Breakfast in the Berkshires

Ok, so I just read this again, and determined that I have a seriously messed up imagination. Sometimes you just gotta roll with what God gives ya... 

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Mother Nature was fickle, indeed. The day before had been an unseasonably warm November day. Today, however, the New England wind brought with it more familiar temperatures. The combination of geothermal warmth of the prior day and the morning’s cold winter air left the valley enshrouded in a thick, barely penetrable fog. He stepped out onto the balcony and breathed deeply, watching his breath as it dissipated and blended with the surrounding mist. He could barely see through the haze, unable to make out the tips of the mountains that loomed in the distance.  He really had no idea how long he had stood there, just staring into nothing. His body was chilled, though he paid it no attention. Breathing deeply again, he let the coolness penetrate his lungs. It soothed him. 

“Why are you up so early? What are you doing out here?” she asked from behind him as she stepped onto the balcony.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Just breathing.”

“Breath inside, weirdo. It’s cold out here.”

He laughed. “I’m fine. Go back to bed. I’m probably going to run into town and get some things to make breakfast.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” she quipped as she went back inside, leaving him alone with this thoughts once again. Although, he really wasn’t having any thoughts. He was just, well, being. He hadn’t done that in a long time. He stood out there for a few minutes longer before returning to the room, grabbing his jacket, and heading out. He stopped once more in the lobby of the elaborate resort in which they were staying to gaze at, and listen to, the fountain there. He loved this place. It made him relax, and that was hard to do. 

After a short while, he found himself traveling the main street of the picturesque, New England village and felt as if he had just driven into a Normal Rockwell painting. It was worth the extra few minutes and miles. In fact, he had passed two major grocery stores in favor of the little mom and pop place in the village proper. They ground their own breakfast sausage there, and it put anything that you could buy in a stapled, plastic tube to shame. He had collected almost everything he needed to make his trademark omelets and was just approaching the counter when a young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt walked in the store. What happened next was something out of a bad dream.

“Give me your cash!” the boy shouted as he drew a small revolver from the pocket of his sweatshirt. The older gentleman behind the counter was literally scared stiff, causing the would-be robber to shout again, “I said give me your cash, pops! I ain’t screwin’ around with you!”

Shocked into action, the store owner reached forward, hands shaking, and opened the cash register. There was very little inside.

“I, I don’t have much. We just opened,” he informed the thief, who looked over the counter at the sparse amount of money in the register’s drawer.

“You gotta have a safe, right? Where is it?”

“We don’t have a safe,” the old man said. The look of horror on the shop keeper’s face was genuine: he had no safe. It was then that he finally spoke.

“Look, kid, just take the register cash and leave. No one has to get hurt.”

The robbed hadn’t noticed him earlier, and was startled. He turned the gun from the clerk to the man that had spoken to him.

 “Don’t you tell me what to do! I’m in charge here!”

 “Ok, Look, I’m just going to put this down,” he said as he lowered his basket to the ground slowly before rising with his hands held up. “I’m not telling you what to do. I just don’t want this poor man to be hurt. I don’t want to get hurt. I just want us all to walk away from this.”

 The young man stared at him angrily. With his attention turned, the store owner reached into the drawer to begin removing the cash. Mistaking his action for something more sinister, like reaching under the counter for a weapon, perhaps, the gunman turned and fired his revolver towards the old man. Spry for his age, the shop keeper was able to duck behind the counter and avoid being shot. At the moment, the air in the store seemed to grow hazy, just as it had been outside earlier that morning. The robber never knew what hit him.

With a surge of instinct and adrenaline, he rushed forward and tackled the younger man to the ground, causing the gun to skitter across the grocery store floor. Heaving the larger man off of him, the gunman scrambled on his hands and knees trying to reach his weapon. He never got there.

“Here!” the grocer shouted as he tossed his savior a can of tomatoes that has been part of a display at the end of the counter. He caught it and hurled it in one motion, catching the robber in the back of the head. The gunman fell flat on his face, motionless. He and the grocer stood silently for a moment, trying desperately to process what had just happened. It was the store owner that moved first. He approached the young man cautiously and knelt down. Paleness covered his face a moment later.

“What? What’s the matter?”

“I’m afraid he’s dead,” the old man replied.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. He had just killed a man. Granted, the man was brandishing a revolver and had shot at the store owner, but still. He killed another human being. Just like that. He hadn’t meant to, but it had happened just the same. He fell to his knees, and prayed to God for forgiveness.

“Son,” the old man began as he approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You saved my life. I'm pretty sure God will understand.”

He looked up into the aging grocer’s eyes, and saw something familiar. He couldn’t quite put a handle on it, but it was familiar just the same. The rest of the morning was a blur. He remembered the sirens, the ambulance, and the police. He answered questions, lots of questions. He gave them his identification and information, signed a statement, and then was told to have a nice day. How was that going to be possible? He thought to himself. I just killed someone.  Clearly the local sheriff considered this an open and closed case of self defense. The assailant had a rap sheet as long as the sheriff’s arm, including everything from burglary, a couple DWI’s, and two domestics. The only person that might miss him was his mother, if they could even get word to her in jail that her son had died.

“Have a nice day,” he kept repeating as he drove from the village back to the resort. Everyone else was up by the time he walked back through the door.

 “Hey! Where were you? You didn’t answer your phone! We’ve been worried.”

 “I, it’s a long story. Sorry.”

 “What happened? What’s wrong?”

 “Something,” he started to explain. “Nothing, Never mind. We can talk about it later,” he said as she took the grocery bag from him. He stepped back out onto the balcony as she emptied it. The sun’s rays were just beginning to ward off the gloomy haze from earlier. “Have a nice day,” he repeated again with a scoff. The door opened behind him and she came out to join him.

 “Are you sure you’re ok?” she asked with concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

           

 I didn’t see a ghost, he thought. I made one.

 “I’m fine. Just, I’m fine.”

 She knew enough not to push too hard. When he was ready, he’d tell her what was wrong. “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day,” she remarked in an effort to change the subject.

 “Yeah. A nice day,” he muttered softly.

 

© J.J. Goodman 2012. All rights reserved.