Exit West

By Cal Muzikar

"Exit West" is a riveting narrative about the challenges millennials face in their search for meaningful and durable relationships. When Phil Baxter loses his job in rural Vermont due to a reduction in force policy it shattered the safety of his predictable universe. Facing a rudderless sea of uncertainty, he's given an opportunity for summer employment working in the pristine mountains of the Big Horn National Forest in northern Wyoming.

Straightaway, he encounters stiff opposition from his best friend, who instead urges him to pursue real estate sales in his home town. Likewise, his girlfriend would rather he stay put, safe and secure by her side. However, Baxter rejects their advice and decides to take his chances and venture into an unforeseeable future.

Baxter's new job is tough and he strives to pull his weight. Nevertheless, he fails to impress Luther Spotted Owl, a Native American who holds a deep-seated contempt for the white man. Although, when circumstances demand it, Baxter's actions turn his coworker's attitude towards him in a positive direction. Another central figure is octogenarian Irwin Tuttle. The campground host befriends Baxter who becomes a frequent visitor to his campsite, and when a calamity threatens Mrs.Tuttle he's there to to help. Finally, he meets an attractive and scrappy Teton Park naturalist, Samantha Cole. "Sam" invites Baxter to experience the wonders of the National Park and in the process captures his heart.

Exit West first and foremost is delightfully entertaining, timely compelling and graphic; a fast-paced engrossing narrative with believable characters will care about.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098321116

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© 2020 Cal Muzikar All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 978-1-09832-110-9 eBook 978-1-09832-111-6

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 1

It was a short walk to the offices of the Brattleboro Board of Education from the high school, and Phil Baxter felt a quickening of his heart as he approached the front porch of the white clapboard Victorian house. Pausing for a moment, he recalled the first time he’d been there. He was fresh out of college and pursuing a teaching job in rural southern Vermont. Now, some fifteen years later, in the year 2019 he shuddered to think he’d be furloughed due to declining enrollment.

Somehow, I gotta get through this, he repeated twice in his head as he stepped into the oak-paneled foyer. His shaggy brown hair had taken a turn for the worse and a casual glance in the mirror of an antique coat rack forced him to brush his locks back into place with a tad of spit. Anxiously, he swallowed hard and entered the main office.

It was uncomfortably quiet. Bravely, Baxter forced half a smile to disguise his apprehension and approached Ms. Weber, the superintendent’s secretary.

You’re a bit early, Mr. Baxter. Dr. Cassidy will be with you shortly.

The veteran secretary had survived four previous superintendents over the course of thirty years and no doubt knew what was in the wind. Sensing Baxter’s apparent discomfort, she made a polite offer.

Would you like a cup of coffee? I don’t think he’ll be much longer.

I appreciate your kindness, Mrs. Weber, but something tells me after this meeting I might need something stronger, he replied with an indifferent shrug.

Unimpressed with the wise-crack, she rolled her eyes and said, Come again?

Guess that was a dumb thing to say, Baxter thought and replied meekly.

I know I’m not the only teacher stuck in this mess, but you’d think after fifteen years in this district, my job would be secure. I mean that’s how I look at it.

Weber ignored the comment because she made it a practice never to voice an opinion regarding school board policy.

Excuse me, but I have some work to do. Please take a seat.

A few moments later, the secretary got up from her desk and went to the copier. Growing impatient, Baxter took off his leather bomber jacket and eased his six foot frame into an armchair on the other side of the office. Sitting motionless, he stared at the wall clock, a vintage Seth Thomas, and watched the second hand circumnavigate the face a half-dozen times. Finally, he heard a door open and watched as Dr. Cassidy escorted a grim-faced rookie gym teacher out of his office and into the foyer.

This isn’t good. That kid is homegrown and was a coach. Damn!

Suddenly, the superintendent reappeared and walked toward Baxter. Cassidy was in his late fifties. He was short, pudgy, pale, and bald, with a bulbous red nose.

Christ! He looks like a character out of a Dickens’s novel.

The chief administrator was impeccably dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a blue shirt and black tie. Warily, the stubby man offered a frail handshake to Baxter and announced half-heartedly, You’re on time and I appreciate that. Weather looks threatening, wouldn’t you say? Take a seat while I grab a cup of tea. Care for some?

