The Threshing Floor: Jeremiah's Warning to America

By Colin Briscoe

Simon Freeman has just graduated from college and is driving across country in search of a lucrative sales job and the American Dream. Along the way, he is diverted off the path by a storm that leads him back to a small Midwestern town where he had spent the first ten years of his life. After reconnecting with his old friends, he quickly becomes accustomed to an all too familiar lifestyle. Not long after his arrival, a murder rocks the community, and Simon becomes convinced that he has been chosen to put an end to a curse and the cycle of tragedies that have plagued the town of Bethel for the past seventy-two years. With the help of a wily, old principal named Thelma Harold, he comes to believe that by renovating the local elementary school, he can influence a referendum vote that will restore the values and priorities of a corrupt, depraved community that has been overrun by a shrewd businessman named Jack Lawless and a small faction of wealthy landowners. During the renovation, however, Simon unwittingly enters into his own personal journey that takes him from salvation to sanctification. Along the way, a fledgling romance with a young teacher named Hope Wiseman forces Simon to confront the demons of his past and make a choice to either serve himself or Christ. In the end, Simon finds out that simply returning a building to its original condition has far greater societal implications to the eternal welfare for the cursed people of Bethel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Nov 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512762235

Colin Briscoe

Colin Briscoe is a first time author. Colin originally conceived of the basic storyline while working as a maintenance man at Philo Grade School shortly after graduating with a degree in writing from Millikin University. Originally, it was intended to be a horror story written purely for entertainment. However, as God shaped and molded Colin over time, He also shaped and molded the purpose of the story. And what began as a story about death became one about eternal life. Colin has no impressive credentials or qualifications making him a prime candidate to be used by God for His glory.

Book preview

I

OBLIVION

"But the way of the wicked is deep

darkness.

They do not know what makes them

stumble."

-Proverbs 4:19

1

HARM’S WAY

Before the bottom dropped out, the forecast had been favorable. What had begun as a promising day with a brilliant sunrise under a canopy of blue skies in God’s country had all of a sudden dissipated. Any memory of a serene beginning had now been enveloped by the ominous clouds looming on the horizon. Even so, it could never be said that it had happened completely by surprise, for there were those who had forecasted its inevitability.

The inclement weather had set in as the wind blew and beat against Simon’s vehicle. While the very vessel in which he traveled teetered to and fro down the highway, any safety that its insulated interior had offered deteriorated into a mere illusion.

Still, Simon pressed on without fear not because he had considered the peril of his circumstances but only because he hadn’t. Besides, he had a date with destiny, and like most young men, could not be bothered by diametrically opposed pressure systems.

Annoyed by the sudden turn of events, he bemoaned his current predicament, longing for the comfort and ease that the first part of his journey had afforded him. When he had set out on his trip earlier in the day, the conditions demanded little of his idle mind. With heavy eyes and a fist full of Texaco coffee, he had bounded down the road with the chauffeur of the subconscious listlessly weaving thirty-five hundred pounds of Detroit steel in and out of car seat infested minivans and Nodoz aided freighters, while a matinee of inner-theater played trailers from ESPN Classic and Cinemax movies.

When Simon, after many hours of driving, crossed over Twain’s mighty Mississippi into the Land of Lincoln, he saw a few of the steamboats down below the rusty Erector Set bridge in the shadow of the Arch. Not surprisingly, any comparisons to Huck Finn on the superhighway of his day were completely lost on him. It was a fact that would have deeply saddened his English professors at TCU who could pull a myriad of deep and fascinating analogies out of a life insurance manual.

Instead, no such deep thoughts entered Simon’s mind. It was otherwise occupied as he contemplated the St. Louis Cardinal’s pitching rotation while quivering the vinyl of his seat with a rank fart. By all accounts, he had been oblivious and comfortable like most red-blooded Americans. Full of nervous energy, his fingers tapped on the armrest of the door, void of purpose or requisition.

It was then that the springs of the great deep burst forth and the floodgates of the heavens were opened. A cascade of water poured over the windshield warping reality into a smeared mosaic of colors. To Simon it was like looking at the world through the bottom of a shot glass, a thought that immediately caused him to gag on the vile taste still lingering in the back of his throat. It was an unsavory byproduct of the previous night’s graduation party. As he struggled to keep his breakfast down, Simon was reminded of the shooting pain that pierced his still incompletely developed pre-frontal lobe.

Break lights flashed before him as the rain came pouring down. Simon slouched in his seat and let out a deep sigh. He looked at a small white cross on the side of the road without really seeing it, before glancing down at his watch that read 1:01 p.m. Thoughtlessly, he mouthed the words of an old Genesis song on the radio, …And I’ve been waiting for this moment all of my life, O’.., as he shook out the watch and then held it against his ear. Nothing. It had died. So it goes. He then picked up his cell phone in the seat next to him only to find that it was actually 1:27 p.m., while he continued mouthing the lyrics…and I was there and I saw what you did, saw it with my own two eyes…

Until now the traffic had not been too bad. When the weather was good, autonomous drivers had motored down the interstate virtually impervious to one another’s existence.

But now, a prophetic sign foretold of roadwork ahead. That large, orange sign was followed shortly thereafter by another one that promised there would be no exits for the next thirty miles. A third diamond-shaped sign warned of reduced speeds and increased fines.

Simon reluctantly pumped the brakes and glanced down at the speedometer. After driving over a slight bluff, he saw through the swiping of his windshield wipers a long serpentine line of red break lights. He muttered several expletives under his breath and looked down at his dead watch before once again reaching for his cell phone.

Predictably, a fourth sign appeared, indicating that the right hand lane was going to merge with the left within the next half-mile. Simon began to merge before impulsively seizing an opportunity to get ahead. Shrewdly, he yanked on the wheel and punched the gas. The old car first lagged and then lunged into the soon-to-be terminal lane. Racing past the now stagnant line of cars towards an orange and white barricade looming in his path, Simon wrung the steering wheel as if it were an old, wet rag. The tightening line of drivers blurred in his periphery as he surveyed a place to jump back in. Much to his dismay, his fellow travelers insolently hugged the bumper before them leaving Simon no clear opening in the long line of cars.

