daneallred

CHAPTER FOUR

At the police station, Officer Jones looked at John with the RCA Victor dog head-tilt. “You found this out on the railroad tracks?”

John nodded his head.

“I was out jogging and saw the train,” said John. “I talked to the detective, who said cash had been stolen, and right after the train pulled out I saw this package.”

“So, how do you know there is money inside?” Greg Jones was serving in a small town, but he wasn’t slow. His good friend John started to shuffle his feet.

“Uh… I did open the package and look inside, but when I saw it was money.” John lied, “I wrapped it back up and brought it here. I guess that’s bad for evidence, with my fingerprints all over it.”

Greg liked John, but still wondered at the story. “The train came by hours ago, and you’re just bringing it in now?”

John blushed some more. He had expected kid glove treatment from Jones, who he had known for over 10 years. Greg was a favorite speaker at the high school.

“Sorry, I guess I should have brought it in right away.” John moved his hands in the air to look convincing. “But I wanted to shower and get cleaned up before I came in.”

The honest looks and the past history he had with John persuaded Jones to believe. But he still wanted to try one more probe. “Maybe you thought about keeping it instead of turning it in? That’s quite a pile of cash.”

John’s mind was racing. Was he really that transparent? Did Officer Jones suspect that money was missing? Was it better to pretend that all the money was still there? Greg hadn’t done more than a cursory glance at the package, so he wouldn’t be suspecting any money was gone. Or was he? Would it be better to try to convince Greg that the bundle had been faked before he found it, to throw off the cops? Decisions, decisions.

“I don’t think it’s really full of money,” John finally sighed. “I was tempted at first, but when I opened it up and flipped through a few bills, I could see that the rest is just paper.”

Officer Greg Jones acted surprised as he looked. He had been planning to return the money to the bank personally and gain some recognition for his small town, maybe get a reward, a reward for John and maybe get a raise from the city council. He did just as John thought he would, and pulled the brown wrapper off and looked at the stack, flipping the edges.

“You’re right, there’s mostly paper here.”

John looked at his long time friend and asked, “But if no one claims the bundle, do I get the money that is real? It looks like there’s only really about eighteen hundred dollars.” Jones looked up after counting the outside bills and flipping into each stack.

“There is only $1800, you’re right,” Greg said as he smiled at his friend again. “You must have counted those a few times.”

John blushed again, but it worked to effect. “Yeah, I checked it out pretty thoroughly. I hope it doesn’t screw up the investigation.”

“Tampering with evidence. Punishable by 3 to 5 years in the pen.” Greg tried to look serious, but found he was smiling and waved off the concern. “Don’t worry, John, this really is normal behavior. People are curious, and really don’t usually have any criminal intent. We think we know who did this anyway. The real question is where the rest of the money went.”

Officer Greg Jones looked at John Graham, who only shrugged his shoulders. It was the moment of truth, and John wanted this look of curiosity to look sincere. “Is there supposed to be a lot more?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry about it,” Jones replied. “And yes, if no one comes to claim this money, it’s yours after 90 days. But don’t get your hopes up. There was a bank robbery south of here earlier today, and they have the serial numbers. I would bet this is theirs.”

John looked up. “So, probably no reward either, huh? Well, is there anything else you need from me? I guess I’ll go home and tell Reba we just lost $1800 in cash.”

Jones nodded. “That’s all I need for now. But maybe it would be better not to tell Reba the amount.” They both laughed, and John went out the door.

John found himself smiling as he left the tiny police station – really just a two room shack. He was smiling the smile of the deliberate, slow and careful person he now perceived himself to be. His plodding behaviors were crossing over into his thinking, and now he was “plotting” as well as plodding. He believed he had conned his friend, and might be spending a great deal of money in the very near future.

To himself, he thought, “Well, one foot in front of the other. I guess we’ll see what happens.”

To get back to Ridgeway, Ray would have to get some more cash. Tonight. The easiest place for him to hit would be a gas station, since they were cash rich and the smaller ones were usually only staffed by one employee.

Ray had robbed over 30 gas stations during his 49 years stint of living by his wits and a little bit of force. He had served time for only 3 of these robberies, and had learned much more to refine his technique while talking with other inmates during his all-expenses paid “vacations”.

Tonight would be a “hit and run”, especially appropriate since he had no transportation and would have to run as fast as he could to get away. He had been “inspecting” several gas stations locally, and had decided on one that had a small forested area nearby which would aid in his flight.

For his weapon of choice, he had invested in a sharp electricity-testing tool; actually buying it at a local automotive store. No sense in getting arrested lifting something that only cost three bucks. Ray expected to make over $2000.00 tonight with the help of his little three dollar friend.

Ripping off the electrical connections and pocketing the tool outside the store, Ray walked back toward the gas station and took cover in the trees nearby, knowing that the longer he waited this night, the more money there would be in the till. And the darkness would aid him if he would be patient and wait an hour or two. But if he waited too late, he knew it would be easier for the cops to flush him out, since there wouldn’t be anyone else around to confuse their search. An hour or two would be fine.

