Standard disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any similarities with any persons living or dead are wholly coincidental...
A note from the author: I've been spending some time in the spa (hospital) again. I ask you to be kind. I write to entertain myself, hospitals are boring. I share because Oz told me back in the day, I should try.
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-- Izzy
The patrolman read my driver's license. "Magnus Oystein Haugen, the Third... of Williston, ND... Race: Other? Well, that's a new one... Sex: Male... Height: five feet eight inches... Hair: Blonde... Eyes: Blue... Age: TWENTY-ONE... well there we have our problem!" He droned on and I zoned out.
I asked myself how the fuck did this happen. My fake DL is normally getting me out of difficulty. Unfortunately there are times it backfires. I don't know why I keep the damn thing. Oh that's right, it's easier to buy booze with it. This time I'm sitting in the back of a patrol car in handcuffs.
I learned a long time ago, back when I was just trying to get into the adult bookstores, and dance clubs, when you're making a fake you keep your date of birth the same, you just change the year. It's too easy to fuck up and give the wrong month, or day. It is easier to train yourself on the year.
The photo on both of my IDs don't quite match my current appearance. The soft oval shape of my face and my large powder blue eyes haven't changed. What has changed is the length of my hair. My blonde straight hair now goes all the way down to the small of my back.
Most of the time people look at it, look at me, and take it at face value. Then again, most of the time I'm careful about who I show it to. That was not the case today. I've always been careful, FUCK why not today. My mind reflected on my life and journey.
My story began back in the North Dakota oil fields. Yep, I'm from the Flickertail State. I had turned sixteen, three months prior. Granddad got me my big work truck. My cousin, who worked the docks up in Manitoba lined up a 40 foot shipping container and container trailer to haul it home. Granddad was great and helped with the paperwork to bring it home. It was part of my grand plan for my escape. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
I had one man in my family I admired above all others, my grandfather. It was the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving, and my life was about to turn on a dime.
I walked in on Dad and Nels signing over the deed on the old cabin. Dad said, "He's becoming a drain on the business assets. The funds were getting from this old ass cabin, can be used to pay for the nursing home for years." I will confess I was angry.
Back home I argued the cabin had been in the Haugen family for generations. The company was founded and owned by senior still. Why shouldn't its assets be used to care for him now. It didn't take much to get junior pissed off. Uff-da, dontcha know, I pissed him off. He commenced to punching me.
The man took issue with everything I did, and was. His major issue was the fact he was a mean drunk. People around town knew about his booze fueled temper. Many doubted my mother's suicide. Everyone knew she was terrified of water. Yet somehow she committed suicide by driving her car into the frozen river.
Then it broke, it was the last straw. The one holding my fury, and apparently sanity in check. I clocked him with my welder's helmet during his attack. Of all the things I was forbidden to do, fighting back was the biggest no-no of all. I swore this was the very last day, I was going to be his punching bag.
My family liked using the old Nordic tongue when angry. Junior was very angry. He called me a, "jaevla fitte, kuksuger jukkegutt" (fucking pussy, cocksucker gay boy). I turned calling him kjonnsleppefitteharsuppe (a labia cunt hair soup. okay, it loses a bit in translation). You betcha though, as soon as the words left my lips, his fist made contact with my throat. With that the fight was over before it began. I was standing there trying to gasp for air as his punches landed, unable to defend myself.
Eventually the beating ended. Mostly because I'd become a bloody puddle at his feet. Then junior grabbed me and threw me out of the house. I crawled my way to my truck. I knew I was in trouble, there was a sundog in the sky. Those rainbows around the sun only formed in the extreme cold when the ice crystals would freeze in the air. It was going to get colder as the sun went down.
I started driving towards the rez. Being drawn like a magnet, I needed people, I needed help. I knew the people in town would side with father and I would get no help there. I was slowly losing the battle with consciousness and pulled over. I slumped forward, knowing unless someone would find me soon, I would be joining my mother's spirits. I lost consciousness just outside the shelter belt of someone else's property.
I woke up next to the Barton oil field. Mr. Barton had hired our company on numerous occasions. The cold of the winter was hell on oil derricks. Chris Barton had opened the door to my truck. As I tumbled out into his arms he exclaimed, "Lil Mag, What the fuck happened!"
Mr. Barton slid me back up into the truck. Then he drove back onto the site telling a roughneck to drive his vehicle into town to get the doctor, and the sheriff. I was out again.
I woke in a strange bedroom. I could hear them but could not reply. Mr. Barton shook me. I winced in pain with every movement, "Magnus, who did this to you? What the fuck happened? Your father keeps hanging up on me. Is there someone else I can call?"
My cousin Shehek ('laughing' Coyote) was standing over his shoulder. He was older than me at twenty-one, but he was one of the cooler family members I had. As kids we would dance with the women of the tribe. We were too young to understand the whispers between the older people. Our mothers always smiled when we would dance. "Chris everyone knows who did this. That's why the doctor won't come. No one wants to cross Junior... Ooxa (OH oh ha - closest pronunciation in English), Chris and I will care for you."