He was quickly running out of road, when he spotted a small opening between a minivan and an oil tanker. With little room for error, he quickly darted back over into the open lane and slammed on the brakes. Glancing upward, Simon grimaced at the sight of a Peterbilt logo filling his rearview mirror. The screeching of tires and the gush of air released from the truck’s brakes engulfed him, then nothing. His heart raced from an elixir of exhilaration and fear.

Finally, Simon exhaled in relief. A horn blasted in protest. Yeah, yeah, whatever, Simon said aloud, as he gave a condescending wave.

Regardless of origin or destination, make or model, every vehicle eventually conformed to a singular, narrow path. Each time the petrol procession ground to a complete halt, Simon’s chances of achieving his ultimate destination before nightfall dwindled precipitously. And when two police cars and an ambulance screeched by him, he resigned himself to the fact that barring a miracle he would not. With that realization, he let out a moan, turned down the radio, and reached for his phone. Swiping away the empty McDonalds’s bags from the seat next to him, he picked it up and dialed the number of his godfather in New Jersey. The ring reverberated in his ear several times before the all too familiar voicemail picked up.

Hello, this is Joseph Hightower with Biotech Therapeutics. I am either away from my desk or out of the office. If you will leave a brief message, I will return your call at my earliest convenience. Thank you.

Simon punched the number one on his cell and said, Uncle Joe, it’s Simon. I hope all’s well. Look, I hate to bother you again, but I just ran into a little bit of road construction, and I wanted to check on, you know, uh, the status of the interviews…and if, um, anything new had materialized with the FDA since the last time we talked. When you get a chance, I’d appreciate it if you could give me a call. Thanks.

His shoulders and back writhed with tension, and frustration coursed through his veins. Simon tossed the phone back down on the seat and ran his hand through his hair. Just as he glanced back down at the phone, the time changed from 6:05 to 6:06 p.m. Turning the radio back up, he thoughtlessly mouthed the words of the song, …Oh, I just gotta know if you’re really there, and you really care, Fa fa fa-Fool’in… Then he leaned way over to the opposite side of the seat and felt for the road map. Doing his best to avoid an accident, he perused the map with the mind’s eye still on the road. Guesstimating his current location, Simon tried to calculate how far he might get before pulling into a hotel for the night and what affect that might have on his overall ETA to the East Coast. While surveying the map, his eyes repeatedly jumped up the page to the central portion of the state. As his eyes began to gravitate to one particular location, he felt for the first time the tugging at his heart that a sort of homecoming would be expected to induce.

Just as his heart skipped a beat, the Peterbilt honked. He looked first in the rearview mirror and then in front of him. The line of cars had crept forward some distance, but the sizable gap was evidently more than the already irritated truck driver behind him could bear. With a contemptuous look on his face, he set the map down beside him and picked up the slack.

All right, all right, Simon growled.

For some time the interstate two-step continued. With each minute that passed, Simon’s agitation grew proportionate to his added drive time. Anxiously, he would slide a little outside of the line of cars trying to get a look at whatever it was that held them up. He tried periodically to distract his mind by searching up and down the dial before tuning in to a sports talk radio show that broke through the static and white noise with perfect clarity. Simon feebly tried to focus on the host preaching about the inalienable right of touchdown celebrations and showmanship. But it was of no use. Every few minutes he would habitually look down at his dead watch and then pick up his cell phone to check the time. Without being able to actually see whatever it was that was causing the traffic jam, he directed all of his anger towards humanity as a whole and lamented the misfortune that had befallen him.

Why does this always happen to me? he asked rhetorically as he crept past a car on the side of the road with its hazard lights on and hood up, never even once thinking of stopping to help or provide assistance. Just as Simon was about to finally blow a gasket, he pulled around a slow curve only to see the warning lights of the ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars that marked the site of the accident.

Finally! he yelled out in exasperation as he sat up and shifted in his seat.

Just then, the weather took a sudden turn for the worse. The turbulent wind grabbed at the car and lifted it while an intense rain pounded the hood. Above the din, he could hear the swishing of the wipers against the inundated glass. As he approached the crash site, he dutifully slowed down in an attempt to get a glimpse of something, anything. Simon strained to see through the kaleidoscope of rain on his driver’s side window. To his dismay, all he could make out were state troopers dashing about holding onto the tops of their cellophane covered hats while the storm whipped about their bright orange rain slickers. Simon’s eyes rapidly darted about in an effort to penetrate the sheet of rain and the cover of smoke emitted from the safety flares that outlined the crash site. But no such luck, they revealed nothing sensational.

When Simon looked back, the minivan in front of him had already pulled away by nearly a hundred feet.

"Yes!" he exclaimed as he sat up in his seat and applied the gas.

The powerful V-6 roared and water rushed through the wheel well as he surged past a convoy of lumbering freighters, obstructing Simon’s view of the next set of construction signs. Despite the portentous weather, Simon, hijacked by his own road rage, threw caution to the wind. Basking in his newfound liberation, he fumbled for his CD case with one hand while the other captained the old Impala.

Just as the rusted out Chevy reached seventy-five miles per hour, the wind ripped and howled through the decaying seals around the windows. Hail crinkled like tinfoil and then rattled like a tight snare drum. A flash of lightening was immediately followed by a sizzling, peel of thunder that resounded in his chest. Simon heedlessly pressed on, defiantly smashing his foot into the pedal, and white-knuckling the steering wheel. Through squinted eyes and pursed lips, he peered into the abyss trying desperately to discern the way. A split second after the cautionary hum of the tires reverberated through him, a pool of standing water grabbed at the car and yanked it toward the guardrail. In a flash, a streak of lightening revealed the danger that lay in his path.

God…! he called out, while cursing profanely between gritted teeth as sparks flew. The sound of metal on metal screeched like a legion of demons.