Mike Shepherd bounced his head up and down, “head-banging” to the heavy metal music which the boss let him play, as long as it wasn’t too loud. It was incongruous – the music was meant to hurt your ears with its volume, but could still produce the happy feet Mike liked when he listened to metal.

This was a good job for a high school student. Three or four nights a week in the gas station gave him spending money, a gas “charge” account (which came out of his check every two weeks), and access to lots of music time. Sitting around gathering money and then counting it at night beat the old days when attendants had to pump the gas, and with very few other things to buy in the station, there wasn’t the confusion of having to worry about selling drinks, food, and other items like at other stores. It was a simple business, and judging from the stack of money he placed in the safe each night, the owners were happy to keep it simple.

His best friend Eric had got him this job, recommending him to the ancient boss who didn’t hear so well. Training had involved both of them working together for one night, while Eric explained the gas reset controls, the safe, the restocking of oil, the cleaning of windows, the expected pleasant behaviors towards even the biggest jerks who might show up that night to pump their own gas.

Mike had so much information crammed into his head that night he was trained he had bounced his head off the glass-plated sliding door of the cashier’s booth. Hard. He had been carrying two oil cans when he went to cross through the booth to the other side. Through a closed door. He had such inertia going that the impact had knocked him back three to four feet. Both Mike and Eric had a good laugh about it. There was a lot to learn in only one night of training, and the rising bruise on his head helped remind Mike to open the door next time before crossing through.

That had been almost a year ago. This was not the most demanding job in the world, but he was happy to do it, listening to his own choice of music. His long hair swayed and bounced as he marveled at being paid for sitting on his butt for eight hours.

Ray had watched Mike rock out in the small booth, and waited for dark. Lit like a torch, the booth and Mike were on display for anyone who drove by, but this road was not as traveled as some Ray had scoped out. Now that it was dark, and most of the commuters were safely home after their long day at work, the business at the pumps slowed to a crawl. There was a customer every five minutes or so, and that would be plenty of time for Ray to take care of business. If all went well, he could be in and out in less than two minutes.

Ray walked up to the gas station palming the sharply pointed metal calmly in his coat pocket. He was about to pull it out when a car approached for gas. It was self-serve, so the guy got out and started to pump. Mike Shepherd opened the cashier window and greeted Ray.

“Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

Ray looked at the car pumping gas. Looking back at Mike, he muttered something about using the restroom. Mike pointed to the back of the lot, where a separate building held the “facilities”. The company policy was to let customers use the toilets, and if the attendant was feeling generous, to let others use it, too. Though the sixties were long past, Mike viewed himself as something of a hippie, and had the social concerns for the indigent appropriate to that social segment.

“Out in the back, man”, he said, tossing Ray the key to the door.

Mike continued to rock on, feeling justified in his social concerns of helping to equalize the societal inequalities, and turned up the volume a little.

Ray watched from a crack in restroom door while the customer paid with a check. He then emerged with the resolve to do this now, before another interruption came by. The cold metal dagger in his hand fit perfectly across his palm and up to his index finger, so he was confident he would be able to hide the weapon from everyone but Mike, who would be the only one to see the slender spike of steel in Ray’s hand.

As he approached the booth, he took the key and held it out with his left hand, intending to keep that hand in the window once it was opened. Mike blithely grabbed the key and stuck it on its appropriate metal screw to hang from the front of the booth. As he looked back, Ray had his arm in the booth, with his other hand just outside the window holding something that looked sharp.

“Give me the money in the till, and the twenties you have under it. I’ll take any bundles you have already made up, too.”

Mike looked back at the eyes of the man he had just befriended. An incredible sense of betrayal began to well up inside of him, but looking into those eyes immediately banished any protest. The eyes were unwavering and serious, with no hint of compromise. Mike reached into the drawer and pulled out a stack of ones.

“Forget the little stuff. Give me the big bills.”

Still stunned at his first encounter with violent crime, Mike began to shake. He pulled out the stack of twenties, about three hundred dollars worth. “Now give me the stuff under the drawer,” growled Ray, quietly, as if someone nearby might hear. Ray looked about slowly to see if they would be interrupted.

Mike grabbed the fifties and stacks of twenties he had made. They were instructed to put five twenties into stacks and put them under the drawer as they received them, although at this moment Mike was thinking it would have been a better policy to put them in the safe. But then again, you never know when you might need change for a hundred dollar bill.

There were five or six stacks, with another half-dozen fifty and one-hundred dollar bills. Ray could see he was only going to net a thousand, but with $100,000 waiting for him in another town, he decided to cut his losses and not have the kid get into the safe. Besides, the kid was starting to shake pretty badly, and that was when things usually began to go wrong. The cash would fit in his pockets, and then he could run.

“Quick. Give it to me,” Ray barked, making Mike jump. He dropped one stack and began to bend over to pick it up. “Leave it, and give me what you’re holding.”

Mike, in slow-motion it seemed to him, handed over $1300 to Ray. As if to emphasize the seriousness of the moment, Ray held the shaft of the tool in his hand, exposing the dagger. “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be watching, and I don’t want you to call anyone for five minutes.” Ray backed away and after 25 steps, disappeared into the thicket of trees to the west. Mike’s eyes were transfixed as he watched his attacker walk slowly backwards. Then he slowly looked down at his hands and noticed he was shaking.

