I’m trying something different now, since everyone seems to enjoy the bits of fiction I’ve put up here. Kudos to anyone who spots the inspiration for this multi-part story, although I’ve made it kind of painfully obvious.
Carson City, 1886
A Glibertarians Exclusive: Mystical Child Part I
From the diary of Robert “Cairo Bob” Allen, 1841-1928
May 5, 1886 – Carson City, Nevada
She kicked me out this morning, a year to the day since we wed. Reckon it’s been too long since I was in civilized country to hold on to a wife for long. Egypt ain’t the place to learn fine manners. So, I may as well find some sort of work. I’m back in Carson City for now, if there’s any sort of paying work to be had it is likely to be here. Droving, I reckon, or maybe I’ll take up prospecting. Maybe something else. Fellow who’s good with a gun can always find a way. With a bit of luck, something here might set me on the right track. Might even get enough gold ahead to entice my wife to let me come back home.
***
November 6, 1886:
Bob walked into the Dollar, his favorite Carson City saloon, and slapped the dust off his threadbare gray trousers. He was a tall, lean, hard-faced man in his middle forties, with icy blue eyes, bushy side whiskers and thick brown hair that he had worn long since the War of the Northern Aggression, over twenty years since. Four years as a cavalry scout under General Wade Hampton and ten years in the Egyptian Khedive’s army had left him embittered and broke; Ismail the Magnificent’s generosity did not live up to his name, not even with the former Confederate soldiers he retained to train his army. The only thing Bob had managed to retain from his years of service was his old Colt’s Navy revolver, which hung now in a battered old Texas loop holster on his worn leather belt, and the nickname some of the other former Rebels serving the Khedive had hung on him: Cairo Bob.
Now, in early November, Carson City was enjoying a stretch of unusually fine fall weather, but that didn’t help Bob’s mood any. The sight of the Dollar didn’t help; it was a long, narrow, dusty room, with a few tables along the wall opposite the narrow, grimy bar. Hal Ketch, the bartender, stood behind the bar, slowly polishing a glass with a dirty towel, his usual expression of eternal boredom etched on his square face. At one of the tables, two old men sat, playing a card game, tiredly. Bob didn’t know their names.
“Morning, Bob,” the bartender greeted him. It was a few minutes shy of noon, railroad time.
“Morning, Hal,” Bob groused.
“Any word from the Missus?”
“Not since she kicked me out,” Bob drawled. “Six goddamn months ago now. Gimme a whiskey. Need something to open m’eyes.” He still missed Isis terribly; when he closed his eyes, he could still feel her lean, long body, could still smell her long, black hair, sage overlain with something musky. She was still there, as far as he knew, in the cabin up Clear Creek canyon. He hadn’t been back since that last day.
The bartender placed a glass and a bottle of cheap rotgut in front of Bob. “What will you do?” he asked.
Bob poured out some whiskey and swallowed it at a gulp; it burned going down, as though he had swallowed a strand of barbed wire. “Dunno. Thought about goin’ home to South Carolina. Don’t know as I want to do that. Bad memories.” Like many former Confederates, he had a hard time accepting the loss, even now, over twenty years later.
“Long time ago,” Hal observed.
“Don’t make it no easier,” Bob snapped. As Hal turned away, Bob thought he heard him mutter, “Damn stubborn Reb,” but not so loud as to allow Bob to take offense and start up a scrap – besides which, if he did that, he wouldn’t be able to come in and drink again.
Not that his dwindling supply of cash would allow that much longer in any case.
“Hey, Reb,” one of the old men playing cards called. Bob bristled a little, but the old fellow hadn’t meant anything by it; it was just a label, and Bob realized that, with his Low Country accent and the old gray Confederate trousers he still wore, he could hardly deny it.
“What do you want?”
“You still lookin’ for payin’ work?”
“Hell, yeah,” Bob replied. “Got myself kicked off my own damn place. Man has to eat somehow.”
“Fella was through here yesterday,” the old man went on, “looking for someone to help him with some kind of big job. Said he was headed north, up towards Nez Perce country. If’n you was to get on the road right sharp, you might catch up with him.”
