LAST MAN STANDING
INTRODUCTION
The sky was dim and grey, the cold air drizzled and frozen, a slight breeze made matters worse. The date was January 17th, 1925. The benign sun was fraught to provide warmth and light to the cold dreary firmament. A lone old man, leaning on a cane, stares forlornly at a grave, the damp dark soil freshly turned. He was missing his right earlobe, his hands snarled by arthritis. A headstone leaned against a near tree, the custodians yet to have placed the granite symbol of finality. Surrounded by sad monuments to fading memories, the old man shoved his withered hand deeper into his coat pocket.
Mourners move slowly off into the unpleasantly cold, murky distance, automobiles gently making their way to exit the garden of remembrance. Smoke, steam and wafting condensation billowed around the departing vehicles, has if the occupants were setting a screen to cover their grief and wipe away the memories of this and other funerals, unfortunately some not so ceremonial. The family plot has a fresh occupant, the rent satisfied and technicians compensated. By now the drizzle mixed with tears renders an expression of utter despondency, but all the old man feels is only cold. Southerners are accustomed to this unpleasantness.
“It never ends,” the old man mutters to no one in particular, but perhaps God. “Four struggles and the children, some not even ours. You beloved all things and I, loved only you.”
“Mr. Howard! Captain Wiley Chandler Howard!?” the youngish woman stopped running and bent slightly over, hands on knees and panting. “For heaven’s sake Captain, I’ve been looking for you since Christ was a corporal!”
“Well, I am older than dirt.” Wiley chuckles, “Age is that final period of bodily existence which one contemplates the vices still cherished, but lack the faculty to commit.”
“That could be ‘ceptin Him,” she looks skyward. “They say He’s been around forever, or at least part of Him. You know that whole Trinity thing. Anyway, I know that it is improper for an unescorted lady to approach a man, especially a man such as you. Nevertheless, I…”
“Believe me madam; the pleasure is most certainly mine. Are you British?”
“Yes, London Times Dispatch”, she extends her hand. “I’m a reporter, well a journalist; I’m composing a manuscript, a novel of sorts.”
“Your name?” The old man extends his withered right hand.
“O yeah,” still panting’ “Joanna Fenwick, most folks call me Jo. Odd lot really, my friends, but they’re always nearby in a pinch.”
“Good friends to have. And… your novel?”
“It’s about you.”
“Well then; I’m flattered! It has been said, the unexamined life is not worth living.”
“Socrates.”
“Bravo, Miss Fenwick you can move to the head of the class my dear. We should meet over cocktails sometime.” Wiley, always a gentleman knows sexual subtlety, he leans over and whispers into Jo’s ear, “I’ll share some stories with you,”
“O, you’ll share more than that Captain.” Jo replies.
“Until we meet again, I shall wallow in the dreaded vortex of anticipation.” Wiley begins to leave but hesitates, always a risk but can be calculated through. “Is there something troubling you Miss Fenwick? You seem perplexed.”
“You were in all those wars, the four miserable conflicts; the fighting, the agony, the despair, the horror of it all, for what Wiley?” The War Between the States, the Franco-Prussian War, the United States and the Indian Conflict, and of course the Great War; do you realize the number of people that perished because of those so called violent extension of politics?”
“Ah… the French and German thing, I wasn’t really a part…”
“O, please, you know you couldn’t keep your nose out of it, even if it meant flying a desk.”
“I never was much of a pilot, and besides desk jockey bureaucrats bore me to no end.” Wiley coughed a little phlegm and pulled his collar tighter around his neck.
“See what I mean Wiley! My God, man, the stories you could tell. Yet you published nothing. Wiley you are a legend to many people, important people. You are history Wiley you need to write some of your memories down while you still can.”
“Well, there’s no necessary advantage to be morbid now is there? I appreciate your concern about my imminent departure but really.”
“Sorry Mr. Howard. Wiley, you are a walking museum of incredible future altering events. You owe it to the world to share your observations, your specific view of those uneasy times.”
Miss Fenwick, Jo, I have been writing for years, I have three packed archive boxes in a fireproof gun safe. I have another box nearly half-full. The lovely and charming Miss O’Hara, my attorney’s secretary and gifted legal assistant has been typing them in her spare time for years. My attorney locks them up in his private safe.” Wiley stare toward the horizon, “Miss Fenwick, anybody can make history, only a great man can write it.”
“O my God, do you even realize how many publishers would kill to get their hands on those manuscripts! Jesus man, what’s the delay?!”
“I’m in no particular hurry.”
