Paco's Provision

By Christopher L. Istace

For Mike Massey, his dream of owning and operating a bar and restaurant is supposed to come easy. After purchasing The Boony in Woodbine, Saskatchewan, he seems to be on his way to successfully claiming that dream and more.

Paco, a mysterious old man who lives and works in the historic hotel, seems to epitomize the soul of the place. His simple lifestyle and fearless demeanour teaches Mike there is more to life than the financial bottom-line. And Mike discover's there is more to Paco - and his association with the old hotel - then he lets on.

Mike's world begins to collapse with Paco's violent death. His dream is becoming a living nightmare.

But even after his death, Paco's spirit of survival lives on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483543529

Book preview

Istace

Prologue

HE GRUNTED AND wheezed, gasping for the air he couldn’t pull into his lungs. The sound coming out of his mouth was ugly, almost a gurgle.

He clutched his chest as he lay squirming on the floor.

Paco, the old man who had just saved Mike’s life, was losing his own.

No matter how hard Mike tried, he knew he wouldn’t save him.

Chapter 1

THE DREAMS OF the ambitious can be fleeting. They are smoke in the wind; vivid and real for the moment; their shape and clarity changing in the breeze.

Sometimes, they disappear along the pitted and winding road of life.

Mike’s dream was constructed with brick, mortar, steel and wood. It was a bar in an 85-year-old hotel serving a small Southeast Saskatchewan town; where hockey was life and beer was as integral to the local diet as bologna.

In September, 2004 – just days before his 30th birthday – Mike was about to claim his dream.

Purchasing The Boony Bar and Grill in Woodbine, Sask. was a process that took almost two years. It began with a walk-through, which led to a $4,000 building inspection. Then the salamanders crawled into the deal; the lawyers, the bankers and the insurance brokers.

At the end of the marathon of meetings, paperwork and stress, Mike confirmed the $600,000 purchase with the stroke of a pen. Most of that money came from a bank, but it was his dream. And all it took to confirm it was his signature.

Or so he thought.

Leon Wilson ran The Boony for almost 30 years. It was time for him to sell, retire and relax the rest of his life away.

This is harder than I thought it was going to be, he said when Mike took the keys from him on his last day there.

Leon made no attempt to hide his emotion. Mike noticed his red-rimmed eyes immediately, likely due to a shared cry with his wife just moments before Mike arrived.

Mike felt uncomfortable about seeing a man – someone the same age as his father; someone he had come to respect over the previous few months - so emotional.

For Leon, The Boony was a living, breathing being, his child. He said as much the first time Mike met him.

You seem like a right-smart young fella, Mike, he said. But I’m not going to sell her to just anyone. She’s been too good to us to just let her die.

Mike could only smile. At that point, he wasn’t even sure if he was going to buy the place. He had only toured the old hotel for the first time a few minutes earlier.

Once Mike made his decision, he was confident his abilities to care for her. By the time the keys were in his palm, he didn’t doubt it for a second.

He had to be. The mortgage hung over him like a demon. Outside of selling his vital organs in a dirty Thai alley, Mike had no way of covering it if he failed.

Hey, man. The place is in good hands, alright? Mike said, putting a hand on Leon’s shoulder for confirmation.

Leon just wiped his eyes and nodded.

The pair walked down the hall from Leon’s office to the bar. It was 2 p.m. and the facility was almost empty. A trio of old men sat in the middle of the room, taking sips draft beer from tall, skinny glasses. Mike noticed that two of the three took their beer with ice, which he found quaint.

The retired farmers mumbled to each other in the glimmer of a giant television, which showed a European league soccer game from the back of the bar.

The Boony was an L-shaped room with a smoky, 1970s atmosphere. It obviously hadn’t seen an upgrade in the last 20 years, something that Mike would have to rectify when he had the funding.

The old men sat in the center of the main annex between shuffleboard along one wall and a pool table. The blinking lights from video lottery terminals mingled with the flashes from the television. The gambling stools were empty. No one was interested in playing the vids so early in the afternoon.

