On a lonesome walk west
A brief excerpt from a work in-progress.
Bill Edenson's father, who was named John, disliked men who wore leather. "Animals," he called them. He did not carry his hatred because of the origin of the material itself. It was not because of the many years his own father spent stitching leather goods, back in the old country. It was not because it was an unreliable material.
His father's persistent hatred for the material left Bill perplexed.
-
John turned 9 years old on February 12, 1944. He was not home when the men in leather burnt down his house. He was in the fields, playing soccer with his schoolmates.
His older cousin came to fetch John in the middle of the match. At first he challenged the notion; the game was tied and the next score would win. However the cousin eventually won out, using threats from John's parents..
When John arrived home he found the gated terrace that his father had put in place many years prior melted down and bent into nothing. The house remained intact but charred on the outside. Before that there had been no home, only dirt. His father and uncle had built the house from the foundation up, made the walls thick, the roof strong. They ensured the lot would never again be empty.
The flames licked up the house's stone face, superheating the tall glass windows and causing them to explode. One of the flying shards found John's younger brother Paul's left eye. Paul refused to wear a patch over the scarred tissue after. He claimed he could still detect light through the ruined organ. John never questioned his brother, but he would laugh when smaller children would ask questions about his eye, ranging from simply "What happened?" to "Did a cat scratch you?" Later, when they were old enough to have nieces and nephews, the children would simply ask "Uncle Paul, how come you don't wear glasses so you can see better?"
John's mother was most affected by the soldiers' attempt at arson. Though they'd failed to penetrate the thick stone masonry John's father had created, it did erase the earthen history his mother had planted in the garden. The wild cherries at the front of the property turned to ash, alongside the rows of pole beans and tomatoes and other vegetables that she would harvest and turn into magic things, a variety of country dishes that they ate and shared with customers at their basement tavern. Losing the garden upset her; it was what had kept her mind occupied while her husband was away fighting in the hills. She took small concession in that her husband's basement cellar, where wine and vinegar and other precious goods stayed, remained untouched by the flames. The woodburning oven which made their home the neighborhood's unofficial bakery also resisted the flames, and so she was able to bring Paul fresh loaves of bread laced with honey and sesame while the doctors worked on his eye.
In March she prepared a new garden, just as she'd once seen her mother do when she was a little girl. When her husband came back from the mountains, skinny from constant retreat and ambush, she showed him the fresh mounds of soil she had tilled herself.
And John's father looked upon those rows of dirt and cried. He cursed the tall men in leather and that image stayed in John's mind long after he left from home.
-
The soldiers—the 'animals'—stayed and made the town's grade school their base of command until the war moved one way and high command ordered them to go. Some of the animals stowed away south across the sea to avoid jurisdiction of their actions. Most followed their directives, staying on the war path. Where the men in leather went didn't matter to John. They had already forced their ill will. They drove his father away from home for a year and burnt his home and ruined his brothers eye. There were too many of them though, and John was too small to exact any revenge. So he made silence his weapon.
After the men in leather left, the family felt at ease. When John's father returned he painted the house and tavern with the help of John and some friends. Then they revived the fields, which had gone wild with brush, so they would have apples to eat and cider to drink in the fall and winter. Their small village appeared calm.
But the papers told of other things happening in the capital. Failed coups and protests and a political war that consumed people and turned them into something else, ideological monsters. It felt far-away though, distant, until one day while John's group of friends was out playing ball a younger boy from the neighborhood came to them, crying. "They took my dad last night," the boy said in tears.
The older boys frowned and took the boy by the shoulder and asked what he meant. But the boy just cried until his mother came with blackness in her eyes and yelled at her child to come inside. That night John told his father what he had heard out in the fields. His father turned red and threatened with his forefinger and told John not to talk about those things, so he didn't.
In other parts of the country there began fresh violence. Brother turned against brother and they chased each other through the mountains with rifles. The new sickness had yet to infect their village, but John's father sensed it coming.