“Father Time is.”
There you go again, being morbid.” Wiley smiles, he really cannot help himself; an opportunity for a dig presents itself, raw meat for the playful hound.
“Where and when can I look at these documents?”
“Anytime you want really, well within reason.” Wiley opens his long tweed coat and retrieves a full sill sized gentlemen’s wallet. “I hate billfolds, cumbersome and messy,” he withdraws a business car, “Here is the number and address. I will call ahead as a matter of introduction.”
Jo stood a bit dumbfound and awed. She was face to face with living breathing history. Then she noticed the bulge in his inner pocket.
“Are you carrying a gun?”
“A man of my age and illustrious occupations has a tendency to collect some rather dubious enemies.”
“So are you planning to go out in some glorious gunfight with an old nemesis?”
“Not hardly my dear, most of them are dead anyway. Many considered me as, The Last Man Standing. Most now are gone, either from battle, unwise brawls, illicit activities or the ravages of age.”
You have had a very interesting life Captain Howard; I am honored and will enjoy the pleasure in assisting you in its chronicling. You will have the absolute final say on anything we print.”
“Splendid. Have your legal wolves discuss the details with my legal wolves. That is neither important nor a concern at present. What we must do is build the truthful foundation and dispatch the mythology. It is a difficult and tedious process, but know this, I am very good at it and I don’t believe in false pretensions. My words are the truth that echoes from long ago.” Wiley stops and lights a cigar a removes a flask from his coat, “I’ve gone through four doctors that told me I must quit, buried ‘em all” he shrugs and sips from the flask. “Anyway Jo Fenwick, Take these words, you must search for your own brand of originality, the power of words will concatenate in your specific voice. Your story, not your idyllic principles is paramount or the narrative is without merit. Leave your seething wisdom and tell the story with passion and uniqueness, whether fiction or journalism.”
THE WRITERS WOE
Joanna Fenwick rose from here hotel writing table, poured a tall glass of bourbon and lit a cigarette. She stood staring out the window down to the damp Augusta streets below, dimly lit by the gas lights, the bone white curtain’s frailty allowed them to sway gently in the slight breeze. She heard horse hoof falls in the distance and observed a man in long wool coat and bowler hat walk eagerly down the sidewalk and enter the hotel. Her mind was swimming in a turbulent sea of contemplations, words, images, perceptions and dread; “I hate deadlines” muttering. She breathed in deeply the cool Georgia night air.
“Miss Fenwick I am offering nothing but the truth without expectation of recompense. You met with Captain Howard today, correct?”
“Are you a cop, some fed
eral lackey?”
“Um… not precisely.”
“A journalist? If you’re planning to steal my story I will slit your throat,” Jo said threatening.
“O no, no, none of that please, I’m rather attached to my larynx… breathing is a favorite pastime of mine too… hey, hey… A rather bothersome habit” The unwelcomed guest held up his hands chest level, palms out. He glanced at the silver tray, crystal carafe filled with dark brown bourbon, “May I?” he inquired demurring his attempt at acquiring welcome. “Besides there are some arteries and things in there, it would be quite messy. The custodial staff would require a rather large gratuity.”
“Help yourself. You speak as if you’re from the Isles.”
“Ireland actually, umm… it’s a complicated story.” Sherlock pours a tall one.
“What is your name? Why are you here? What do you want? How did you find me?”
“My quite the journalist aren’t we.” The stranger pours a drink, takes a rather large swallow and lets out a long sign. “I have information that you might find useful.”
“Go on, get out with it then.”
“Well, yes in synopsis, I have the pleasure of acquaintance with Mr. Howard for over…”
“Who are you?” Jo demands.
“At present I am known as Sherlock… As I was saying, I have been an acquaintance Of Wiley for over…” Sherlock begins to count on his fingers while looking towards the ceiling, “going on seventy years now… um… give or take.” Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, “So I know quite a bit about the man and his mythology. Your meeting with him today was a welcomed sight… you see, I’ve been helping him with his writing for the past decade… give or take.”
“You don’t appear to be anywhere close to seventy, how is this possible?”
“Um… I age well,” Sherlock says unconvincingly. “Here, sit.”
“Jesus Jumping Jehovah Witness, this is gonna be a long night into day.”
Sherlock picks up a blank page and rolls it onto the type writer, “Just begin somewhere start typing.”
“Well, OK, “Joanna says, caressing the key board “Might as well start at my favorite place.”
“Where would that be Miss, Fenwick?”
“A good saloon.”
TULLAHOMA MUD
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