Selah (Hebrew): a musical mark, an instruction to pause and listen, to contemplate]


The Universe is infinitely great, mirroring the quantum vastness inside every atom.

Universe and atom, each turning with their own perfect precision: order, structure, harmony; under the dictate of laws laid down by their unseen Sovereign.

Measure the span of height and depth, heat and cold, light and darkness, motion and stillness; the totality of Everything.

Every bit, every particle, each crumb in existence is internally in endless, vibrant motion, yet having form and substance.

Massive and timeless: an iceberg, a mountain, a planet; they remain steadfast and unshakable belying the churning motion within.

Matter takes form, an entanglement of particles like beads on a string, laid up strand upon strand.

Each bead seemingly without substance: full of infinitesimal space, a blur of energy and sub-particles spinning in constant orbit; like a galaxy inside a raindrop.

O Lord, our Father. How wonderful this Your handiwork. You spoke the neutrino and the star into being.

One day, freed from our limiting veil of flesh, we shall sit at Your feet and see the vastness of Your Creation with You.

Selah.