His pacifist roots also shook loose at that moment in the realization that he had just been robbed. The station policy was to not resist when a robbery happened, but it had never happened to Mike before. It felt like someone had just kicked him in the stomach, and as his blood began to heat, the money became not the station’s money, but his own money, which he had just let a greasy little man escape with into the woods.

Logic and reason lost their appeal as Mike unlocked and threw open the sliding doors and ran into the woods after Ray. There was no reason to try to get the money back, but the sheer terror of the moment had been replaced with anger, and a desire to tackle the short guy. That single thought drove him forward on his young legs. Mike was in considerably better shape than Ray, and in moments had overtaken him. Mike jumped onto the back of the smaller man, and wrestled him to the ground.

Ray had never been chased and caught before in his countless robberies, and was in fact, used to getting away without any trouble. The excitement of the moment must have distracted Ray as well, since he didn’t even hear Mike approaching. All he felt was the sickening thud as two bodies thrashed to the ground in the leaves.

Mike had never been a fighter, so he had no idea what to do now that he had Ray on the ground. Ray, however, had spent his life scrabbling for bits, and the fighting instinct took over. He fought almost without thought, and though Mike was bigger and stronger than Ray, it was only moments before Ray was pummeling Mike with his fists.

A kind of frenzy took over as the blood began to flow from Mike’s face, which seemed to change. Ray then saw the face of his brothers, saw cruel cellmates, and saw the face of oppression. The rage swelled as Mike stopped caring about the money and was fighting to protect himself, and thought only of escape. He flailed out at Ray, scratching and punching as best he could, but mostly Mike was just trying to dodge the punches.

As Mike dragged his fingernails across Ray’s face, blood oozed out slowly. The pain of the scratches were the final blow, and with renewed energy, Ray grabbed Mike’s long hair, pulled him up, and took the spike of steel in his other hand. Turning Mike around, Ray stabbed the short piece into the base of Mike’s skull.

Mike’s body went limp and collapsed to the ground.

Ray was pulled down with the body. Then he let go of the hair. Blood was running down his cheek, and his bottom lip was beginning to swell. He could taste blood in his mouth, and the anger he had felt continued for a good while. Slowly, he backed away from the body and looked around in the trees.

No one had seen this. Ray doubted anyone had even seen the robbery. He took a deep breath and backed away a few more steps.

He rubbed the blood from his face and gathered his thoughts. He needed to get away from here as fast as he could, and the bus station was only a few blocks away. He could get cleaned up there and find out when the next bus was going to Ridgeway. “What a stupid kid,” Ray thought to himself. Stupid to get killed for money. This would complicate matters a bit, but for the money that waited for him in the near future, this inconvenience wouldn’t stand in his way. He had killed before and not been caught.

Another dead body would make no difference.

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Chapter Four

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by Walt Whitman

As I walk these broad majestic days of peace

(For the war, the struggle of blood finish'd, wherein, O terrific Ideal,

Against vast odds erewhile having gloriously won,

Now thou stridest on, yet perhaps in time toward denser wars,

Perhaps to engage in time in still more dreadful contests, dangers,

Longer campaigns and crises, labours beyond all others),

Around me I hear that éclat of the world, politics, produce,

The announcements of recognized things, science,

The approved growth of cities and the spread of inventions.

I see the ships (they will last a few years),

The vast factories with their foremen and workmen,

And hear the endorsement of all, and do not object to it.

But I too announce solid things,

Science, ships, politics, cities, factories, are not nothing,

Like a grand procession to music of distant bugles pouring,

triumphantly moving, and grander heaving in sight,

They stand for realities--all is as it should be.

Then my realities;

What else is so real as mine?

Libertad and the divine average, freedom to every slave on the face

of the earth,

The rapt promises and lumine of seers, the spiritual world, these

centuries-lasting songs,

And our visions, the visions of poets, the most solid announcements

of any.

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As I Walk These Broad Majestic Days

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by August Strindberg

She had noticed with indignation that girls were solely brought up to be housekeepers for their future husbands. Therefore she had learnt a trade which would enable her to keep herself in all circumstances of life. She made artificial flowers.

He had noticed with regret that girls simply waited for a husband who should keep them; he resolved to marry a free and independent woman who could earn her own living; such a woman would be his equal and a companion for life, not a housekeeper.

Fate ordained that they should meet. He was an artist and she, as I already mentioned, made flowers; they were both living in Paris at the time when they conceived these ideas.

There was style in their marriage. They took three rooms at Passy. In the centre was the studio, to the right of it his room, to the left hers. This did away with the common bed-room and double bed, that abomination which has no counterpart in nature and is responsible for a great deal of dissipation and immorality. It moreover did away with the inconvenience of having to dress and undress in the same room. It was far better that each of them should have a separate room and that the studio should be a neutral, common meeting-place.

They required no servant; they were going to do the cooking themselves and employ an old charwoman in the mornings and evenings. It was all very well thought out and excellent in theory.