Impulsively, Simon jerked the wheel hard to the left, severely overcompensating. The steel leviathan launched from the guardrail into the far left lane towards an unsuspecting SUV. Catching a glimpse of the blurred object in his periphery, Simon grimaced and contorted his body while pulling down on the wheel hard to the right. In so doing, the almost certain collision was narrowly averted, but now he was out of control as the car wildly fishtailed down the road. Simon dug his shoulders into his ears, locked his arms straight out, and deliberately wrenched the wheel back and forth in a desperate attempt to regain control of the car. Suddenly, a black and yellow striped concrete barricade appeared in his path. His heart sank and his blood ran cold. Everything went into slow motion, and he turned his head and dug his chin into his shoulder.

God, oh, God, he muttered, as he grimaced and braced himself for the impact.

In another heartbeat, the tires inexplicably gripped the pavement, and the car shot back into the middle of the road. When he opened his eyes, the sparkling twinkle of a chrome fish rapidly swam towards him. Simon punched the brakes and the sparkling fish darted away into the curtain of rain. Then the two tail lights, a license plate, and the rest of the back of the vehicle came into focus.

Simon let out a gush of air and sank back in his seat. For the first time he noticed his heart pounding in his chest and sweat on the palms of his clammy hands. He first glanced in his rearview mirror. Then he looked into each of his side mirrors in utter disbelief that he had survived unscathed. Every fiber of his being was stiff and tingled with great fear and trembling. When the realization that he had somehow been spared finally sank in, he was overwhelmed by a deep sense of gratitude and relief.

Thank you, thank you, he uttered to no one in particular while the white noise of the radio became audible to him again. With great jubilation, he quickly reached for the phone to tell someone, anyone, about how his life had been spared.

***

Simon had driven for maybe a half of an hour basking in his implausible stay of execution. The sequence of events, so vivid and clear, played over and over in his mind. He tried unsuccessfully to call several people in an effort to share his miraculous story of deliverance from the clutches of death. While he enthusiastically dialed in hopes of regaining a cell tower, he failed to notice the subtle changes to the landscape around him. With the sunlight beginning to break through the clouds, the rubbery squeal of the windshield wipers rubbing on dry glass brought him back to reality. When he reached with his still trembling hand to turn them off, he noticed a billboard through a row of trees lining the interstate. It read, Next Stop, Neoga’s Adult Time Superstore.

Neoga? he said aloud as a look of confusion swept over his face. Quickly, he fumbled again for the map that had fallen to the floorboard. But before he could reach it, a green interstate sign confirmed his suspicions. It read, Neoga 6, Mattoon 18, Champaign 36, Chicago 216.

Sitting in a nearly empty parking lot under a sign that read Adult Time, Simon retraced his course on the map with his index finger. Evidently, his near death experience took place on the outskirts of Effingham, IL. When he lost control of the car, he had inadvertently swerved onto I-57 north instead of continuing on I-70 east. Then, subconsciously, Simon continued with his finger north a few more miles to an isolated spot on the map.

There it is, Simon almost whispered contemplatively, Bethel. It was the town where he had spent the first ten years of his life before his dad left and his mother took Simon to live with his aunt in that forsaken town in West Texas. He knew all along that his trip would bring him back to the general vicinity, but at the time he couldn’t justify going out of his way just to see it. After all, he hadn’t kept up with anyone from the good ole days, and he had a schedule to keep. But now, due to a twist of fate, he was no more than a stone’s throw away. His eyes lifted off the map, He looked out over a bean field in the direction of the small, Midwestern town.

Just then his voice mail rang.

Sure, now I get coverage! he said sarcastically, only to see that he had missed some calls. It was Joe. Picking it up to listen to the message, he noticed the absurdly flat terrain that defined Central Illinois. Short stalks of corn lined in perfect rows flapped and fluttered in the breeze, stretching all of the way to the horizon. Countryside roads outlined the large rectangles that formed a giant inextricably woven quilt of green, yellow, and black, dotted with farmhouses, barns, and silos. Simon was caught off guard by a warm feeling of familiarity that suddenly swept over him.

Then the message started, Simon, sorry I missed you. How was graduation? I really wished that I could have been there. I hope the trip is going all right. Be safe. Don’t kill yourself getting out here. It looks as though you have plenty of time. The FDA notified us today that we will not hear back from them until early next week, and interviews won’t begin until after that. In the meantime, give me a call if you need anything and let me know when you expect to arrive in Jersey, we’ll get the spare bedroom ready.

Ahh! Simon let slip a vulgar slur while his face revealed a pained expression. He pressed the end button, dropped the phone onto the seat beside him, and tapped the steering wheel, as if he were hammering out his thoughts on a PC. He lowered his chin into his bicep and raised his left eyebrow furtively.

It’s ridiculous, he thought. There’s no point in going that far out of my way. What would I stand to gain? After all, it had been over ten years. That’s it!… He sat up decisively, putting the car in gear. …I can’t think of a single solitary reason to go back there, he concluded as the rusty, old gas-guzzler rolled forward, crunching the gravel under its tires.

In an instant, he was back on the highway heading north towards Bethel. His pulse raced as he considered the years that he spent there as well as those that had passed since.

The miles went by quickly. Then the interstate lifted off of the plains, and the car ascended an overpass. Simon looked expectantly to his right. Off in the distance, rising up out of the cornfields and bean fields, he could see the silhouette two grain elevators and a water tower. Their bases were shrouded in a small, dense cluster of trees and houses. At that moment, the sun ducked under the blanket of clouds in the West and began its downward descent, casting a glaze of gold over the entire valley. The brilliance of it all went largely unnoticed by Simon whose gaze shifted back and forth between the past and all that lie ahead. The nostalgia of an otherwise happy childhood collided with the pain of abandonment. Apprehension and giddiness swirled about with great turbulence deep inside of him. His stomach tightened and his heart ached as he veered from the interstate onto the off ramp and made the turn onto the narrow slab of road connecting the final expanse between himself and home.

Before Simon knew it, he was standing under a streetlight beside his car at the end of a main street that could be found in any small town throughout the Heartland. The afterglow of twilight cast a soft orange hue onto the narrow corridor of withered brick buildings. Everything and nothing seemed to have changed. Somehow each and every feature looked miniature in comparison to the visual rendering of his mind’s eye. What stood before him clearly regaled a more prosperous time in the town’s history and belied Simon’s memory of its Mayberry-like perfection. Ten or so different establishments lined each side of the main drag ranging in a variety of sizes, color, and ornamentation that somehow were now knitted together in a perfect harmony of decay. It was neat and clean and even cliché and, in a strange way, even better than he remembered it.