“What’s he look like?” Bob wanted to know.
“Short, kind of a gut on ‘im, no hair. Kind of funny-looking, you ask me.”
“Said he was headed north?”
“He did.”
Bob poured himself another whiskey and stared at it moodily. Almost out of money, he reminded himself. Long ride up to Nez Perce country. Five days, maybe six.
His horse was across town at a stable, as was the rest of his traps; nothing more than a few clean shirts, a bedroll, his saddle, and a battered old Spencer rifle that dated back to the war. Bob had in fact been sleeping in the stable himself these last six months, ever since his wife had kicked him out.
Well, hell, he thought, it’s not like I got anything to lose.
He downed the whiskey, dropped some coins on the bar and headed out into the street.
On an impulse, perhaps driven by the prospect of a fresh start, he went into the town’s only barber shop and laid down a precious ten cents for a haircut and shave. Bob emerged onto the street with a close-cropped head and a clean-shaven face for the first time since the end of the war. Feeling somehow renewed, he went to the stable, settled with the stable keeper for board of his horse, saddled the animal and rode off north.
Long stretch of wild country ahead of me, he thought, as he reached the edge of town and spurred his horse to a canter. He sat in the saddle with the ease of a veteran cavalryman, and his horse moved effortlessly; in spite of his poverty Bob had made sure to keep the animal in fine fettle and his horse furniture was in good condition. The horse soldier’s creed of the horse, the saddle, the man was still deeply ingrained in his soul.
He reached forward and tapped the stock of the Spencer. He had only one seven-shot magazine full of rounds for the rifle but figured he could find some more if he needed to. Don’t know why, he told himself, but feels like things might finally be turning my way. Things can’t go too far wrong – either way, I’m better off than setting around Carson City feeling sorry for myself.
Get to see some new country, anyway. Never been that far north before.
The weather was turning. A light snow started to fall as he took the road north towards Boise and the Nez Perce nation.
***
I married Isis on the fifth day of May,
But I could not hold on to her very long.
So I cut off my hair and I rode straight away,
For the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong.
Cool beginning, cant for more, thanks Animal, a bit of fun on my lunch break
Cant wait for more,
Am I seeing a hint of Stephen Vincent Benet here?
Maybe a little.
Note: This will be the first in a thirteen-part series. I wanted to front-load some stuff for you all while Mrs. Animal and I are heavily involved in our 3,200 mile move, so you get some original and exclusive fiction. Also, as noted above, kudos to anyone who spots the inspiration for the story. Hint: Look at the last four lines in each installment.
Look at Mr. Planner here, planning and shit.
Is it Hitler? It’s always Hitler.
Mussolini, Stalin, Pol Pot and various other “luminaries” would like a word.
You have to kill millions while being sharply dressed. The commies always seem to have dumpy uniforms.
The National Socialists always got the best designers. The International Socialists always got the best whiners.
Thanks, Animal. Off to a good start.
Although whenever I see “Kind of funny looking”, my mind goes straight to Fargo.
*tries to think of an affirmative that ends in ‘dontchaknow’*
You betcha!
It’s not coming to me yet, but that doesn’t detract from the enjoyment of your prose.
$5 says Jack White stole this song from Bobby D’s ISIS
compare/contrast
Yep – similar. JW can’t sing either. In the blatant ripoff category I give you Green Day’s Warning. Poached from The Kinks Picture Book.
“Cannonball” by the Breeders always sounded a lot like “Mary Was an Anarchist” by Screeching Weasel.
Plagarism is a wonderful thing (says Micheal Bolton!)
+1 Creepy Joe
The irony is, I stole that joke. I just can’t remember from where.
Everything has a bit if steal in it. I’m always looking at how things are built for ideas to use on my next design.
He really has a thing for old-timey costumes though.
All my hip friends told me I’d love the White Stripes. I just don’t. Rough hewn and garage-y, sure, good, no. Love the drummer’s story, though. Hilarious to hear her avoid mistakes. Contrast to that one dude who lost an arm and kept drumming for Def Leopard.