"But supposing you had children?" asked the skeptics.

"Nonsense, there won't be any!"

It worked splendidly. He went to the market in the morning and did the catering. Then he made the coffee. She made the beds and put the rooms in order. And then they sat down and worked.

When they were tired of working they gossiped, gave one another good advice, laughed and were very jolly.

At twelve o'clock he lit the kitchen fire and she prepared the vegetables. He cooked the beef, while she ran across the street to the grocer's; then she laid the table and he dished up the dinner.

Of course, they loved one another as husbands and wives do. They said good-night to each other and went into their own rooms, but there was no lock to keep him out when he knocked at her door; but the accommodation was small and the morning found them in their own quarters. Then he knocked at the wall:

"Good morning, little girlie, how are you to-day?"

"Very well, darling, and you?"

Their meeting at breakfast was always like a new experience which never grew stale.

They often went out together in the evening and frequently met their countrymen. She had no objection to the smell of tobacco, and was never in the way. Everybody said that it was an ideal marriage; no one had ever known a happier couple.

But the young wife's parents, who lived a long way off, were always writing and asking all sorts of indelicate questions; they were longing to have a grandchild. Louisa ought to remember that the institution of marriage existed for the benefit of the children, not the parents. Louisa held that this view was an old-fashioned one. Mama asked her whether she did not think that the result of the new ideas would be the complete extirpation of mankind? Louisa had never looked at it in that light, and moreover the question did not interest her. Both she and her husband were happy; at last the spectacle of a happy married couple was presented to the world, and the world was envious.

Life was very pleasant. Neither of them was master and they shared expenses. Now he earned more, now she did, but in the end their contributions to the common fund amounted to the same figure.

Then she had a birthday! She was awakened in the morning by the entrance of the charwoman with a bunch of flowers and a letter painted all over with flowers, and containing the following words:

"To the lady flower-bud from her dauber, who wishes her many happy returns of the day and begs her to honor him with her company at an excellent little breakfast--at once."

She knocked at his door--come in!

And they breakfasted, sitting on the bed--his bed; and the charwoman was kept the whole day to do all the work. It was a lovely birthday!

Their happiness never palled. It lasted two years. All the prophets had prophesied falsely.

It was a model marriage!

But when two years had passed, the young wife fell ill. She put it down to some poison contained in the wall-paper; he suggested germs of some sort. Yes, certainly, germs. But something was wrong. Something was not as it should be. She must have caught cold. Then she grew stout. Was she suffering from tumor? Yes, they were afraid she was.

She consulted a doctor--and came home crying. It was indeed a growth, but one which would one day see daylight, grow into a flower and bear fruit.

The husband did anything but cry. He found style in it, and then the wretch went to his club and boasted about it to his friends. But the wife still wept. What would her position be now? She would soon not be able to earn money with her work and then she would have to live on him. And they would have to have a servant! Ugh! Those servants!

All their care, their caution, their wariness had been wrecked on the rock of the inevitable.

But the mother-in-law wrote enthusiastic letters and repeated over and over again that marriage was instituted by God for the protection of the children; the parents' pleasure counted for very little.

Hugo implored her to forget the fact that she would not be able to earn anything in future. Didn't she do her full share of the work by mothering the baby? Wasn't that as good as money? Money was, rightly understood, nothing but work. Therefore she paid her share in full.

It took her a long time to get over the fact that he had to keep her. But when the baby came, she forgot all about it. She remained his wife and companion as before in addition to being the mother of his child, and he found that this was worth more than anything else.

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An Attempt At Reform

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Proclaim Thanks

What is “Abundance”? It is a chance for you to celebrate with me this incredible universe, where we are given 3 million seconds a year to spend as we wish. We may have to work during some of that time, we all have to sleep, eat, travel from place to place, and perhaps do other things we might not really want to be doing. I hope you are doing those things which bring you happiness and joy.

If not, it might be time to re-examine what I believe is an incredible opportunity for you to find out why you are here, what it is you are supposed to accomplish, and how you are to bless the lives of others. It really isn’t just about ourselves, but being happy in what we do is one component of the plan of this universe for you. I believe we all live in a time of incredible abundance, and with all of the creativity and potential of the billions of people here on this earth, we can all find a way to find our own individual purpose.

Why do I try to proclaim thanks here each week? I want to show you how a grateful attitude can open your eyes to the abundance which surrounds all of us. I celebrate the 1001 things I am thankful for in my list of 1001 Thanks, so that you might start to proclaim a thankful attitude for all that you have. I try to share with you the ups and downs of my life to show it isn’t all a bed of roses. But maybe when we look back on those terrible times, we might be able to laugh about some of them, but at the very least, be glad for the strength we had to make it through the especially tough times, to the better times today. The real message might be that even if today looks especially dark and gloomy, we have experienced those kinds of days in the past and survived. We have grown and strengthened our resolve to succeed, to help others succeed, and to offer thanks for even the smallest success.