The glass of the storefronts bore the names of the establishments to which they now housed. To the best of Simon’s recollection only a few remained while most of them had been boarded up or closed down. The Post Office anchored the northeastern corner of the street to his left followed by a hardware store that used to be an insurance agency, a real estate office, and the National Bank. Looming over the bank in the backdrop was the iconic water tower. Inscribed on the side of its tank read, Bethel in bold letters with the epigram written below, Center of the Universe. The prodigious grain elevators stood proudly next to it, completing the boondocks skyline. His eyes lingered for a moment at the summit, and he paused to contemplate its rustic grandeur. While he gazed upward, something inside him lovingly nudged the deep recesses of his memory. And even though he was not able to put his finger on it, there was an unmistakable absence. He squinted his eyes and audibly let out a huh, paused for a brief moment, and then looked again at the panorama in its entirety.

Simon grinned knowingly then closed his eyes for a moment to bask in the comfortable feeling that now flooded his consciousness. When he opened them again they were a bit glossy and reflected the glow of a lone red blinking light that governed the town’s busiest intersection. Below the light, just to the right and opposite the bank, sat the Bethel Tavern. Above its doors a neon sign glowed and hummed while moths frolicked and fluttered in the soft breeze of what had become a pleasant spring evening. Then his eyes fell upon the old Harold Trophy and Engraving shop, which sat wedged between the tavern and the public library. A shudder involuntary swept over Simon’s whole body as he considered the possibility. Miss Harold? he muttered. Could that old bat possibly still be kick’n after all of these years? No way. She was saggy and crusty a decade ago when she doubled as principal at the elementary school and as the town constable.

Seeing no signs of life, his eyes continued to follow the virtual tour of the downtown resting his eyes for a moment on the library and then the grocery store. It was then that it occurred to him how an inordinate number of cars and pick up trucks lined the street for a Sunday night in a bedroom community. And yet, there were still no signs of life. Just then, in the eerie stillness, something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Simon quickly turned towards the direction of the ancient school to see what it was. He furrowed his brow and peered intently into the darkened alley that separated the grocery store and the schoolyard. Nothing.

He turned to the right and scanned the façade of Bethel Elementary School. The old school had defiantly stood the test of time as proclaimed by the etchings in the corner stone that read 1905. A modestly elegant building in its day, it now bore the black eye of a broken window covered in plywood, and Simon had to wonder if it hadn’t been condemned altogether.

Still, he was mesmerized by the wealth of memories that inundated his consciousness at the sight of his old stomping grounds. Each memory that swam to the forefront of his mind was more wonderful than the last. Many of them were familiar due to the number of times they had been replayed, while others gushed forth from the most remote compartments of his subconscious and exploded in new richness and clarity. Looking through the backstop to the playground with its swing sets, monkey bars, and swinging gate, a wave of emotion swept over him, and he recalled the innocence of his childhood.

There it was again.

Okay, that time I know I saw something, he said aloud.

The movement flashed out of the corner of his eye, but this time it was more vivid. His eyes intently fixated on the cellar doors of the school. Dusk had already set in and the doors remained in the shadows cast from a florescent light that illuminated the entryway. His mind examined the still frame of what he thought he saw, because it looked like a hand furtively pulling the cellar door shut from within. The thought was immediately challenged by reason. He cocked his head and scowled in consternation searching for the last vestiges of plausible explanations before concluding that his mind must have been playing tricks on him.

But it was a hand. Wasn’t it? A part of him objected, That’s ridiculous.

Wow, wait a minute…, Simon said aloud, only now remembering something long forgotten. Just as he took a step towards the school, the door to the tavern flung open at the end of street. Unnatural, yellow light spilled onto the sidewalk while the audible din of laughter and music reverberated off the brick buildings. Simon stopped and turned in the direction of the tavern as his heart skipped a beat. A dark figure stood in its entrance holding the door slightly ajar. It lingered for a time in the entryway, gesticulated wildly to those inside, and then allowed the door to close behind him. Simon glanced towards the school, thought better of it, and walked in the direction of the tavern. After all, it stood to reason that the owners of all of those cars and trucks lining the streets must be congregated inside, and at the moment, that was a comforting thought.

As Simon walked past the trophy shop, he slowed down to get a quick peak inside. A part of him wanted to see if the old principal could still be lurking somewhere in her shop tinkering on baseball trophies or printing band ribbons. It was a thought that immediately reduced him to an apprehensive, awkward school boy, and he had the same pit in his stomach that he used to have at the mere threat of being sent to her office. Oh man, the paddle, he thought. His eyes scanned the dimly lit shop but met only the dusty trophies and plaques that adorned its walls.

The dark figure that had just exited the bar came towards him, paused, reached into his pocket, and struck a match to light a cigarette. As Simon approached, the man cupped his hands to protect the flame against the mild breeze and brought his face down to meet it. The brief flash of light shone about him, but it only seemed to accentuate the shadows of deep lines emitting from the corners of his eyes and mark the deep crevices of his forehead.

Hey, how’s it going? Simon asked perfunctorily as he passed by.

The man looked at Simon out of the corner of his beady eyes while he took a deep drag on the cigarette. He nodded in response and grinned through his goatee as he exhaled. Then he stood upright and shook out the match. Simon did not allow his eyes to meet those of the stranger. Instead, he pressed on towards the tavern. After he passed, the man looking on brought the Marlboro down to his chin and scratched it with his thumb. With a smirk, he returned the cigarette to his mouth, put his hands in his pockets, and strode off into the darkness.

When Simon reached the tavern, he opened the door and stepped inside. The booming surround sound and hallow gazes met him in unison. He paused awkwardly for an eternal moment in the entryway, still holding the door wide open behind him. To his amazement, the place was nearly empty. Three sets of eyes glared questioningly at him as though he were alien to them. After measuring him up, their eyes returned to the flat screen behind the bar. When they did so, Simon took the opportunity to look around the room. He was astounded by what he saw. This was no longer the same seedy tavern he had remembered.