Tea…this guy is nuts, really nuts.

No thanks. I’m good, he answered timidly before entering the office.

Baxter took a cursory glance around and in the process happened to see his personnel file centered on Cassidy’s desk. Inching forward, he noticed a red Post-It attached to the folder, with a few sentences scribbled on it. Unable to discern its meaning, but guessing it was a bad sign, Baxter swore bitterly under his breath before plopping down in his chair like a thoroughly beaten boxer holding on for the final bell.

Indeed, the inevitable was at hand and he was powerless to stop it. And regardless of how the message was delivered, the outcome would be the same. Due to the recent decision by the Brattleboro board of education…blah, blah, blah.

A week ago, he’d heard from Moose Hayes, a fellow teacher and his closest friend that Dorothy Skokley was supposed to pack it in, that is, according to third-hand gossip Hayes heard in the faculty room. That rumor had been a singular jolt of joy after a month-long struggle to maintain some sense of hopefulness.

Mrs. Skokley, way past middle age and nearly eligible for social security, had long since worn out her welcome among the student body with her bland approach to American History along with monotonous lectures, excessive homework, and frequent pop quizzes.

Cassidy returned shortly and began reading Baxter’s file in silence, sipping his tea, tapping his finger on the edge of the desk, all the while squinting randomly from an apparent tick disorder. Baxter considered his shenanigans a melodramatic display of false indecision and over the top. Finally, the superintendent closed the file, removed his reading glasses, and leaned toward Baxter with his hands folded to recite his lines.

Mr. Baxter, I think you know why you’re here. Indeed, it’s been a trying day. That fine young man who left represents the best of the new teachers coming out of our state colleges. The director of athletics had the gall to chew me out for letting him go. But we both know I’m merely following the wishes of the board, don’t we?

Continuing his ruse, Cassidy paused momentarily, assuming Baxter would agree with him. When it didn’t happen, he cleared his throat and continued with his verses.

Mr. Baxter, admittedly it’s harder for veterans to exit gracefully than the short-timers. Frankly, I don’t know why because when the demographics dramatically change in a school district, the outcome is quite foreseeable. That being the case in Brattleboro, I regret to inform you that you will not be given a contract for next year. Nevertheless, this district owes you a debt of gratitude for what you’ve done for our children. Your record speaks for itself. You’ve been a great asset to the high school and you’ll be missed, Cassidy said.

The verdict was in, and it felt like an ax had fallen and severed Baxter’s total sense of well-being. Cassidy avoided making eye contact and continued, Young man, I regret to inform you that you were the last teacher in the social studies department we had to let go. Be that as it may, your supervisor will give you a solid recommendation should you decide to apply to another school district. In conclusion, in the event an opening in social studies becomes available, you’ll be notified by registered mail and must reply in a timely manner if you desire to be rehired.

What a hell-of-a-way to show me the door. What horseshit!

Mr. Baxter, is there anything you want clarified regarding this decision?

Baxter barely heard the man’s question. He was numb, knowing he’d been bushwhacked by the seniority system and forced into an unpaid sabbatical. Worse still, he knew he’d be facing blue days and black nights in the foreseeable future.

Cassidy seemed noticeably perturbed by Baxter’s bleak silence and vacant stare. Consequently, he nervously fiddled with his pen while contemplating how to end the meeting and be rid of Baxter. But Baxter needed a dose of fatherly advice.

Dr. Cassidy, do you think I oughta wait for the opportunity to return to the district…could I be a substitute teacher? Is that what you would do? Baxter asked.

Growing impatient, Cassidy replied dryly, Mr. Baxter, meaning no disrespect, but I’m not your guidance counselor. That’s a decision for you to make, not me. Nevertheless, keep in mind you’re eligible for some retirement benefits when you reach the age of sixty if you want to pursue another career. Oh, one more thing, you’ll be covered by Cobra health insurance for a whole year if you pay the premium.

Shifting the tide of conversation, he added, I’ll say this much. Leaving teaching will be a life-altering decision. You may want to discuss that prospect with your wife.

Annoyed, Baxter shot back, Doesn’t matter. I’m divorced.