Junior was the name everyone used for my father, when he wasn't in ear-shot. Ooxa was the tribal name given to me. "I'll call Dad on Fort Berthold and he'll bring the tribal doctor. Ooxa is Mandan, they will help him."
The Sheriff arrived and stayed long enough to say, "It looks like the little queer boy got a beat down for propositioning the wrong visitor. Now he is trying to throw it on his father. There is no evidence his father actually struck him.
Mr. Barton, Maggie here is a troubled boy with an active imagination. I don't think you wanna piss off the guy who owns the only fabrication company in the region." My cousin Laughing Coyote wasn't laughing when he showed the Sheriff out.
People think of North Dakota as the iceberg of the north. The coldest static temperature in winter was - 60. Throw a 50 to 60 mile an hour wind on top of that, I think the phrase "brrr" was invented in North Dakota. Still, that only gives half the story. Growing up, I got to see our temperature go from over 100 degrees in the summer, to under a minus hundred degrees wind chill in the winter. That kind of a temperature change is hard on equipment and people.
On the plains the most dangerous condition to find yourself in, is alone. That was my current state. I fled from Dad's house without even trying to pack a bag. All I had were the clothes on my back and dirty workout clothes in my gym bag. I looked down at my shirt, I saw it was shredded and blood was covering it.
Chris was surprised, like many, to find out about my Mandan heritage. With my fare skin and hair, I don't exactly look like I fit in. Both Grandma and Mama where Mandan. I was three quarters. Granddad's Nordic blood still ran deep in me. The only thing I got from Mom's side of the family was the lack of body and facial hair.
The next morning, the swelling on my larynx receded, and I was able to croak out some answers to their questions. I was able to confirm what my cousin Shehek had told Chris, that it was my father who beat me. I was grateful for the Thanksgiving break, in spite of my bruises I would be able to return to school.
Shehek's mother (Warawit) Mourning Dove, came to the site with a box of clothes she thought would fit. Her eye was spot-on. She and my mother were quite close, more sisters than sisters-in-law. The roughnecks went through their footlockers and gear boxes and found work clothes for me. I think a couple of them cheated and ran into town.
Mourning Dove stayed by my side all weekend and made some ponytail covers of leather, bone, and metal to keep my hair from getting tangled in the equipment or burned while welding. She also fashioned a leather ponytail sleeve and decorated it with beads, porcupine quills, a silver fox charm, and an eagle feather. I knew eagle feathers were sacred and would only be given by family for a great life success, or a great survival.
I tried to help with the beading unfortunately my arms felt like lead. My fingers and hands still hurt, from fighting with father. I missed doing the arts with mother as a child. I was proficient at beading, weaving, quilling, and tanning. Mother's poppa said that made me special, and someday I would know why.
As a kid with no perceptible support, Dad had expected me to crawl off and die or just disappear. Apparently he forgot about making me get a job freshman year. He thought it was about time I learned the family business. He chose to put me to work in Uncle Nels' metal shop... I had been a certified welder since I was twelve. Bonded at 15 (thank you Grandpa), in two months I'll be a certified master welder.
Certified welders were rare as gold in western North Dakota. The oil companies were always looking for good welders. Even if they were a little on the scrawny side and could only work part-time.
Mr. Barton was willing to hire me `part-time,' damn child labor laws. Thanks to the kit that Granddad had built into my long bed truck, I was prepared to work. I was set up for Arc, Gas, Mig and Tig welding. If it was metal, I could connect it or cut it apart. I only asked that he occasionally throw me some money for diesel for the trip to Minot until I could set up delivery of supplies.
In addition to working, and finishing high school, I was converting the large cargo container into a tiny house as my junior year project for my industrial arts class. The shop teacher hated me on sight initially freshman year.
He was a rival of dad's in construction. My father ran him out of business by consistently under bidding jobs. He lost his company and ended up teaching. A few days into the semester he realized, I was not my father's son in attitude, and how sorry and ashamed I felt.
Mr. Gregory loved the concept of building a tiny house out of the shipping container. We cut holes for, then mounted, the expensive doors and windows. He taught us about thermal breaks, "Tre, if we keep it solid metal, you're going to bake inside or freeze. He taught us how to hang light framing and spay foam insulation on the outside of the cube. We built a heavily insulated roof assembly for it as well.
We decided to go for an expensive solution for exterior cladding. We used shou shugi ban charred cedar. I couldn't believe the detail that was added by charring the wood. It wasn't exactly cheap but the fact that the materials would last for 80 years without having to be resurfaced made it worthwhile.
A few teachers at the school and the tribal council lawyer helped me become an emancipated minor. The council demanded my father be punished for child abuse. The Sheriff dismissed the request.