-
John, by now grown tall and lean, was only vaguely aware of his country's civil divide. He was at the age where girls and risk are more interesting than adult matters. He'd begun to hang around a new group of friends, boys who dressed in jeans from America and high tops. Their fathers would frequently come to the basement tavern to talk for or against their government. Occasionally brawls would ensue, with no serious harm occurring. Nonetheless, John's father did not want his son around those boys.
One day while John, Paul and his father were digging new channels for their apple trees to drink from, John asked his father why he was not upset by the soldiers who'd set a curfew and now patrolled the streets at night. "There have been worse times," his father said without stopping his work.
The following week John's father announced he was going away on business, and so John and Paul were left in charge of the fields. They split the work that their father could do in a day between the two of them while their mother and sister took care of the house and tavern and went to school.
One night as the patriarch-less group sat with supper a loud knock sounded at the door. Their mother smoothed her dress and calmly addressed the military man outside. They exchanged words and she invited the officer inside to join them, which he politely declined before excusing himself. She returned to the table pale-faced and quiet and ate very little.
3 nights later John's father returned, another knock in the night. He wore a large envelope and a shotgun at his shoulder. He sat down eagerly at the table and they ate as a family for the last time.
The following morning, before the sun rose, John and Paul were shaken awake by their father. He told them to gather what they needed and to be quick about it. They did so without yawning and came to the kitchen fresh-faced, clothed and ready. Their mother sat at the kitchen table in her nightgown, brown circles around her eyes, and when she saw her sons she realized that they were still just boys and she began to cry again, trembling quietly. Paul, who was only 13, assumed that they were headed to the south again to work a rich man's fields with their father for a time. He consoled his mother and told her not to cry.
But John recognized the forced farewell. He knew that it would be permanent. But he mirrored his father and kept a smooth face and embraced his mother before they left in the blackness of morning.
John's father was not a dramatic man. He told his sons very simply that he would be turning back once they arrived in the next town. Afterward, they would be on their own.
He removed a large envelope as they bumped along in the old wagon. He handed it to John and told him that he was responsible for keeping he and his brother safe. Inside the envelope he explained was the majority of their limited savings and the papers they would need to board the ship to America. John nodded, feigning bravery, and Paul began to cry softly until their father glanced at him sharply.
When they arrived at the next town their father signaled the driver to quit. He handed the man some coins and thanked him and made his boys do the same. He embraced his sons tightly and shook their hands with his farmer’s grip, staring long and proud into his sons' 3 eyes. He handed John a folded parcel with seeds from the garden that stayed stored in a little drawer in the wine cellar. He told John and Paul where to go next and turned and climbed beside the driver and they left, turning up the valley without nary a glance back.
-
Lady Liberty met the brothers with her cold stare. They mistook it as a welcome, but it was a warning. The people in New York saw them and thought You are imports. You are not welcome. Not until they proved their worthiness. The brothers worked as painters, bricklayers and cooks and still received the same look.
3 years passed and Paul met a fellow countryman at the factory where he assembled television sets. He told him that in Pittsburgh was a company where an immigrant could make as much money as an Anglo-Saxon, be they Black or Irish or Italian or Chinese. So long as they put in the same work. Paul told John the news and they left New York soon after.
The bus they took rounded south through hills and valleys, which saddened them, reminding them of their home. When arrived in Pittsburgh they first saw the smoke from the mills and then the triangle of river which conjoined at the city's center. They went to the contractor's office, their belongings in hand. The man explained some brief terms to them and offered them their contracts, which they signed carefully. The man shook their hands and welcomed them to the 'United Family'. He gave them each papers which highlighted their employee benefits, along with cards for a workers union where many of the mill workers congregated.
The brothers welcomed their first days of training and sweating in the mills with open arms after they saw the first checks with their names written on them. They pledged not to ruin this good thing that'd come to them and threw away their union cards.
The English language snuck up on them both, most notably Paul, whose accent mostly disappeared. They made friends with their fellow steelworkers and met girls who later became their wives. After 5 years in the mills they took their wives together on their first vacation to Niagara Falls. They lived that way for a long while, tired but comfortable, and steadily grew independent of one another. But never forgot that they were brothers. Blood was a sacred bond.