Robert Byrne once said, “The purpose of life is a life of purpose.” I also believe this, but I want to modify it a bit and say the purpose of life is a life on purpose. This means we are doing what we do because we have chosen to do what we are doing. You may not want to go to work, but you may choose to go to support your family, to earn a living, or maybe to pay your bills. This is a choice, and we make it every day when we awaken. But unless we know why we are doing what we do, we may still be asleep, walking through a life which seems to have purpose, but is only a connected series of events.

I know you wouldn’t enjoy the things I do. They are for me. I’ve been given a set of skills and talents, and when I use them in a productive way, I get a feeling of peace and happiness. You might think it strange to enjoy mowing the lawn – you may even curse the time you spend doing it. But I know I have to do it, or pay someone else to, and I’m much too cheap for that. So I have decided to make the best of this weekly summer chore by paying attention to the job at hand, but also celebrating the following facts: I am healthy enough to work the mower; I have the disposable income to buy a mower; I have a lawn, I have the time to mow; The lawn grows mostly without my supervision and makes my home more attractive; I have a home. I think you can see why my list of 1001Thanks is really just a few notes about the incredible abundance which blesses my life. Have you stopped to consider the abundance in your life today?

I hope you are doing something to help others, because this may be the best way to show our thanks for all we have, and also the best way to find out how much we really do have. My mother is a volunteer at a local hospital. She loves the work, and throws herself into it. A hospital administrator once introduced her as an employee. She corrected him, and said she was a volunteer. She didn’t want the pay, but she does want the satisfaction of doing for others. If you have been able to help others, you will understand it really isn’t about an hourly wage, but about a personal feeling of fulfillment.

What is “Abundance”? It’s all about learning to say “Thank You.”

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Proclaim Thanks

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This is the broadcast from April 11th.

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Food

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CHAPTER THREE

Captain Greg Jones sat fiddling with his holster as the phone rang. “There has got to be a way to fix this thing,” he muttered under his breath, wondering how long the latest bruise from his gun would take to disappear. “Captain Jones speaking.”

“Hey, Greg, this is Harold from the big city! How’s the ‘burg?” Harold Smith never let a chance go by to harass his old high school buddy.

Jones smirked into the phone. “Smitty, here the air is clean, I haven’t shot my gun in a month, and the only bruise I got this month was from my holster turning my pistol into a hammer – on my hip.”

“You country bumpkins really know how to rub it in, man,” said Smitty, as his friend interjected another barb.

“How’s the leg hole?” inquired Greg.

Now Smitty was smirking as he thought back to the six months he had just spent rehabilitating a gunshot wound to his calf. “Good as new,” he lied into the phone. Greg knew it was a lie, and let it slide.

“What’s the occasion? I never hear from you anymore,” the small town cop said.

“Just a head’s up. We’re calling all the towns along the rail line to be on the lookout for some bank money. You remember, that big guy you helped us with on the train?”

“The ‘brains’ of the operation?”

“This oaf walked into a bank and got the teller to find $100,000. We think,” continued Smitty,” that they dumped the money somewhere along the tracks.”

“They?”

“Yeah, we’re looking for a small guy,” said Harold Smith, wondering how many more calls he would have to make like this today. “At least compared to the big guy, who we got off the train, the other guy is small.”

“The big one talking?”

“Yeah, non-stop about his kitty and the trip he was gonna take with his friend Raymond.” Smitty let the name sink in.

“Short guy named Raymond. Got it, Harold,” said Jones, letting the dig sink in. Smitty hated being called “Harold”.

“I knew I shouldn’t have said this was Harold.”

“You love the attention,” said Jones. “But I better let you go – lots of miles of train track to call.”

“Yeah. Thanks for reminding me.” Smitty chortled to himself. These small town cops really had it made. “Give me a call next time there’s a murder.”

“Ouch.” Jones kneaded the leather of the holster again. “I’ll call when we get our next moose sighting.” Jones hung up and wondered if there would be another incident with the local moose herd this year.

John Graham had a problem. There was no way he could keep the money, but there was no way he was going to give it up. Dueling with his conscience, he found that if he rationalized long enough, there was usually a middle ground where reason was not too shaky and ethics were somewhat satisfied. But where would that middle ground be with $100,000 sitting in front of him in a neat stack of bills?

If he turned the whole amount over to the cops, the bank would get it. If he kept it, his greed would never let him rest. Even now, he was having a struggle trying not to involve Reba, and only because he knew she would be the moral compass that she always was. He could hear her in his head, “Take it to the police. Now. Right now.”

But moral relativism was winning out today. They had struggled for so long with so little reward for the good they were doing in the community. Everyone knew school teachers don’t get paid enough, and if there was a magic way to bless the lives of two dedicated education employees like themselves – well, you just don’t kick fate in the groin when offered a gift. Perhaps the bank would write off the loss and the insurance company would pay the claim, and no one would ever come to claim the money. Right. That was never going to happen.

But in the convoluted paths of mystery and intrigue that were crowding John Graham’s brain at the moment, a brilliant solution was beginning to form in his head. He thought back to when he had first unwrapped the bundle, and noticed the 10 or 20 bills that surrounded the hundreds of other hundred dollar bills. At first, his mind registered disbelief and convinced him that there really wasn’t an entire bundle of bills, but that someone had made a fake bundle with just the outside bills being real.