Leon and Mike leaned on the end of the bar near the entrance. The door to the cooler at the other end opened and Marjorie, Leon’s wife, appeared. She smiled, but like her husband, was obviously finding it hard to grasp that they were finally to let go of the place.

She was in her mid-fifties, an attractive woman who seemed to hang on to her youth easily. Her shoulder length, brunette hair had a few grey streaks, but when pinned back in a tight ponytail - like it was then - her face was bright and full of vitality.

Hello, Mike. How are you? she asked.

I’m nervous and excited, Mike said, rubbing the edge of the bar counter with his palm. A little slow today, huh?

Yeah. There’s no such thing as a Wednesday afternoon rush. Thought it would be a good day to let her go, she said. She lifted a case of beer onto the counter in front of Mike then shook his hand. I’m filling up the cooler shelves so it’s ready to go for your official take-over.

Don’t worry about that. You guys have done enough, Mike said. As of midnight last night I’ve actually already taken over the place and I can’t afford to pay your salary.

Staying on schedule, I guess, she said with a laugh. Old habits die hard.

Marjorie pulled open the tab on the beer box then stopped and turned back to Mike. Her eyes gleamed under the pot-lights that lit the bar area.

We’ve been here a long time, you know? she said, the tears starting to well again. Retirement is supposed to be a joyous occasion, but it’s also tough to say goodbye to your home.

The Wilsons lived in an apartment upstairs, constructed by knocking out the walls of four hotel rooms. They renovated the apartment after closing the hotel services. The cost of staffing and maintaining the old place was getting too high. They sacrificed one part of the business to focus on another.

Few people stayed in these old Prairie establishments anymore anyway. Travelers preferred conventional accommodations with swimming pools, restaurants and room service. Two decades before, The Woodbine Inn was built near the Trans-Canada Highway by a group of local investors. It had plenty of space to provide for the few people seeking a room in Woodbine.

There were still three rooms left upstairs above the bar, but they were generally reserved for the binge drinkers who were unable to get home on a Friday or Saturday night.

Someone Mike hadn’t met yet permanently rented another. He had meant to do so before he took over, but it had slipped his mind.

It must be hard, Mike said sympathetically.

Come on. Let’s take one more walk through, Leon said. He was using Mike as an excuse to say one last goodbye to the old place.

Alright, Mike said. Marjorie, grab a drink on me. It’s supposed to be time to celebrate. You are going off to have some well-earned fun. Don’t worry. The place is in good hands.

Thanks, Mike, she said as Mike followed Leon around the corner to the left-side annex of the barroom.

A five-foot long, indoor grill sat in the dark at the wall at the end of the room. The steak-pit was the center of attention during dinner hours on Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings. The first time he saw it, Mike wondered what motivated people to go out for a meal where they cooked their own food.

Any questions about the steak-pit? Leon asked.

I think I’ve got it, Mike said. I’m still surprised how this is so popular.

Yeah. Got the idea from another place in Maryfield quite a while ago, Leon said. Spent quite a bit of money on it on a whim. Seems to have worked out, though.

Mike looked up into the stainless steel hood that pulled the smoke and fumes out of the room to a vent outside.

It’s gotta be cleaned once a week and make sure the gas burners flow a flame that doesn’t flicker, Leon said, pulling a finger across the grill to check its cleanliness. If it does, could mean too much air or a blockage in the gas line or both. Considering how much you’ll be running it, it could cost you a shitload of money on your natural gas bill.

Okay, Mike said, ready to move on.

And make sure that fan is running a half-hour before you light it and a half-hour after you turn it off, he added.

Gotcha, Mike said.

A short, paunchy man walked up behind Leon. His green work pants were covered in dust and grease. His winter jacket looked older than Mike.

Leo, the man said, adjusting his black, meshed-backed hat. The Boony ran across the front of it in puffy gold lettering. I clean da toilets and take out da garbage. You need help moving stuff out of your room?

Paco, this is Mike Massey. He’s the guy who bought the place, Leon responded.

Mike reached out to shake Paco’s hand. The old man took it, but eyed him sternly.

Hiya, Mista Massey, he said flatly.