The job was not perfect. Though they were grateful for the life it afforded them, eventually steel began to wear down both brothers. Whenever the union men went on strike they were made to work 14-hour shifts. When the next strike came they walked to their plant manager's office to hand in their gear. The secretary told them Mr. Caroll was in a meeting and asked them if they would like to schedule an appointment. Both brothers refused to return to the mill, so they sat in the small waiting room in their work clothes until a man in a black suit exited the office. The man who was leaving caught them staring, and paused to shake their grimy hands. He asked for their names. The man smiled and told them to "Keep up the good work". He left in no hurry, his suit crisp and well-tailored. Had either of the brothers recognized the man as Ezra Carnegie, they might have stayed and worked. But neither brother did recognize their boss, so instead they walked into the office and made their peace. The manager didn't seem bothered much. He stared absently out the window at the plant, smoke no longer emitting from its chimneys.
The brothers had purchased and split a small piece of land outside of the city two years prior to their departure from United. This was where they planted the seeds their father gave to them. Rows of young apple and pear trees dotted the small parcel. One day John went on a walk down the orchard with his wife. Some construction blocked their normal path, and they passed a place where cars were sold. Although they could not afford to buy one of their own, they decided to explore the lot. They peaked inside the glass showroom and saw a man unfold a briefcase filled with dollars, stack upon stack of pale green gold.
He told Paul the story afterwards, amazed. "This is where the money in America is. Cars, jewelry, luxury."
The brothers came to an agreement and called the man who'd sold them the farm. They bought the acreage next to it, taking out loans against their wives’ wishes and sent a letter to General Motors in Detroit, asking for an application to become authorized car salesmen. They signed the letter mutually, 'Milo Brothers Auto'.
A week later a man from Detroit came to talk to the brothers. They showed him their new land just off the freeway and the three eventually shook hands and signed dotted lines.
-
It was 1982 when their father became ill, so John and Paul went with John's first son Bill to see the man before death came. Their pregnant wives stayed back and kept each other company at the dealership, managing the business in vogue while the auto salesmen whirled around them and called them 'Ma'am'.
After the jet landed they began winding up through the mountains (this time in a Mercedes), away from the capitol. They were reminded of the morning that their father smuggled them away to America. John smiled sadly at the memory while Bill bumbled on his lap. Their maternal language returned to them in full as they drove through mountains and mountain villages. Words that they had not forgotten but merely locked away for another time returned to them. The brother told freshly-recovered jokes and stories to one another and laughed as the pine trees whizzed by their window.
When they arrived home they found their father sick but unchanged. He was more crooked and white-haired since they'd last met in 1968, when he flew to America to remark on Pittsburgh and their wives. Whatever cancer was eating him though he did not allow to affect him. He ate and walked with the same hunger per usual. When he met his grandson he cried, the first time John had seen the phenomenon since his mother's garden was razed by the men in leather. Paul had never witnessed such a thing. He kissed baby Bill and held him to the sky in spite his cancer and blessed him. He asked John whether the boy was baptized. John shook his head.
The next day they dipped Bill in holy water, and later their freshly grey-haired mother cooked for them and all the other attendees, the second family that'd sprouted up during the brothers' absence. They ate and drank through the night and each night after until it was time to leave once again.
-
Bill took a liking to poetry from an early age. When he was in the 5th grade Bill's parents received a phone call from the principal, who told them a teacher had caught him plagiarizing. John did not tolerate thievery (whether it was a thing or an idea). He confronted his son about it and made him cry in his anger, yet Bill maintained that he had written the story alone.
So John drove to the school to speak with the principal. He was not interested in instigating some petty punishment on the teacher; instead he asked to speak with her in private, which Mr. Belmore agreed to. John calmly assured the teacher that Bill's story was his own, and that if any other incident occurred that she could contact him personally. "And if Bill ever acts up in class, feel free to act accordingly," he added, sliding his business card over.