And John Graham had created just enough stage props to understand how to make the bundle that looked like it had $100,000 in it.

So after three hours of cutting paper and hand dying it over the sink, the bundle, once retied, looked exactly like when he had first opened it. He had kept the brown paper wrapping of the original, and once again, sat looking proudly at the newest addition to the Graham home. A brick of mostly bogus bills, still consecutively numbered except for 18 bills which were now a stage prop. An $1800 stage prop, but still a prop ready for the performance John hoped would convince Officer Greg Jones down at the local police station. Satisfied with his afternoon of work, he now turned to the large stack of real money. Where to hide it for a while?

Raymond Johnson had a problem. There were two pressing urgencies he needed to take care of, but he was uncertain which to handle first. Not the fastest thinker in his third grade class, Ray had devised a system to help him make decisions. He didn’t realize he was using the same system Benjamin Franklin discussed in his autobiography, but that was just a sign of a good teacher in his past who had passed the idea from the book by Franklin into the brain of Johnson.

He sat at the diner eating his banana cream pie, which he noticed, had no banana pieces in it. But the large amount of whipped cream more than compensated for the lack of real pieces of fruit. Even though the waitress had given him a strange look when he ordered double whipped cream, Ray found unless he asked, he never had enough whipped cream. “A little pie with his whipped cream,” his mother used to say.

In front of Ray was a paper napkin with two columns. One was titled “Tommy” and the other “Football”. Ray was just paranoid enough to not write the word money, even though the robbery had taken place over 100 miles away. All the local newspapers had carried the story, with a giant photo of Tommy smiling as he held up his ID number for his arrest photo. The list for “Tommy” was not as large as the list for “Football”, and it looked like the money would be the very next thing Ray would take care of. He had less than $20 in his pocket, and would have to make some sort of “arrangement” tonight for another kind of “withdrawal”.

He liked Tommy, and realized that it was wrong to desert Tommy on the train, and probably just as wrong to leave Tommy in jail. But busting him out would get them both put away, and with both of them in jail, who would get Tommy out? Plus, Ray was seriously contemplating the loss of an excellent “business associate”, who would be dependable to get the job done without asking too many stupid questions. A partner who didn’t care how much of the take he was able to keep, a partner who would never be trusted by the police or attorneys to testify credibly in court. The list was long, and almost persuasive.

The nagging doubt about someone else finding the money first, or the police finding the money were the deciding factors for Ray. He knew where it should be, and the faster he got back to “Ridgeway”, the faster he could come back here and wait quietly for the police to release Tommy. Ray figured that there was no way for the cops to convict Tommy since he was not responsible for his own actions, and no one would want to take care of the big lummox anyway. So when the release came, Ray would be right there to scoop up his valued partner.

Besides, without the money, neither Ray nor Tommy would be going anywhere soon. Ray pushed the empty pie plate back from the counter and left a quarter tip. He needed to go get that money now. But first he would need to make “some arrangements” for some traveling money.

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Chapter Three

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FOOD IN TRAVEL

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

IF to her eyes' bright lustre I were blind,

No longer would they serve my life to gild.

The will of destiny must be fulfilid,--

This knowing, I withdrew with sadden'd mind.

No further happiness I now could find:

The former longings of my heart were still'd;

I sought her looks alone, whereon to build

My joy in life,--all else was left behind.

Wine's genial glow, the festal banquet gay,

Ease, sleep, and friends, all wonted pleasures glad

I spurn'd, till little there remain'd to prove.

Now calmly through the world I wend my way:

That which I crave may everywhere be had,

With me I bring the one thing needful -- love.

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Food In Travel

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This is the complete episode from April 11th.

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Escapades

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CHAPTER TWO

Tommy sat in the railroad car turning the bundle over and over again in his hands. Smaller than a shoebox, it contained something very solid, and the brick seemed to weigh almost ten pounds. A strong and very tall man, Tommy had no problem hefting the weight in his hands, tossing it up and down, then from side to side, then rolling it over from top to bottom, then back again.

Ray didn’t have the patience that seemed to come naturally with Tommy’s mental challenges. Although easily amused, it was also easy for Tommy to irritate Ray. “Give me that, you idiot,” Ray whispered to Tommy a bit too loudly, since the other three passengers in the car looked up to see if Ray was going to reprimand his big friend again. Ray smiled and asked a little too politely, “Could you give me that for a minute, Tommy?”

“I like playing with it, Raymond.” Tommy held the package close as if protecting a pet. “It’s like a really heavy football, and I feel like I’m one of those catching guys on the football team.”

The little girl, the girl’s mother and the businessman turned to look at Ray. Over the last hour they had seen several tantrums, cajolings, negotiations, and stand-offs over the package. Ray realized he would need to get rid of this unwanted attention.

“Tommy, you do look like one of those football guys, but not the receiver,” Ray intoned in a child-like voice. “You look like the quarterback, the guy who throws the ball.”