Bewildered, Simon looked behind him out through the glass door at all of the cars and trucks lining the streets and then turned again towards the nearly empty tavern. He let the door close behind him and sheepishly made his way towards the bar. Neither of the two patrons acknowledged his presence. A fervently passionate bartender commanded their attention while preaching about the virtues of drafting 27 year-olds and third year pitchers to his fantasy league baseball team.

Simon was thankful for the mild diversion that again gave him occasion to get a better look at each of them. The bartender, a man of some stature, stood with his back to Simon, leaning against the bar with one hand while motioning ardently with the other. His captive audience consisted of one young man wearing a suit with his tie loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and his jacket hanging over the back of a bar stool. The other one sported a Yankees cap with a flat lid pulled down over his eyes. He wore earrings and a silver chain with a large Chicago Bears emblem that dangled between the buttons on his overalls. His hardened expression ran counter to his soft, boyish features.

The two young men clutched their beer bottles like joysticks and looked over a myriad of disheveled papers set out before them. The guy in the suit slumped over the bar, while the other one sat tall on the edge of his seat. Their attention was primarily transfixed on the ESPN Sunday Night Baseball game displayed on a forty-two inch LCD that sat behind the bar. From time to time, they glanced at the bartender and nodded arbitrarily in agreement while Jon Miller’s voice boomed the play-by-play.

As Simon reached for a seat at the bar, he casually scanned their features hoping to recognize at least one them.

Suddenly, the bartender lifted the remote control, turned it towards the TV, and muted it with an exasperated expression.

You two idiots haven’t heard a single word that I’ve said, he said, scolding the two young men sitting before him. A big, hulking mountain of a man with a towel draped over his shoulder, he leaned on both of his massive arms, looking down at some kind of rulebook while reading its contents aloud. When he was finished reading, he continued with his rant.

The two guys who appeared to be in their late teens or early twenties looked past him to the muted television screen.

Come on’ G’, the guy in the Yankees cap said. Turn id’ back up!

I’ll turn it up when I’m ready to turn it up, the large bartender replied. I’m not done reading the rules. You guys need to know this stuff! Just because I’m the commissioner of the Fantasy League doesn’t mean that I’m the only one who needs to know this…

While the conversation continued, Simon looked around and was dumbfounded by the changes that had been made since he had last seen the place. As a child he and his family would come here, along with the rest of the town, on Catfish Night in a mostly Catholic community. At that time, it was a dingy little dive with a low false ceiling that made secondary smoke a readily renewable resource. It was a dark, depressing place that probably broke any number of health code violations. Outside of Friday nights, it was little more than a watering hole for the seedy, underbelly of the community. That included his father who was a regular fixture.

But now, it had been completely refurbished. The whole place had been gutted and renovated. Someone had invested a small fortune in the striking transformation. The false ceiling had been removed, revealing a magnificent, ornate tin ceiling. Fans hung throughout the room, swirling lazily with soft lights housed in green glass. Tiny diamond shaped windows were replaced by six large panes of glass that started at booth level and went all the way to the ceiling, while neon signs hummed softly illuminating the window frames and beckoning seductively to would be patrons.

Simon’s eyes surveyed the rest of the room. A requisite pool table, jukebox, pinball machine, and dartboard resided in the very back of the room. Just to the right stood a makeshift salad bar. Beyond that, there was more seating as the room continued around the corner just out of sight. The walls of the establishment were adorned with pictures of local sports teams, memorabilia, trophies, and plaques. He leaned in close to get a better look at a few of them.

In all, it was like some sort of sports shrine replete with shiny gold trimmings, shimmering oak, sleek leather seats, and a myriad of flat screen TV’s, all simultaneously flashing Hi-Def images of Sunday Night Baseball. Then once again Jon Miller’s voice boomed from the surround sound.

Thank you! the two patrons echoed in unison.

Simon sat down and waited for the bartender to make his way over. It was then that the most heavenly aroma wafted from the kitchen. His salivary glands kicked into gear, and he was overwhelmed by an insatiable craving. Still, the bartender paid him no heed. Instead, he kept his back towards Simon while imploring his friends to pull the trigger on some trades that he was trying desperately to orchestrate.

Finally, he turned towards Simon and put up his index finger, indicating that he would be over in a minute. When he turned around, Simon caught a glimpse of the boy’s face trapped in a man’s body. It was Little Richey Land, one of his closest friends!

No Way! Simon thought in disbelief, as the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. What are the odds? Then he thought for a moment. In a town of a thousand people? Pretty good, I guess, he mused. It could be him. Right? Maybe not, though, after all Little Richey was…well…little. Simon had to find out for sure.

Hey, uh, buddy, Simon called out to the hulking bartender.

The guy glanced over his shoulder at Simon with incredulity then turned back. The other two guys at the bar also turned to look at Simon with a perplexed expression on their faces.

Who’s that dude, Rich? he could hear one of them say.

Don’t know him, Rich answered. You guys recognize him?

"It is him, no doubt about it!" Simon thought excitedly. Richey Land was a runt, the smallest of all his friends. They did everything together as kids. They ran around town, got into trouble, swam in the creek, explored abandoned houses. But above all, they played baseball. Richey absolutely loved everything about the game. Like most runts, other kids constantly picked on him in the classroom and on the field. As a result, he had a fierce temper and a short fuse, and he constantly felt like he had to prove himself. Nonetheless, he was a great kid at heart and had been a loyal friend.

Hey, uh, Richey, Simon blurted out.

The bartender jerked his head around. Hang on a minute, guy, he answered without thinking. The other two patrons sat up this time, looked at each other inquisitively, and then turned back towards Simon.

Rich turned and slowly walked over to Simon.

Wow, he’s huge, 6-4 or 6-5, maybe 250 pounds, Simon thought. But there could be no doubt about it now. It was definitely him.

Simon was about to speak when Rich interrupted.

Listen, little man, he said, I don’t like anybody calling me ‘Richey’. All right?

Little man? Simon, who was above average height, thought. He nodded affirmatively and decided to take advantage of his autonomy and have a little fun with his old friend.

Now, you want a draft or a bottle? Rich asked dully as he tossed a coaster on the bar in front of Simon.