-
Bill grew up to look like his grandfather. He took after his mother's side in only one regard, her hazel-green eyes. He inherited his father's tall stature, though his face was slight and handsome like his grandfather's. He was well-liked at school—unanimously so. He was friendly and topical with everyone, regardless of their popularity, race, or parents' status. Bill had no close friends but no enemies. He was naturally athletic, yet humble. He took little credit, even when it was deserved. Parents of his classmates would meet him and later call him a 'Good-kid', oftentimes in front of their own children.
If Bill feared one thing it was disappointment. His parents, proud of him from the onset, sheltered him from risk. They allowed him to participate in anything that was sensible. Joining the football team was sensible enough, as was delivering newspapers or detailing cars at the dealership once he was of age. Bill stuck to what was sensible until he graduated and realized he only understood were sensible things. He had neglected to find something that he truly enjoyed, something which carried risk. He'd never truly delved into his own creativity, merely copying whatever was considered 'sensible'. And though had the tools to create, he was clueless on how to employ them.
His parents encouraged him to go on to college (the sensible thing to do). He was a high achiever and his father had earned the resources that he could attend the school of his choice. But Bill had no desire to study then work then retire then die. The narrative was too familiar, too predictable; a cookie-cutter formula for middling success.
When Bill revealed his plans for the future, late at night sitting around the kitchen table, his father turned angry. He recounted how hard he'd worked to bless him with a comfortable life, repeated things about Bill's privilege which he already knew. Bill left the table without his father's blessing, and the following day enlisted in the Marine Corps.
-
Once his contract expired and he was discharged, Bill decided to start anew in California. Whereas the military normally made most men sheltered and serious, Bill actually became looser in his shoulders, more fluid with his language and his movements. He had no specific plans for civilian life after. He only knew he wanted to meet people and hear their story and preserve those learnings.
Bill picked grapes in Salinas for a time, just as his father and grandfather did in the old country. He met all the people he could, learning a few words of Spanish until the season ended and his new friends left for other opportunities. Next he headed to Los Angeles and tried his hand at acting. He never auditioned for any roles on television or in movies, but he quickly took to the spoken-word. He avoided long, antiquated, and expensive acting classes and instead partook in brief seminars, volunteering in small on-stage roles. A theatre director leading a seminar on 'Command & Control' took notice of Bill's uncanny ability for delivering monologues, and so that year he casted Bill as Atticus Finch in a semi-large production that was acclaimed by newspapers and online critics.
But Bill did not push for fame afterwards. While he was unchaining his bike after an improv comedy show a journalist snuck up on him from behind. “Excuse me—are you Bill Milo?" asked the reporter.
"Sorry, no," Bill said, quietly excusing himself. He knew it was time to quietly exit.
Bill went north to San Francisco and beyond. He fought fires for 2 years and bartended for locals on weekends. "Billy Milo? I know 'im. Nice fella!" was an oft heard quote. When a California forest fire encircled one of his comrades it was Billy who plunged into the flames to rescue the man. Bill awoke in a hospital bed surrounded by a mob of his coworkers and their wives, hooting and applauding.
He left for Seattle and learned how to fish for salmon and trout, how to dig for scallops along the cold Pacific shoreline. He rode a bus south towards Denver and discovered a pension for making things, cabinets and wooden spoons and anything else folks would ask for. Bill lived alone but was never lonely. He had friends whom he could call upon no matter where he went, and they would supply him lists filled with names of businesses they vouched for whenever Bill's migratory mind took over. His sex life was healthy, even for a man who tended to act on impulse. His charm and looks gave him the means with which to satisfy his desires (as well as that of others), but he only did so when the act was considered harmless.
Bill brought little harm. In fact, he brought joy. But something was offering him resistance, as if he wore a chain at the ankle without knowing what was attached to its end. By the time he found himself in Colorado, he carried with him 7 journals filled with his own fine-print. He knew exactly what was on every page; reflections on his days, stories about the countless people he'd met, their lives and experiences. He neglected to write about how he had touched their lives, humbly bypassing that information. The notebooks were self-censored, a modest log of Bill's travels.