^^^
Maybe some of the musically inclined types can enlighten me.
Complicated assed story, made worse by her strong desire to be private.. Basically, she tried the drums on a lark. She liked it and two years later, she was a world famous rock star tickling the top of the charts. She was married to Jack White, but they pretended to be siblings to explain their not-very-married behavior. The cool part is the total lack of experience. When I listen to them ( which is rarely) I can see her drumming is incredibly basic. She keeps time and doesn’t mess up, but she does not have any extras at all. You’ll hear it, once you know.
She keeps time and doesn’t mess up
That’s the impression I get. She’s serviceable, that’s it. With
a littlesome serious effort, I think I could do that.I can’t speak to the White Stripes, but if you like rough-hewn and garage-y, check out The Gun Club. They were one of the original LA Punk Scene bands before Hard Core destroyed that sound.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOkG_lW3pUg
That’s pretty cool, but the drumming is way too complicated! Love the semi-hollow body guitar sound.
Thanks, Animal!
This looks like it’s gonna be good!
Fun! Really draws you in – looking forward to future installments.
Interesting. Tucson/Pima County has been close to full-on Branch Covidian, not quite CA bad, but pretty bad (curfew, capacity limitations, mask mandate).
The curfew and capacity limitations were lifted last week. But the mask mandate persists. I rarely go into stores, but this past weekend for the first time I went into the local convenience store without a mask. No eyes were batted.
But were they dotted?
We crossed our eyes and dotted our teas.
I like it so far, the atmosphere, the implied adventures ahead and behind.
Further #resistance to the Branch Covidian theology:
We went almost entirely to Zoom meetings for just about any group of more than 4 or 5. And we have a lot of meetings. We are now going to back to face-to-face meetings (or mask-to-mask meetings, as I call them) if we can nominally maintain social distancing. By all accounts, mask-to-mask is much more interactive and productive than Zoom meetings. It makes me wonder how much of the WFH is going to persist. I expect a certain amount will, but I also expect a fair amount of roll-back.
Our company has seen improved productivity. They are planning to reduce office space by 25%.
The future workforce will be some that work in the office, some that work from home, and some that work mostly from home and use open desk space when they have to be at the office.
I suspect much depends on what business people are in. We have a fair number of “hosue-wide” operational meetings and “rapid-cycle” meetings on specific projects/initiatives. We are also in a business where there is relatively little that can be done with our patients that isn’t face-to-face, and much of it is done with teams that show up in person every day. Culturally, we are habituated to in-person just about everything, and I don’t see much chance of that changing.
Other businesses, maybe not so much. But I have noticed that a lot of the outside lawyers I deal with have been “sneaking” back to the office for awhile. They say that the informal interactions and being able to “pop in” on somebody for a quick conversation is indispensable. That has been my observation for our c-suite, as well.
I suspect that NOT being able to “pop in” on somebody for a quick conversation is part of our increased productivity.
But I doubt that anyone will admit to that.
I expect a lot of variance.
I think its essential for the c suite. I could theoretically WFH (my day is very screen and document dominated). But I get a fair number of drive-bys, and probably fewer than many of colleagues. I found it interesting that other lawyers (whose days are also screen and document dominated) find value in being in the office. Does it cut down on my (apparent) output? I could probably move more pixels if I weren’t being interrupted, but the interruptions are a different kind of value.
Its almost like there is so much that is particular to each business that they should set things up the way they want.
Lost a bit:
I think its essential for the c suite because that’s where cross-department and company-wide issues converge, and you need a uniform cross-department/company-wide answer.
I’m in chemical manufacturing. I’m based out of our corporate office, so it’s work from home for me unless I’m needed at one of the manufacturing facilities. Our R&D lab folks have been working in the office all along, albeit in staggered shifts to maintain reduced contact. Our manufacturing plant management staffs are divided in half so that they are one week in plant, one week from home. We have been paying all of our manufacturing ops/maintenance employees a boosted rate as an incentive to stay on and work (this was important early on when they were more afraid to come in).