He nearly gagged at the mention of beer due to his exploits the night before. Just a Coke, thanks, Simon replied.

Rum and Coke? Rich asked moving to pick up a glass.

No, just a Coke, Simon answered.

A Coca-Cola? Rich said with disapproval, reaching to a fridge behind the bar.

Yeah, thanks. Hey, by the way, what’s with all of the cars parked out front? Simon asked while Rich popped the tab and plopped the can of Coke in front of the annoying stranger. I thought there’d be a bunch of…

His old friend dragged a newspaper over in front of Simon and pointed his beefy finger at the front page headline. They’re all across the street, he replied, lifting his chin towards the window.

Simon looked over his shoulder in the direction Rich was pointing. It was the Town Hall. By the time he looked back, Rich had already made his way to the other end of the bar and was talking in a hushed voice to the other two guys who kept shooting glances over at Simon.

Spinning the paper around, Simon read the headline, School Referendum on the Ropes. Beneath it the sub-heading read, "Town Hall meeting on school referendum to be held Sunday, May 15th."

Well, that explains that, Simon thought. The first paragraph of the article stated that the school board was proposing a referendum to build a new grade school. The proposal involved tearing down Bethel Elementary School, consolidating with the next town over, and building a new school on a neutral site.

The article struck a cord with Simon, although he didn’t know why exactly. Something about tearing down his old school felt like erasing a part his past. While he was reading, Rich and the other guys had gone back to watching the game. Jon Miller announced excitedly, There’s a hit deep in the gap…

Yeah, Boy! See what I’m say’n’? the guy in the Yankees hat yelled out, clapping his hands.

I don’t believe it! the other one in the suit replied, followed by a deluge of vulgarity.

I told you, Rob, Rich said smugly, while punching something into his Blackberry. I know you love the Cubs, but you can’t draft their entire team. That’s just stupid.

Das right, what wuz u’ thinkin’?

Stop with all that ghetto talk, Rocky! Rob said angrily, while he loosened his tie a little more.

Wha’? Dats just who I am, Rocky replied, thumping his own chest. Dats jus’ me.

You don’t even know who you are, Rob said jeeringly. I’ll help you out here because obviously you’re a little confused. You’re a white, farm boy from Podunk, nowhere, U.S.A. who still lives with his mommy and daddy in the basement.

Rocky countered with a volley of his own obscenities and one pronounced gesture.

All right, cool it you two, Rich said with his chin down, scrolling through stats on his Blackberry.

I know, Rob said. It’s just another one of his stupid phases. But, this one is really annoying. You can’t even understand him half of the time.

A faze? Rocky objected.

Yeah, a phase, Rob countered. Like when we were little and you wanted to be Zack what’s-his-face from ‘Saved by the Bell’, or your Michael Jordan phase, or Garth Brooks, or…

…random Harley guy phase, Rich chimed in without even looking up from his phone.

Oh, that stupid bandana! Rob mocked.

Shut up! Rocky responded. Both of you can… he finished with a flurry of expletives.

Okay, okay, Rich said, shaking his head in disgust. Back to reality here. Look, you’ve got plenty of hitting. What you need is pitching. You and Will need to make a trade. Neither of you have made a single trade all season. I’m calling him and getting his butt down here.

"Will? Simon thought. Unbelievable, Will Thornchuk, another one of his best friends that he used to run with in Bethel.

’His ole’ lady’ ain’t gonna like dat, Rocky interjected.

What? I don’t care what she thinks, Rich snapped back. Did I tell him to get her pregnant? Rich asked indignantly. Is it my fault, he went and knocked her up? He needs to establish who wears the pants early on, he added while dialing the number and lifting the phone to his ear. What’s one beer gonna hurt, he’s…Hello? Oh great, it’s you. Yeah. No. No!… Just put him on the phone. Just put him on the pho…. He held the phone out for them all to hear, shaking his head. Then he waited. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hey, get your butt down here. I don’t want any of your lame excuses. Just get down here. Then he hung up.

The intoxicating aroma once again made its way out of the kitchen. Simon’s stomach growled in response. Hey, Richey, uh, I mean, ‘Big man’, he said mockingly, do you have anything to eat?

Rich again slowly made his way over. This time he looked none too pleased.

Something smells really good.., Simon started to say as Rich dragged over a bowl of stale pretzels and placed them under Simon’s nose. Several fell out onto the bar. Rich raised his eyebrows and returned to the other end of the bar.

He hasn’t changed a bit, Simon thought. Same fiery temper.

No, I meant, what’s that smell coming from the kitchen? Simon asked with a smile.

Italian beef, the Sunday night special, Rich answered tiring of the pesky questions from the mysterious guest.

Oh yeah, I’m starving. I’d love to have some of…

Yeah, well, too bad, we’re all out, Rich said, pointing again at the pretzels. Knock yourself out.

Oh, okay, so that’s how it’s gonna be, Simon thought to himself. …Yeah, no, he said aloud. These are great. Thanks. These should be fine, Simon said sarcastically, lifting one up to show them, before tossing it into his mouth.

Looking around the room at the pictures of old baseball teams, he suddenly had a terribly wonderful idea.

Richey…

By now, Rich had lost his patience. Where do you get off calling me, ‘Richey’? Do you think you know me or somethin’? Cause I sure don’t know you, he said, punctuating his statement with a couple of derogatory remarks.

Yeah, you know what, I think I do know you, Simon said with a wry smile. I played baseball against you back in the day.

Rich furrowed his brow trying to search his memory. When? Who’d you play for? Ivesdale? Sadorus? Rich asked trying hard to figure it out. "Oh, it was Sidney, right?

You’re the little kid who couldn’t throw a strike to save his life, Simon continued.

Rich’s face turned crimson.

Anticipating trouble, Rob and Rocky slid off of their seats and made their way towards Simon.

Bro’, I wouldn’t do dat, Rocky said with a look of concern.

Rich threw his towel down on the bar. You do look familiar. You’re one of those Bement jerks, aren’t you? Rich asked as he moved deliberately over towards him.

What’d we used to call you? Simon continued to say. "Man, you would get so mad. Short Bread. No. That wasn’t it. Short Stuff…No…

Don’t say id, Rocky stammered.