Bill had been so busy learning how other people thought and lived that he forgot how to do both for himself.
-
Just west of Colorado Springs lies a picturesque pentagon of land known as the Garden of the Gods. Upon finding a good place to sit, a magnificent crag of rock and valley reveals itself that one's eyes may drink from. It appears as if God (or the gods) planted each rock intentionally, and placed each strip of green in its exact spot.
Bill frequently visited this place in between his work. It made him feel as though he were attached to something. On one such day he departed very early on foot and brought with him a Thermos of black coffee and a bag of granola. He carried his notebook as always, and when he reached a point where his legs were tired and the scene was right he splayed his thick legs out in front of him and postured back on one elbow. He began to write busily in the morning dusk:
In the Garden of the Gods lies a fruit invisible to most men. In the Garden, all life is placed by a higher being. Any man who questions the intention of the Gardener is mocked lovingly from above. He who picks fruit from the Garden does so with permission. He is permitted by the natural order, the unseen force which governs this piece of land. Only the keen-eyed can see the slight intentions sowed by the Gardener's plow.
The sun finally began to crest over the horizon, his Thermos half-empty. Bill basked in the rising sun and suddenly thought about his parents and sister, neither of which he had spoken with in a very long time. It made him sad to wonder about those he shared blood with. They felt more distant to him than the blue-eyed Nuristani girl who died in his arms some 20 years ago, off fighting in a meaningless war.
"Dudn’it ever make ya sad, lookin' out at the world? Not findin' anything to keep ya in the same place?"
The voice startled Bill. His only company had been rocks and pines. He pivoted to look over his shoulder at the voice; before he had the chance a hand touched his shoulder lightly.
Bill jolted at the touch and discovered a small bearded man sat beside him. Bill laughed lightheartedly.
"I didn't hear you coming up off the trail. Sorry—I'll be leaving soon." Bill paused. "Guess I'm not the only one who knows about this spot." He offered his hand to the man.
The man smiled back at Bill with friendly, crinkled eyes. He introduced himself, his thick lips revealing gapped teeth behind them. Bill later could not recall the man's name.
"Pleased to meet you," Bill found himself saying without any context behind it. He blinked and glanced down at his Thermos. "Coffee?" He offered the carafe.
The old man looked down somewhat sadly, his eyes glazed over. "Oh, thanks but I can't have caffeine no more. Doctor says it's no good for my blood pressure." He tapped at where his heart was. "Matter'fact that's why I walk up here," he said. Bill nodded and twisted the cap back on.
Bill did not mind the man's company. He seemed as friendly as any other man he'd met in his travels. Bill set down his notebook and asked the man what he did for a living. He told him he did many things, most of which involved life and death, but above all that he worked as a 'balancing beam'. He said he performed duties that maintain 'the natural order'. He apparently disliked his job somewhat, as it necessitated frequent travel and tough decisions. Sometimes he wished he could quit entirely and hand the job over to someone else, but that wouldn't—"couldn't" happen for some time. He still had many years before he was allowed to retire.
Bill began to avoid the man's words and let his mind wander. He began to think about his own job, his lifelong journey to discover the thing tied around his ankle.
"I do enjoy it, though," the man said, finishing his story. The man sighed. "But that'll be then, and later'll be now." And then he said nothing. Bill smiled politely and sipped his coffee. The Garden below the two men was lit by an ethereal golden light. It penetrated Bill and filled him with warmth. The man squinted at the light and regarded Bill with his gap-toothed smile.
"What's ya name, son?"
Bill did not remove his eyes from the light. "Bill Milo. I'm named after my grandpa. He grew apples." Bill sighed and turned to the man. "I've never planted an appleseed."
The man frowned slightly. "Sounds like somethin' that might bring ya a sense of fulfillment."
Bill thought about it for a moment. Planting seeds. He nodded. "Yeah. I guess it would... the only question is what type of seed. And where to plant it. Who'd water it?"
The man slurped loudly from Bill's Thermos. A line of coffee dribbled down his chin. He looked down at the Garden before them and patted Bill on the shoulder. "I think ya already know."