Hi, Paco, Mike said. The Boony’s only other permanent resident had a thin, grey moustache and a thick, Spanish-sounding accent. Must be Mexican, Mike thought.

We’re pretty much all moved out, Leon said.

I go move the empties, Paco said, walking away. He wasn’t really limping, but trudged back towards the bar as if every movement was painful for him.

Paco, Leon said, pointing a thumb at the old man and turning back to Mike. Now that you’ve met him, is he going to be a problem for you?

No, no. I don’t think so, Mike said. He looked at Paco sitting at a table in front of the bar where he smoked a king-sized cigarette. Despite the aloof greeting, something drew Mike to him, an unexplained feeling of compassion. Paco’s age and the way he walked made Mike think he may be someone that required watching over. Mike vowed to make him as comfortable as possible during his tenure at The Boony.

We need to talk about him before Marjorie and I take off, Leon said. Let’s keep walking.

Mike caught one last peek at Paco before he followed Leon into the kitchen. The old man seemed to belong there, like a character in a Norman Rockwell painting. No, it’s something deeper than that, Mike thought. It was like he was the soul of the old hotel.

Leon wanted to talk to Mike about Paco.

Mike wanted to talk to Paco about Paco.

Chapter 2

AFTER WALKING THROUGH the kitchen and a small cafe - its sparse menu including coffee, tea, soup and sandwiches - Leon led Mike upstairs where they poked their heads into a couple of hotel rooms.

That’s Paco’s, Leon said, pointing at the closed door to the first room. It’s like the rest; a bed, a dresser, a lamp and a half-bath. He’s got an old black-and-white TV in there, one of those old tape recorders and a radio. He lives pretty simply.

Seeing what was in the other rooms - bed, nightstand and lamp – Mike saw just how uncomplicated Paco seemed.

Come on. I need to show you the roof, Leon said.

He led Mike down the hall to another set of stairs. Dusty antique bar furniture, some old signage and ratty cardboard boxes lined the hallway of the third floor. Some of the doors to the rooms were open, showing beds so grimy, they weren’t fit for a doghouse. Mike made a mental note to dispose of the obvious mouse-magnets.

We closed this floor in ‘73. Nothing to concern yourself with here except to make sure the rat traps are maintained. Paco’ll handle that, Leon said.

Leon opened the door at the end of the hall. Sunlight pierced the darkness, making Mike shield his eyes from the brightness. They stepped onto a stoop and up some metal stairs to the rooftop.

A cool September breeze ruffled Mike’s hair over his eyes. Its scent was fresh with the smell of early autumn. The leaves on the trees in the neighborhood around them were yellowing. A few fell from their twigs and cascaded to the ground in the wind.

From the roof, Mike could see the entire north end of Woodbine. Train tracks ran east and west across the street from the hotel. A golf course, the public swimming pool, the tennis courts, baseball diamonds and the town’s tiny museum - the town’s recreation area - lay beyond the tracks. To the east of the park lay half of the town’s residences, a mix of new bungalows, brick two-story Victorians and a few old Sears build-your-own homes. Further yet was the long, flat, two-story Woodbine Inn.

Leon pointed out some tar work on the flat roof that still needed completing, as agreed upon on the sales agreement. He noted that the old, unused brick chimney required restoration or removal as well.

What about that area over there? Seems a little low from the rest, Mike asked, pointing to a 10-foot square shallow puddle of water.

Hhmmm. Not sure about that. I haven’t noticed any cracking in the walls and there’s not leaking inside, so don’t think it’s a problem structurally, Leon said. You want me to take care of it?

No. Don’t worry about it. I’ll have someone look at it, Mike said. Funny that the assessment didn’t show anything, though. Maybe the inspector felt it was fine.

Maybe, Leon said as he walked back toward the stairs. Make sure no hooligans get up here or you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands. Until you figure out exactly what’s going on there - which I’m sure is nothing - it’s a liability. The perks of owning an early-20th Century building.

They stepped back into the hotel and Leon closed the door behind himself.

Actually, now that I think about it, you might want to get it looked at before winter. Get enough snow and you might have an unexpected sky-light, Leon said. But again, I’m sure it’s nothing.