Short Bus! Simon said, snapping his fingers. I knew it. You’re ‘Short Bus’!

Rich thrust his big hand across the bar and grabbed Simon by the shirt, lifting him off of his seat. Two other stools fell and hit the ground, making a noise like a revolver going off.

You little punk…! Rich snarled, pulling back his fist.

"Enough!" an old gravely voice yelled out from around the corner behind a video poker machine.

Everyone stopped, including Rich who was still holding Simon in the air. Each of them bore a look of confusion. But no one was more stunned than Simon.

Put him down! a short, old woman snarled, while she dawned a sweater and limped towards the front door.

Obediently, Rich slowly set Simon back down.

As the old lady limped her way over to them, she said, Don’t nothin’ ever change? Do I need to take you two to the office or something?

Simon and Rich slowly shook their heads in disbelief.

Heaven’s to Betsy, Rich, she continued. Don’t you recognize your own best friend?

Miss Harold? Simon uttered under his breath in disbelief.

Been a long time, welcome back, Thelma Harold said, limping towards the door and opening it. Then she looked at Rob and Rocky. Well, don’t just stand there. Pick up those chairs.

The two boys scrambled to pick up the chairs and slide them back up under the bar. Rich looked deeply into Simon’s face still dazed and confused.

As Thelma was going out the door, Will made his way into the tavern.

Hey, well if it isn’t Simon Freeman, Will said with a smile. What is up, man?

Still pumped full of adrenaline, the massive bartender leaned forward and looked closely into his old friend’s face. A wide grin swept across Rich’s face, Simon Freeman? Holy…

2

AMONG THE SIMPLE

By the time Rich finished his bear hug, Simon was almost gasping for air.

I can’t believe it, man! Rich said grinning from ear to ear. Oh man!

I had you going! Simon said laughing, as he bent over trying to regain his breath.

You had me all right, Rich replied. Another second and you would have had all of me.

What? Will asked confused. What’s happened?

You wouldn’t believe it, Rob said. I thought Rich was going to kill this guy. Who is he anyway? Who are you?

Who dat? Rocky asked with an incredulous expression. Only da’ best centerfielder in the history of Bethel!

You have to forgive Rocky, Rich said. I’ve told him so much about you, he probably thinks he knows you.

Na! Rocky said. I remember watch’n him play when I wuz a kid.

You don’t remember jack, Rob scoffed. We’re the same age, and I don’t remember him.

He wuz only three years older, Rocky replied. Sides, I was raised ad’ the ballpark.

Well, it’s good to see you, Will said enthusiastically. Simon Freeman. Wow. Crazy. What brings you back to town?

I’m driving to New Jersey for a job interview, and I kind of accidentally got a little sidetracked because a storm…, Simon started to answer.

You mean the tornado down near Murphysboro? Rob asked. Did you see it?

Saw it? Simon replied. "I think I was in it."

What? Rich asked. You’d come all the way from Texas and not look us up?

Well, I didn’t know you’d still be here, Simon said a little embarrassed by the insinuation.

Where else would we be? Rich asked.

Simon burst out with a boisterous laugh before realizing that no one else even cracked a smile.

Well, sit down, man, Rich said adding a few colorful words. I can’t believe it. Man, I’m glad to see you. You want anything? he asked making his way around the bar. I’m going to get you a beer.

Actually I… Simon started to say.

Yeah, round of beers! Will said enthusiastically.

Oh, look whose ready to party now, ‘Mr. I’m-whipped-cause-I’m-getting’-married-next-week’, Rich said sarcastically. Simon, you still want some of that Sunday night special?

I thought you were all out, Simon said as he sat down at the bar.

That’s when I thought you were a stranger, Rich answered. He slid a pitcher of cold beer and six frosty mugs onto the counter. But, you’re not, you’re one of us, man, he said as he made his way through the kitchen doors.

Simon could feel the warmth of his welcome, and Rich’s words, as corny as it sounded, struck a cord deep inside of him.

Rocky grabbed Simon by the shoulders and steered him to where he and Rob had been sitting. Rocky yelled, Da’ pro’gul son is back in da’ house, know what I’m say’n’? Then he pulled out a stool for Simon and guided him to his seat. Man, Freeman, I member watch’n you play. You was one baller. Fast. Man, you was fast. Did ya go on and play anywhere?

Yeah, a little in college, Simon answered awkwardly. But, no more ball for me now. That dream died long ago.

So, what’s been going on? Will asked pulling up a chair beside him.

The group of guys battered Simon with a deluge of questions while Rich worked furiously behind the scenes, slapping down frothing, frozen mugs for each of them. In no time at all, he re-emerged with heaping plates of steamy beef and homemade bread on plates garnished with hot peppers and mustard. Here you go, Rich said, setting the plate before Simon.

So what’s the job you are interviewing for? Will asked.

It’s actually a pharmaceutical sales job, Simon answered, before he could take his first bite.

Really? Will asked. Nice. That’s a good gig. Big money, a car, great benefits…the works, am I right?

Not to mention the chicks, Rob added, enviously. Have you seen those girls come into Dr. Al-Banna’s clinic. Man, they’re all unbelievable. And from what I hear, they work like ten to two, right? It’s a like a dream job.

I don’t know about any of that, Simon replied with a smile. But, it’s a really great opportunity- the chance of a lifetime.

Before they could dig in and finally appease their appetites, they raised their glasses for a toast. To the return of one of Bethel’s very own, Rich said proudly. They each took a swig, slammed their mugs on the bar, and dug into the feast that had been set before them.

Simon paused momentarily nearly bursting with gratitude over the fortuitous series of events that brought him back here. Lifting his fork, he leaned down over the top of the bountiful provisions set before him and deeply inhaled with his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he looked up at the game on the big screen and caught a glimpse of his own countenance in the mirror behind the bar. He smiled at his reflection sitting amongst old friends. He couldn’t have imagined a better homecoming.

Watcha waiting for, man? Rich asked. "It’s been simmering in the crock-pot all day. It’ll melt in your mouth. I promise. Suddenly, Rich let out an expletive as he rushed around the bar towards the front door of the tavern.