At that point Cassidy abruptly added,

Then I wish you the best of luck. I’m sure you’ll land on your feet. Oh, incidentally, the board is having a dinner to honor the teachers who are leaving. I hope you plan to attend. I heard they’re going to give you a beautiful commemorative plaque.

Without responding, Baxter pursed his lips, got up, and turned to leave. Cassidy, uncertain of his performance, sprang from his chair in an effort to beat Baxter to the door. With a forced expression of concern, he offered a feeble condolence within earshot of Mrs. Weber. I’m sorry about this, Mr. Baxter. If there’s anything I can do, please call.

Baxter didn’t appreciate the superintendent’s empty gesture and left without uttering a word. It was quarter to four. Twenty-four hours ago, he’d only considered the possibility of unemployment. Now it was a reality, and a technical knockout.

Walking back to the parking area, heavy wet snow started to fall. Distressed, angry, and disappointed, he wanted to lash out at the world, yet all he could do was curse the messenger, the superintendent…Damnit! What a twerp! What an asshole!

A few minutes later, he dusted the wet snow off his jacket and slid into his Jeep Cherokee, gave it a minute to warm up and put it into four-wheel drive. It was a ten-minute ride to his studio condo, a stone’s throw from the Connecticut River. On most Fridays, he picked up a chicken dinner at the local supermarket, but not today. He wasn’t hungry and certainly wasn’t in the mood to cross paths with anyone from the high school and act as if nothing had altered the orbit of his universe. Burning inside with a smoldering fury, he wanted to be left alone to brood in the silent confines of the seven hundred square feet of his condo cave, as he referred to it.

After he parked the Jeep in the basement garage and entered the kitchen, he opened the fridge, took out a bottle of beer, guzzled it down, and followed that with a loud belch. A moment later, he picked up the mail on the floor by the front door and flipped through it.

Along with the usual junk, there was something from the U.S. Department of Agriculture. It was a form letter along with a return postcard instructing him to indicate on a check-off box if he’d be returning as a summer employee in the Green Mountain National Forest. Pounding his fist against the wall, he thought, Shit, I’m skunked! My teaching career is put on hold and the same day I get called back to work for the summer. I suppose my cup is half full…big deal!

Momentarily distracted, he tossed the empty beer bottle in the trash under the counter and was about to open another when his eyes caught sight of a group of snapshots on the fridge. On the drive home, he’d given a passing thought to calling his girlfriend, his best buddy, or his father to share the bad news. But realistically, there were no answers to give and no salvage plans to discuss. Moreover, he absolutely refused to dump his abject misery on anyone. He’d spend the rest of the weekend sequestered.

Engrossed in his dilemma, Baxter leaned against the wall opposite the fridge and stared at the snapshots. One photo was of his parents taken a year before his mother died. They were happy. Another was of his father standing on a pier in Tampa next to a six-foot sailfish he’d caught on a charter. He’d grown a beard by then. Ronnie was in one with a lighthearted smile and looked mischievous. There was a snapshot of him with his arm draped around Moose Hayes after a softball tournament they’d won. Hayes looked goofy holding the trophy above his head. The last one, a five by seven, was a magnificent shot of Mt. Washington in all its glory.

What the hell…life’s going on with or without me, he mumbled.

Dog-tired, he polished off another beer, took the land line phone off the hook, yanked off his wet boots, and scrunched down in his recliner to shift his brain out of overdrive. He knew there’d be plenty of time to worry about the never ending what ifs later on tonight and probably served up with his coffee tomorrow morning.

CHAPTER 2

It was early Sunday morning, and frost coated the emerging buds of the red oaks and rhododendrons outside the condo. Baxter was savoring his first cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. Disinterested and thinking it was the paper boy, he didn’t budge off the stool until it rang twice more. Unshaven, hair disheveled, and recuperating from an abysmal Saturday night wallowing in self-pity with a pint of hard stuff, he gingerly eased out of his chair and opened the front door.

Moose Hayes stood there, all six-foot-three and two-hundred-fifty pounds of him. With his full beard and floppy gray wool cap, he looked like a member of the Alaskan border patrol adorned in his heavy green parka and mittens. Seeing his friend’s grungy appearance, Hayes shook his head, scratched his beard, and slapped his hands.

