A week ago I had the phony belief that I was about to slip into cruise control and spend a month or so zipping along in overdrive. Fat frigging chance. But, that’s how these things go. Right at a moment you think you’ve got everything clear in your head, and then another angle pops into your skull, and you can’t take another step until you’ve worked it in– at least in a form that will hold up through the first edit– and once again you’re slogging along. Feel sorry for me. So, what follows has taken up every hair pulling moment I’ve had, starting up after the third paragraph.
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Blom removed his eyewear and fixed a look on him that reminded Will of Nan. That didn’t mean he was letting the man off the hook. “So, before we go on, I’m going to make sure we’re on the same page. My neighbor, Mister Arn Mikkelson, is growing corn on property formerly owned by my Gran and Nan which, by cruel trick-of-fate, is now owned by me?”
Blom pursed his lips and answered with a slow nod.
Will put his hands on his hips and nodded in return. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
Blom was spared from answering by the jangle at the door. Will had no problem interpreting his expression as one of relief. Keeping his hands on his hips, he moved away from the counter a distance he believed polite enough to allow for private discourse.
The new arrival was dressed in the ubiquitous uniform of soil encrusted boots, bib overalls, and topped by a hat sporting the logo of a major farm implement corporation. The man had the bearing unique to a life tied to the land. Age indeterminate—the only estimate he could ever make as a kid was “old” — and moving as if every step he took was an assertion of his bond to the ground beneath his feet, he moved past Will as if he wasn’t there and planted his elbows on the counter.
While they talked, Will attempted to affect a posture that projected infinite patience, yet still send the message to Blom he was fuming. The conversation at the counter lasted for several minutes. He spent the entire time shifting his weight foot-to-foot, fusing his gaze to Blom’s thinning pate, making sure every gaze the shopkeeper flicked in his direction was met with righteous indignatiom. By the time the discussion wrapped up, his ankles were aching and his fierce scowl had become a myopic squint.
The farmer left Blom with a handshake and, “Next week, then, Bertie.”
“Loren will set up the delivery, should be there by Thursday.” The volume of Blom’s reply sounded as if the man was on the other side of the store instead of two feet away from him.
The departing client stopped in the middle of turning away from the counter, which put him face-to-face with Will. He looked at Will, tossed a puzzled glance back toward Blom, then back at Will. The look on his face was far more enigmatic than what could be attributed to stoicism born of a life built on hard labor and faith. Mixed in was a message of wary recognition layered with “people have their eyes on you.”
Will had the benefit of a lifetime of such moments. Rather than shrink back and assume a submissive, “message received” stance, he responded with a chin jut. “’T’sup?”
Other than a slight tightening of the expression, no response was offered. Both Will and Blom watched him walk out, not looking at each other until the ring of the bell faded to silence. Will turned to Blom, offering an over-broad smile. “I’d call it a draw.” Blom answered the grin and the comment with a scowl. “Where were we?”
“That, Mister Holliday,” Blom said tersely, “is your choice to make.”
Will dropped the smile and softened his approach. “I’m just looking for some advice on how to handle this, or if I should handle it at all.”
Blom relaxed and folded his arms across the counter. He was looking at the door. Will had no doubt the arrival of another person wouldn’t disappoint the man. With no one on the sidewalk, and no vehicles pulling into the lot, Blom turned to Will and said, “Nobody within thirty miles of here would blame you for dragging Arn Mikkelson through a proverbial manure pile. As nice as his family is, Arn wouldn’t be given a whole lot of credit for that on merit.”
“He’s an asshole,” Will offered.
Blom looked at him over the top of his glasses. “He’s not universally adored,” he countered. “He’s stubborn, tight-lipped and nobody that’s ever had dealings him has walked away with an invitation to dinner.”
“Alright, then,” Will said, and modified his appraisal of the neighbor to, “he’s a jerk.”
Blom sighed. “I guess most folks would be inclined to agree… and while I’m not partial to the term, you’re first assessment fits the picture in most folk’s eyes.”
So, it moves the tale forward, but not in a way I’d thought things would go just a short month ago. Curses. That said, I hope it moves things along as well for those who’ve been reading this on a regular basis. Tell me if it doesn’t, but it won’t change anything for now. Oh…. DENISE: You’ll have to wait a couple thousand words to find out why the banker reacted as he did to the mention of “Nan.” The wait will be well worth it, though…
Nice , keep the pages coming