I can do my job from anywhere — back in the day I could work from the office or any of the plants at my discretion as long as I was within our travel budget. I’m hoping to continue WFH maybe 2-3 days a week, although official word is that they are making no plans for us to go back to the office yet. Our sales and corporate financial results were very strong last year–so there’s no indication that the WFH has had a negative effect on our productivity.
My wife’s company is still all WFH unless you’re in production, which has had staggered shifts.
They will not return to the office until social distancing is no longer “necessary.” According to the owner, if they have to socially distance, there’s no point to having everyone in the office.
I know she’s hoping to get a hybrid deal going where she goes in to the office a couple days a week for meetings and whatnot, with 3 days working from home.
I know it would make our lives infinitely more manageable.
Also in chemical manufacturing. No WFH whatsoever. “Here’s where the lab is, here’s where production is, so here’s where you need to be.”
Mechanic. We are still WFH, but for us it means ” work from hell!”
The company I work for has decided that my coworkers and me are all permanent remote employees.
In some parts of the country, the company has already started shutting down offices because of the transition to remote work.
So far, productivity has increased.
My company is split. My team designs, builds, and tests prototypes, so we need to be in the plant.
We also are often doing something new, so there’s a lot of back and forth idea bouncing that takes place better in person.
The vast armies of “cost account managers” and “systems engineers” are at home.
If we don’t win big contracts were anticipating, I wouldn’t want to be one of the people whom no one missed over the past year.
My company was literally on the verge of banning WFH last February. My boss forwarded me the email that was floating around the C suite.
Covid hit, productivity went up, so that plan got thrown away. Not engineering is considered remote-first. And as I mentioned below, office space is shrinking.
My office building has a couple of lawyer offices in it.
I have been in office a lot this year because my wife has been working a long-term temp job (for another lawyer) so I have been dropping off my daughter at school and then going into office because it is closer.
The lawyers and staff have been there. My office is mostly me, sometimes one other person. We had two floors, we are consolidating to one. And it will be mostly empty. It has good meeting rooms though. I will be two time zones away soon.
We are maintenance technicians that provide watch coverage, mainly for the automation and radar systems. No one is on permanent WFH, but we stagger some shifts and some stay home in a stand-by state. It is really odd but our equipment runs better cause no one is putting their grubby fingers on it.
Makes my one day a bit harder as I have to fully go through our systems but also makes the day go quicker.
Great story.
As usual, I am hooked already.
Looking forward to the rest of it.
Definitely looking forward to reading more of this, Animal. The Western novel/short story is one of my favorite genres, although I have to admit I haven’t read nearly enough of the classic works to be really familiar with it. I’ve always leaned more toward sci-fi, but the two share a lot of elements.
huh, still no avatar.
Short, kind of a gut on ‘im, no hair. Kind of funny-looking, you ask me.
That’s just hurtful.
CANCEL HIM!
CANCEL
HIMXIM!!That’s how one outs himself, right there!
I like it. I look forward to the next installment.
Avatar checks out.
I like it animal. Great read and look forward to the next one.
Great beginning, waiting for #2. I ran through my memory searching for a western song that might identify the characters but to no avail. Need more info so I’ll have to keep reading. Thanks, Animal.
See, that’s how to grab someone’s attention right from the jump. Looking forward to the next installment.
Here’s my soundtrack. In one hand I’ve a bible, in the other I’ve got a gun.
Alternatively, and prolly more fitting.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JlmvtAHhnc
If everything I knew about the eagles came from the radio, I’d hate ’em too. BTW, he got kicked out of that cab. He shoulda just took it easy
Don’t be fatuous, blackjack.
I’ll just keep on smiling!
The Word of God lay heavy on your heart, you were sure you were The One?
Looking for a song about a bad man?
How about a sonata for a good man?
I cry for the bad man.
Poor Ramses I. Ended up in a tourist trap in Niagara Falls.
Dammit Bob, what did you do?