Baxter, clutching his coffee mug, squinted at him in the bright daylight and waved him in slamming the door. Hayes hurled the Sunday paper on the couch and followed Baxter into the kitchen scolding him along the way.

Damn you, Phil. I tried to call you a dozen times, but your phone was off. What gives? When you didn’t call, I figured you got the ax. Maggie told me to let it be. Shit, I bet you didn’t call Ronnie! Did you? Boy, is she gonna be pissed.

Clad in well-worn faded Levi’s and a bleached out baseball tee-shirt, barefooted Baxter rubbed the two-day stubble under his chin and grumbled.

Chill out big guy! I left her a voicemail and it’ll have to do. Now, before you open your mouth and preach a sermon about bootstraps and all that crap, you’d better believe I’m still as angry as a cut dog. Plus, my head must’ve suffered a slight concussion last night tripping over that end table trying to find the remote.

Hayes noticed the empty bottle of no name vodka and a half bag of corn chips on the end table and shook his head in disbelief. Baxter wasn’t handling the job crisis the way he would’ve. Then again, he had the support of a loving wife he could count on.

Instantly, Baxter picked up on his expression and attempted to clarify his actions.

Shit, Moose, I’ve been stewing over this nonstop since judgment day on Friday. Your wife was right…it’s a bad time, bad time to crowd me. You don’t get it. Invited or not, Ronnie would jump in the foxhole beside me and take over. That’s her style. She’d be rattling off orders and timetables same as she does at her bank. Hey, do me a favor. Let’s leave her out of this. At this moment in time, I don’t need any self-help books or a life coaching seminar by Joel Osteen, that TV preacher out of Texas. Got it?

Hayes took off his parka and threw it on the couch then replied sarcastically,

Well, Phil, that’s just peachy keen. For crying out loud, you stink and look like hell!

Baxter cursed under his breath, placed his coffee mug in the sink, and poked Moose hard in the gut, barking.

Lighten up, Damnit! I’m not in denial…no way!

Moose pursed his lips deciding not to add to Baxter’s grief.

Baxter took notice and softened his tone a notch.

"Hey man, I’m in a strange place; there’re no signs on street corners telling me where I should be heading. Gimme a break; I need some time. Incidentally, why aren’t you with your family? I thought you and the wife and kids went to Saint Joe’s every Sunday. Your kids surely will ask why. What’re you gonna tell them…?

Moose shrugged his shoulders and stated wryly, She’ll tell the kids it would be a Christian-like act to reach out to my friend in time of need. And judging by your grungy appearance and surly mood, I was right.

That’s a hell-of-an excuse to skip services! Okay, pour yourself a mug of coffee and relax for a while, Baxter commanded as he plopped down on a kitchen stool.

Hayes took a mug from the cabinet, poured a cup of coffee and then sat on a bar stool at the kitchen counter. After a few sips of coffee, he offered up a suggestion.

Why don’t you take a quick shower, and I’ll treat you to breakfast over at the Colonial Diner. I’m sure we’ll get a booth if we get there before eight. How you gonna turn down an offer like that? We can talk there. C’mon, lick your wounds and who knows…maybe between the two of us we’ll come up with a plan. Okay, buddy?

Moose’s offer sounded pretty inviting. That is, the eating part. But certainly not the bootstraps sermon he was certain to hear. His wounds of disappointment were still bleeding, unable to scab over after only thirty-six hours wallowing in the mire.

Although Baxter loved the big guy like a brother, in his opinion, though well-intentioned, Moose simply lacked a point of reference in dealing with his situation. Shaun Patrick Hayes was four years younger, happily married with four healthy kids, a staunch conservative, and with ten years in the school system already had seniority in the science department. In his personal life, Moose was the consummate family man: stable, hard-working, frugal, and honest. He had a gargantuan appetite, a corny sense of humor, and the notoriety of being the slowest guy on their softball team. The Irish Catholic had no major vices other than being overly protective of those he loved and rigid in his problem-solving strategies and right-wing political beliefs.

By contrast, thirty-six year-old Baxter was much more tolerant of humanity’s shortcomings and less judgmental of others. As a history teacher, he insisted his students be skeptical but not cynical despite the onslaught of bad news. He’d rejected institutional religion years ago for personal reasons, though he respected church-goers for providing food banks, daycare facilities, and assistance for the poor and elderly.