What’s the matter? Will asked, wiping mustard from the corner of his mouth.

That Town Hall meeting on the referendum just got out, and those guys are heading this way, Rich cursed. I don’t want anybody else in here right now!

By the time Rich made it to the door, the first two men from the meeting had opened it and were about to walk in. Rich grabbed one of them by the arm with his left hand, forcing him out the door, while his right hand pushed it shut.

The men profanely chided, What in the world are you doing, Rich?

No, no, no. Sorry, private party fellas, Rich answered dully. The bar’s closed.

You gotta’ be kidding me, another man complained from the other side of the glass door. It’s not even ten! You don’t close down till midnight.

The men banged on the door and protested adamantly, but it was quite obvious that Rich was not changing his mind. Three more guys approached as Rich slammed the dead bolt shut. All five of the dismayed, would-be patrons yelled at Rich through the glass.

Come on, Rich…Open the door! the men yelled from the outside looking in.

They gnashed their teeth and protested profanely, but Rich paid no heed. Instead, he threw his towel over his shoulder and sauntered back to the bar.

You’re gonna do that to me, really? one called out.

I don’t know you, Rich yelled back with a smirk. Sorry boys. Special guests only, and you’re not on the list. Seeing the futility of it all, the men finally gave up, left the front door, and made their way out into the darkness.

Unmoved by the calamity outside, Rich called to Simon. Hey, I got somethin’ to show ya.

Rich excitedly walked over to the wall behind the pool table, perusing the pictures and memorabilia with his index finger. Aha, he said as he pulled down one of the pictures from the wall. There it is.

Simon looked on with curiosity while Rich returned to his spot behind the bar.

Recognize this? Rich asked. He was half-giddy as he handed it over to Simon.

Simon wiped his hands on his napkin before reaching for the picture. At first, Simon didn’t recognize the photo, and then it all came back to him. It was a photograph of their Little Okaw Valley Traveling League Championship team.

That was a great team, Rich said proudly tapping the glass of the picture.

Where you at, Freeman? Rocky asked with a mouth full of Italian beef while looking over Simon’s shoulder.

Simon scanned the photo with an air of nostalgia that oscillated back and forth between extreme joy and bitter pain. It was taken the last summer that he spent in Bethel. In that photo, he had no idea that his father had already decided to leave. Shortly after it had been taken, his mother told him that they would be leaving Bethel and moving to his aunt’s house in Texas. That had been twelve years ago.

He’s fourth from the right, Rich chimed in. He’s helping me, Shane, and Will hold up the trophy.

Where is Shane, anyway? Simon asked.

Iraq, Will replied.

You were the reason we won that game, Simon, Rich said.

Oh, yeah, right, Simon replied with sarcasm, handing the plaque back to Rich. You guys probably never won another game without me.

No, I’m serious! Rich countered.

No, really, we didn’t win much of anything after that, Will said flatly.

You mean you guys were actually good at one time? Rob said sarcastically.

Let me tell you…no…for real, don’t laugh. This is what really happened… Rich started telling Simon all about the lean years of sports in Bethel since his departure.

From that moment, it was all over. Each of the young men regaled their tales of conquering ball diamonds, frozen gridirons, and hardwood courts like only young men can, with the brevity of a Southern Baptist preacher and the veracity of a used-car salesman. Each partially listened to the other’s stories, but only to the extent that it reminded them of something else that they had done or seen or heard. And then they waited, not for the sake of being polite, but for an opening. As the night dragged on, the degree to which the listeners remained engaged was inversely proportional to the amount of time it took for the other to tell the story. By the time it was finished, no one was actively listening anymore. In a time honored tradition of man-speak, no one looked directly into anybody else’s eyes. No one gave an affirming grin or an understanding nod. Other times, someone would cut off somebody else to tell their own story, and if better, was justified in doing so. Either way, it didn’t matter for they were young. It was the law of jungle, and they had been practicing it for years. There was no pressure, no expectations, and best of all, there were no hurt feelings.

When the mental paper clippings ran dry and the accuracy of the tales came into question, the topic of conversation made its natural transition to a different field of competition- women. Of course, on that subject, they were most familiar with teenage girls who acted like the former but looked like the latter. Naturally, credibility became less and less of a commodity as the tap continued to flow, while explicitness and inventiveness became held in greater and greater regard. With no one to corroborate their accounts, sketchy details and unlikely scenarios were challenged with great discord by their mouths but secretly believed in their hearts because they wanted them so badly to be true. Completely enthralled, each one sat forward on the edge of his stool hanging on to every word as the stories escalated epically. With each new story and each refill, they started to rebuild the deep bonds of friendship.

Then Rob told a story about a friend in the Navy visiting the Philippines.

It’s a rare that a story elicits utter silence from a group of 20-year-olds, but like a verbal cold shower, silence was indeed rendered. After the awkward moment had passed, somebody yelled out, Let’s play some pool. And the party raged on until Rich noticed the clock on the wall.

Man! Rich said, cursing. Almost missed it.

What? Simon asked.

It’s midnight, Rich slurred as he moved back behind the counter and over to the cash register.

Simon, who was inadvertently trying to play pool with a warped stick, looked back at Rich, bewildered. The room started to spin, and he realized he was more than just a little buzzed. Yeah, that happens every night from what I understand, he said.

Rich popped open the register, busted out a roll of quarters, and headed for the juke box.

Na, homie, Rocky answered. It’s tradition. He be puttin’ on the Frankie, baby.

Huh? He do what, to who? Simon asked.

Frank Sinatra, Rich replied as he loaded the machine with quarters. We play Sinatra on the juke box every night at midnight.

You’re here every night? Simon asked in wonder.

Shortly after punching in GEN3-6, My Way rocked the house.

Unsolicited, Rocky, Rob, Will, and Rich broke into some sort of deranged karaoke kinda thing that would have scattered alley cats. What they lacked in pitch and harmony they more than made up in volume and zeal. Will gestured for Simon to come join them. As the last sour notes drowned out ole’ blue eyes, they all bellowed at the top of their lungs, "I did it my way…!"

The rest of the details of the evening are sketchy at best. By all accounts,