It’s all fine, Mike said. I’ll get her fixed up by the end of October.

Mike led the way back downstairs, keeping a pace slow enough for Leon to keep up. He was anxious to hear what Leon was going to say about Paco.

Back on the second floor, Leon opened the door to Mike’s new apartment. Inside was a clean, well-kept home, small but comfortable and more than enough room for a bachelor’s needs. Mike brought only enough belongings to fill his old, classic Datsun truck, anyway.

Marjorie was obsessed about having it clean for you, which is sorta silly. Nothing was ever out of place or messy in this place. You’re walkin’ into a place with the sanitation of an operating room. Need a mole lanced? Leon said with a laugh.

He was looking better than he did when Mike arrived. Leon was getting comfortable with the idea of handing over the old place as he got to know the new owner better.

No moles, but can you upload everything you know about running this place into my brain? Mike said. What he didn’t tell Leon was that he was somewhat nervous about the shoes he was filling. Outside of a messy third floor, The Boony seemed to be a well-oiled machine.

So, Paco. What’s his story? What is he, Mexican? Mike asked as Leon pulled two beers from the fridge. They appeared to be the last items inside it.

Leon held out one of the beverages, but Mike waved his hand in refusal.

What? A bar owner who doesn’t drink? Leon said, surprised.

I drank enough alcohol as a teenager to last a lifetime, Mike said.

Mmhhmm, Leon mumbled, putting one of the bottles back in the fridge. He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat. Mike followed.

Being a teetotaler is probably best when you’re in this business. It’s always there, eh? I’m lucky, though. Always had enough sense to hold to my two-drink maximum.

Leon sipped his beer then set it on the table with a knock.

Yeah. Paco. I think he’s Mexican. He’s always been a pretty quiet guy when it comes to his past, he said.

"Paco is very important to us though, Mike. He came here about two months after we took over the place. He was here every day for a week and, basically, just started helping us out voluntarily. You know, cleaning out the trash, moving boxes of empty bottles, doing minor maintenance. He’s actually pretty handy

We tried to get to know him a little better, inviting him into the apartment once and a while for dinner or a football game. He has always been good for a conversation, but changed the subject whenever we asked about his past. He just wanted to do his work and live his quiet life, he said. He stopped to take another sip from his beer then started to get out of his chair. Hey, let me get you a cola or something from downstairs.

No, really. I’m fine, Mike said, anxious to hear more.

Okay, Leon said, sitting again. Anyway, Marjorie started to feel guilty about having him do so much work for no pay, so we made it official and hired him. He seemed to be living in his truck or somewhere we didn’t know about, so we offered him one of the hotel rooms as part of his salary.

And all that he owns is in that tiny little room? Mike asked.

As far as we know, Leon replied. He cried when we offered the job and the room. He took it immediately and wouldn’t stop shaking my hand. He’s been here almost 30 years; almost as long as us.

Leon spun the bottle on the table as he filed through some memories of Paco and The Boony. He was quiet for a moment, then snapped out of it and resumed.

I’m not sure what he does with his money. We’ve paid him well through all those years – as much as our longest-serving waitress. I think he’s up to fifteen hundred a month now. His room is rent free, too. But he always pays for his food and drinks downstairs. It’s up to you if you want to keep him on. Marjorie and I would sure appreciate it if you did. He’s a special guy.

That shouldn’t be a problem. If he’s as handy as you say, he’ll be valuable. I’m about as literate in plumbing and carpentry as a dog is picking horse racing odds, Mike said. Besides, there’s something about him that just adds to the place. It’s as if he’s a permanent fixture in the building; a part of its soul or something. That’s what I caught at first glance, anyway.

We’ve noticed that, too, Leon said. About a year after he got here, you’d have thought he’d never left the place his entire life. He’s a very special guy. Don’t worry about that little rub off today. He’s just sizing you up to see what you’re made of.

Mike stood to take one more peek around the apartment. I’ll need to get some new furniture and a couple of lamps, he thought. But it was amazingly clean.

"Tell Marjorie she’s an angel. This place