Immediately Tommy lifted the package for a forward pass, which brought Ray to his feet. “But, sometimes, Tommy,” he said getting closer to the towering Tommy, “sometimes the quarterbacks pretend to throw and just hand-off the ball.” Although shorter than Tommy by at least a foot, Ray sidled up to the quarterback and took the hand-off, and excused himself into the next car. Tommy followed like a puppy.

As soon as the door shut, Ray pulled Tommy closer, which also meant lower. “Listen you big stoop,” said the little man. “You drop this package and it breaks, there won’t be no money for us to spend later. Those people in there, you think they’re just going to sit there while money flies around the train?”

The idea seemed to have an appeal to Tommy, who reached again for the package. “No, Tommy, we are not going to throw the money around the train. I want you and me to spend the money, not them, so I am going to keep a hold of it for a while, okay?”

Tommy slumped into another seat, with his lower lip protruding in a pout. He rehearsed the rules he had learned on this train ride. “Don’t talk about the money, don’t say the word money, don’t talk about what you are gonna spend the money on, don’t play with the money…Why do there have to be so many rules?” Ray sat down next to Tommy to whisper more instructions.

“Stop saying the word money.”

“But you just said money.”

“That’s because you said it four times in a row.”

“But then you said it, so I can say it, too. Money, money, money, money…”

Ray knew there was no hope in winning an argument with Tommy, so the next best thing was to distract him. Out came the yo-yo, which Tommy had yet to master. But he could spend hours flinging the yo-yo down and then winding it back up again.

“Yo-yo!” erupted the squeal, which frightened the two other people in this car to move farther to the end. Tommy was an imposing sight, and when fully frenzied, he would strike fear into grown men. Even cops. Especially cops.

A confrontation with the cops was where Ray got the idea to recruit Tommy as a partner. After three cops had retreated from an especially big Tommy tantrum, calling instead for back-up and some psychiatric help, Ray had sat back and made some plans. Fortunately, Tommy had committed no great crime, only wanting to ring the bell at the carnival hammer game 50 or 60 times, so when the proper authorities worked to sort out the confusion, Ray stepped up to gain a partner.

“Sorry for the fracas, officers,” he had said. “My friend here isn’t working with a full deck, and sometimes he scares other people. I’ll take care that he don’t cause no more trouble.” Tommy had then looked at Ray, smiled, and everyone was happy to part company. After a few hamburgers, Ray found out Tommy was alone at the carnival, but lived up the street in a group home. Taking Tommy by the hand to a new life, Tommy was content to leave his past behind and seek the adventures Ray had planned for him.

Ray knew the perfect partner when he saw it. Though twice the size of Ray, Tommy was unable to distinguish right from wrong, instead relying on Ray to “clarify” the situation. Ray had been in prison several times for burglary and other minor crimes. The short stocky red-haired man was getting older now, and had yet to make his big heist. Now he greedily hugged the bundle of money, hardly able to contain his enthusiasm for the successful crime. It was almost all he could do to not stand on the seats and proclaim their collective brilliance, which of course, meant Ray’s brilliance.

Tommy was almost more trouble than he was worth, botching the first two hold-ups by pointing out Ray and confessing the entire plan to the tellers. Out came all the details, and after another rescue or two, Tommy had finally got it right.

One hundred thousand dollars right.

Now if Ray could only get him to shut up long enough to get away, they would have plenty of time to figure out what was next. Ray confessed as much to himself. He hadn’t really thought it would be this easy, but with the gentle giant next to him, he started to contemplate the next big heist.

But then the train began to slow, and then stopped.

The train was still miles from its destination, and Ray knew they weren’t supposed to stop for at least another hour. The few times Ray had checked out this escape route, the train had never stopped this early.

Tommy looked up and kept winding up the yo-yo. He looked out the window and pointed. “Look at the pretty lights!” he said, motioning to the two police cars directly outside the window of the train.

Ray instinctively pulled Tommy to the near side of the car, popping open a window to hear the conversation outside. Ray and Tommy huddled next to the window. Four detectives were gathered around one of the cars.

“Short guy and a big guy,” said the boss. “A really big guy,” he motioned with his hands gesturing far above his own head.

Almost before the gesturing stopped, Ray was dragging Tommy to the front of the train. There was no way they could leave the train and not be seen in the opens fields which surrounded the tracks. Ray was thinking as fast as he could, still dragging Tommy along with him wondering what to do next.

As he opened one door at the front of a car, and crossed the landing to enter the next car, Ray paused to look down. He could see the tracks under the train. The entire train was about to be searched. But maybe they wouldn’t think to search under the train.

Ray tossed the bundle up under the next car, hearing it hop two or three feet before landing next to a wheel. Perfect.

John noticed the commotion on the tracks after he had started jogging back toward home. Even though he knew it was better to keep running so there wouldn’t be as much muscle soreness the next day, the sight of four policemen escorting a huge man from the train was too intriguing to miss. He stopped next to the end of the train and watched.

“Yeah, we took the money and it was a big football, but it was heavy, and Raymond said we could spend it on anything we wanted.” The big man practically gushed at the prospects, not wanting to wait to share his excitement. “I told the nice lady at the bank we was going for a train ride, and she said she wanted to ride, too, and on the same train, and so I wonder if she is here?”