On the practical side, Baxter was pragmatic when he needed to be, but he wasn’t a strategic planner. Since his divorce, he preferred a solitary lifestyle though he wasn’t anti-social. He jogged four or five miles every other day in a self-induced trance and lifted weights on the off days. At six foot and a hundred-seventy-five pounds, with boyish looks, shaggy brown hair, ice blue eyes, and solid muscular definition, he looked far better than he felt about his prospects.

All right, Moose, you gotta deal. Gimme fifteen minutes. Hey, do me a favor, check the want ads. Maybe there’s an opening for a social studies teacher at some private Catholic school across the river, Baxter noted as he tossed the classifieds to Moose.

An hour later at the diner, they had polished off scrambled eggs, home fries, and sausage with neither making reference to Friday’s meeting with Cassidy. Moose claimed there were no advertised teaching positions in the area, suggesting it was probably too early, so they turned the conversation to sports, a topic they loved to hypothesize about. Would Tiger win another Masters? Will the Celtics win another NBA championship after a long period of mediocrity? Could the Red Sox ever win two World Series in a row again and would Moose remain as designated hitter on their softball team?

Go ahead, Phil. Have a piece of pie. It’s on me, Hayes suggested.

While the busboy picked up the plates, Hayes was ready to make his pre-planned pitch for Baxter to take a real-estate class and get a broker’s license. He’d discussed it with his wife, and they both agreed it would get Baxter over the hump until he got his teaching job back, and presumably his life would return to normal.

Baxter eyed him skeptically, waiting for the waitress to return.

Moose, whatever’s going on in that big brainy head of yours, would you please just spit it out? The suspense is killin’ me, and you’ve completely shredded that napkin.

Hayes rolled his eyes. You haven’t said a word about your job situation since we got here. Stop side-stepping the issue. Are you gonna keep looking for a teaching job?

Where’s the waitress? I want my pie, Baxter answered, ignoring the question.

Just listen to what I have to say then you can have your pie, Hayes snapped.

Baxter shook his head in amazement.

Okay. I’ll give you my total attention for a whole minute. State your case, but first, I have to make a confession.

A confession, for doing what? Moose inquired.

Baxter leaned back in the booth and placed his arms across his chest.

After contemplating my own situation over the last two days, it’s my objective opinion that most veteran public school teachers are all alike. As I see it, once they got their tenure and put in their thirty plus years, they’ll retire in their mid-fifties and live the good life. In short, that was my plan too. Maybe it’ll still come to pass, but I gotta get through this temporary glitch. So with that said Mr. Moose, what’s on your mind?

Confident he had a terrific idea, Hayes eagerly began.

Well, I think you oughta get a real-estate license. Maybe you could make enough dough to hold you over for a while. You’re not exactly an extravert, I’ll grant you that, but you’re a bright guy and honestly, I think you’ll do well. Check this. There’s a fella from my church that I’ll hook you up with. He’s willing to give you all the information you need, like taking the course, and where it’s offered. He told me there’s an opening at his office if you get your license, and if you make yourself available to potential buyers and sellers, who knows, you could strike gold. Anyway, that’s how he sees it. The way I see it, you can’t just sit around and mope another day longer. You want me to lend a hand, don’t you? That’s what good friends do for each other, right?

Baxter knew the downturn in the housing market hadn’t even come close to turning the corner, and he figured that fact hadn’t occurred to Moose.

Wonder what kind of car your friend from church drives…Aww…forget it. Can I have my pie? Baxter blurted out, as if whatever he’d just heard didn’t register one iota.

Exasperated, Hayes balked, That’s it? That’s your answer! And all you want is your friggin’ pie! Lord help us; you’re losing it! Just so you know, my wife thought it was a terrific idea. She even let me skip church, didn’t she? So c’mon! Talk to me!

Baxter caught sight of the waitress and waved her over, avoiding the command.

I’d like a big piece of apple pie and a refill of coffee. I don’t know what this distinguished Irish gentleman is having. You’ll have to ask him.

Hayes rubbed the back of his neck as if he’d just been pelted with a foul ball. I’ll pass on the pie, Ma’am, but I will take another refill of coffee. I need it.