Two of the detectives held onto Tommy’s head to make sure he didn’t hit it on the door as they put him in the patrol car. The car springs bent under the load as his head barely cleared the doorway.

While the car sat full of Tommy, John finally decided to ask what was going on. His friend from the local police force told him it was a search for some stolen cash, and that he should stand off to the side of the tracks. It wasn’t more than 5 minutes before the train pulled out.

The prospect of sore muscles faded as John decided to stay and watch the show. Just like everyone else who slows and gawks, John wanted to be in on the discussion. So little happened in Ridgeway that a good police story would be discussed for a week.

After the train left, John approached the same detective, his friend Greg Jones . “Any luck?” The dark-suited man shook his head, but pointed to the car. “Looks like we got the brains of the operations, at least,” he smirked, ducking into one of the cars and pulling away.

Ray smiled to himself as the train pulled out. He had told Tommy he had to go to the bathroom, but that he didn’t want anyone to know about it. So Tommy was supposed to wait for Ray in the second car, while Ray went to the bathroom in the third car. Ray had actually gone several cars down, and sat in the toilet for a while. When the police found Tommy, Ray was several cars away and the two were never matched up. Ray had sat next to the small fatherless family looking out the car amazed at the sight, and when the detective walked by them he didn’t even give Ray a second glance. Even though he had to ditch Tommy, the money would be here on the tracks when he came back – if he came right back. Then Ray would worry about what to do about Tommy. Or maybe he wouldn’t worry.

Now to look for some landmarks so he could find his way back. The sign at the edge of town said “Ridgeway.”

John shook his head and watched the police cars pull away. He stretched briefly on the rails, trying to get the stiffness out of his calf muscles. Sitting for too long next to the train had made him feel the cold, and he could also feel his muscles beginning to stiffen up, which would give him something else to worry about when he finally got home.

The railroad tracks were now his again, and they pulled him homeward. The steady rhythm began again.

He put one foot before the other, starting again another plodding mile, which was not really running and not really walking. Especially when he ran up hills in races, he often thought to himself that he was the only person who knew he was running. Plodding, like the Budweiser horses. But like Confucius said, “It matters not how slow you go, only that you do not stop.” Step after step, he built momentum.

Then he started to build a small bit of speed, as much as uneven railroad ties would permit. He ran past a package and looked down at it as he passed. For one moment, he thought about ignoring it since it would involve another stopping and more stiffening of his muscles.

But finally, curiosity got the better of him. He slowed, turned around and walked back to pick up the package, which was much too heavy to be a football.

The brown paper wrapping seemed ordinary enough. Secured with some twine, it was big enough to get the best of John’s curiosity. It hadn’t been here earlier in his run.

Picking it up, John wondered at the mass. It was heavy. Much heavier than it looked, and the substantial weight both surprised and intrigued him. Why would a large, heavy package be dropped on the tracks?

Untying it was too slow, and now John now was really curious. Carefully he grabbed the brown paper and pulled at a corner, hoping to expose enough of the package to get an idea of what it was.

Dense stacks of greenish-white paper were under the brown. A fragrance wafted up from the package and the sight and smell of the bills punched John like a right-left combination. This package was money! He tore at the corner a bit more, and then saw the paper wrapper encircling the top stack. They were one hundred dollar bills!

“This has to be thousands of dollars,” John thought to himself. He looked around the fields that surrounded him. There was no one to be seen, and even the dark horse was pre-occupied with the hay. John tucked the package under his arm, and like the halfback on the winning team, jogged triumphantly back home.

A thousand thoughts crowded his mind, but the image of the high school touchdown was the dominant thought that kept crowding out the others. He should have left the evidence in place. Cue the Rocky theme. He should have contacted the police immediately. Tuck the cash under his arm and protect it, and cross the goal line, ready to solve all the problems he had been contemplating earlier. Touchdown!!

John flipped through a small stack of $100 bills. There was the crisp smell of newly-minted money, and after checking, he decided that all of the numbers were consecutive. This bundle had to be the package the detectives wanted.

But it was $100,000 dollars! Enough to do whatever they wanted with lots left over to pay bills, buy cars, to go on vacations. Whatever Reba wanted, he would be able to give her. It was a powerful feeling, which was followed by some thoughts about the reality of the money.

“Stolen cash,” the detective had said. Consecutive numbers meant it was probably stolen from a bank. The big guy they had arrested was talking about the lady at the bank, so he was the one who took the cash. But like the detective had said, probably not the brains of the operation. Would there be a reward for its return? From a bank?

John shook his head silently to himself. It would be wrong to keep the money, and banks wouldn’t offer much but congratulations for being a good citizen. There had to be a way to keep some of this money, if only for a finder’s fee, that would let his conscience rest and still benefit his family somehow. But how?

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Chapter Two

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This is another episode of "Literature Out Loud" from the weekly program "Abundance". As the host, Dane Allred reads selections from famous literature each week on www.k-talk.com from 7 to 8 pm Mountain Standard Time every Sunday.

JABBERWOCKY

by Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought --

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'

He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

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