Baxter immediately saw the disappointment shown on his friend’s face.

Moose, I apologize for sounding so ungrateful. You’re not meddling; I’m just grumpy. I know you mean well, but there’s no quick fix for my situation. If there was, it would have come to me by now. I know you want me to…as they say, toe the line, to hurry up and turn this nightmare into a happy ending. I mean, that’s who you are. At any rate, right now I’ve got more rocks in my wagon than I’d care to pull. You get my meaning, don’t you? I’m fuckin’ rudderless in a sea of uncertainty. It is what it is. Baxter replied in earnest.

When Moose didn’t respond and stared indifferently out the diner window, Baxter was sure his friend still hadn’t grasped the significance of his plight. A moment later, the waitress returned and placed a piece of pie in front of Baxter and refilled their cups.

Without hesitating, Baxter shoveled a large piece of pie in his mouth. Then took another, and then another. All the while Moose sat patiently folding up another napkin into some geometric design without making a sound. Finally Baxter finished, took a swallow of his coffee and spoke evenly to his friend.

Hey Moose! Let me give you a few cold hard facts to dwell on in that massive scientific brain of yours. Think of a simple balance sheet. Got it…?

Hayes turned his attention to Baxter.

Okay, I’m listening. But if you start bullshitting me, I’ll make the cut sign across my throat and you know what that means.

Instinctively, Baxter nibbled his fist contemplating his response. Why the hassle.

Sure I do. No shit. Fact number one is that various payments are withdrawn every month from my checking account: mortgage, taxes, insurance, cable, phone and the list goes on and on, leaving me less than a hundred bucks a week to live on. I can’t save much so I’ve barely managed to keep my head above water. Aren’t appearances deceiving?

Moose nodded echoing, Yeah, especially in this town.

Hayes, I’ve only got a few extra hundred in my checking account, and a four thousand dollar CD getting a measly one percent interest. Shit! If I’m lucky, I might have ten grand of equity in my condo cave dwelling. My mortgage payment is due for a rate hike later on this year, and my Jeep is six years old and needs some overdue maintenance. Does all this sound bleak to you because it does to me?

Man, you weren’t jerking my chain when you said appearances are deceiving!

Moose, I’m gonna give it you straight. If nothing develops here, I mean job-wise then I’d like to escape for a while and hit the road. Maybe get a job in Florida and lay on the beach weekends for a year. I think I’m suffering from too much of the same old routine. I mean I work all week crash on Friday afternoon, have dinner and maybe a movie with Ronnie on Saturday, spend time hiking alone in the Green Mountains and visit the gym regularly. And like you, I spend hours marking papers and doing lesson plans Sunday nights. That’s what I mean by same ole, same ole. With the job gone, I need a change in scenery. I want out. It’s that simple.

Moose sat perfectly still, thinking Baxter should stop whining about his life.

Then Baxter went nose to nose with the truth that had emerged from the weekend.

In hindsight, I had it pretty good…been skating on solid ice for the last few years, taking for granted what’s now in the ‘shitter.’ That’s probably impossible for you to comprehend. We both know there’s no way any school district will hire me other than as a long-term sub. They’d know for sure I’d be returning to Union Regional as soon as there was an opening. Now do you get the picture, like the rest of the story, huh?

Everything Baxter said made sense except one piece of testimony. Moose was all too familiar with Baxter’s frugal lifestyle and how he got by, paycheck to paycheck. In fact, he rarely saw his friend treat himself to a school lunch or splurge on an exotic vacation other than buying a seasonal lift ticket to ski weekends at Killington. He knew Baxter loved hiking, gym time and golf occasionally at the municipal course. He played in the men’s softball league for the past ten summers. Nonetheless, before today, he thought Baxter had it better than most Vermonters in tough economic times and believed his girlfriend Ronnie was the proverbial icing on Baxter’s cake…smart, good looking and with a terrific personality. What blew him away was the line about him leaving Brattleboro. He hadn’t a clue where that idea came from.

"Hey man, I’m kinda bewildered by your desire to get out of town. I don’t get it. I thought you had it pretty good. The point being you’ve been here since you left college, so why in hell would you want to go someplace else? You’ll find a job around here, I know you will. You only have to