I was the one member of the family who was constantly stopping over at the nursing home paying attention to Grandpa Magnus. He was pissed with Dad. I was able to temper his heat away from Nels. He had too much to lose standing for me.
I had built a crude camper on the back of my pickup and moved out of Mr. Barton's spare room. He and Shehek were lovers, I didn't want to cramp them. Eventually the Airstream style riveted and welded aluminum camper shell was going to be my storage unit for the tiny house. The roughnecks were warned to stay away because of my age.
Though emancipated, the sheriff had an eye on the job site. My father spred rumors that I was turning tricks. The Sheriff made several ugly threats to the Barton's.
My cousin Pete, a deputy, had cornered me after school with a warning. "Remember Tre, age of consent here is 18, don't hurt the guys who are helping you. The Sheriff has us checking out your camper with a thermal imager during patrol. If we see two bodies grinding, we are to arrest the occupants. If that happens, during discovery ask for the warrant for the imager. He doesn't have it.
I am so glad pop talked me out of the family business. If there is anything you need Tami and I wanna help. I am walking a fine line with the department. This sucks so much, I am even looking at leaving Williams County."
I replied angrily, "Peter Haugen! If all you good cops leave, who will be left to stand for the innocent? If courage was easy, we would be surrounded by heroes. Have courage, stake your ground, and fight where you can. If not you will have to run forever."
He hugged me and rubbed my head, "Thanks Tre. How did you become so wise?" I could only smile. "My wife made this for you." He handed me a paper bag. It had a tupperware dish filled with a ground beef hot dish from his wife. She also added a few Ziplocs filled with puppy chow.
I suppose I should explain. Anywhere else in the country folks would dismiss a hot dish as a simple casserole, hot dish is better. Puppy Chow, how do I describe it. Comfort food, it's a mix of Chex, peanut butter, chocolate, and powdered sugar. Pete hugged me and we parted.
The last bit of drama for junior year was when I moved the now dried-in an insulated shipping container out to the site. It was ready for final fittings on the inside. It turned out dad got audited by the IRS because he tried to claim me as a dependent.
As a result of losing his tax deduction (me) he sent the law after me. The sheriff showed up out at the site demanding I hand over the keys to my truck and future home. "Your father wants HIS vehicles back." I pointed to the registrations and titles.
"With respect Sheriff, both documents say that this vehicle is owned by myself and or my grandfather. My dad has no claim. If you attempt to take custody of it I will have YOU personally arrested for grand theft auto. Run the tags through NCIC, you'll see I am telling the truth." He was about to make a claim of resisting law enforcement, in the performance of his duty, when the state trooper rolled onto the job site. Chris had had enough, and called the regional office.
Over the summer, several of the guys from the job site were trading labor and materials for side jobs. Everybody likes to have custom welding and repairs on their trucks. Too many big things run around the range. They can do a wallop of hurt on your vehicle.
Between installing custom skid plates, grill guards, and push bars for the guys. The tiny house started to take shape. By the start of senior year it was complete. I was able to move into my tiny house. It was well insulated. Even the coldest winter night was comfortable to ride out.
I designed the tiny house along the lines of a shotgun shack. The entry area that contained two triangular storage units for towels coats boots and whatnot. An entry hall was flanked by the powder room to the right. I had a separate shower room to the left of the door. The two rooms created a small entry and changing room.
I had solar panels hard mounted to the roof. Large LP tanks mounted on the tongue, for cooking and backup heat. In the house was a super efficient Scandinavian compact wood heater. I had an extended battery system stored on the truck's now unused camper, and tiny house. My generator for welding was highly efficient and quiet. It was a backup, in case I was unable to use my panels.
The middle of the trailer formed a great room and second entry. The kitchen and dining made up the middle section. The tongue side was the bedroom. It contained a king size adjustable air bed which filled a lot of the space. Night stands were built into the forward wall.
I removed and relocated the heavy shipping doors from over the tongue to the side. This move would give me the ability to lock out both of the entry doors during shipment. I had storage hidden everywhere. All of the interior doors were pocket doors made out of lightweight aluminum and lexan frosted panels. I chose to do a minimalist build to cut down on the weight. Instead of drywall I chose to use bead board painted white to bounce the light around And make the narrow eight foot wide container appear bigger. The large windows all over helped.
With the build now complete I could focus on saving money for the big trip. I'd have to work, but I could keep going forward. The first night in my new home I found myself at the desk doodling. I had just completed my first container home build, and I was already designing its replacement. How warped is that.
Senior year I started helping a couple of the roughnecks to get their welding certifications. Mr. Barton was impressed. He assigned the two men as my assistants. Charlie obeyed my instructions as if they were written in stone. My other assistant Mike embraced the status. I think he genuinely liked being under me.
The two of them would do tasks while I was at school. When I'd get to the site, I'd look over, and test their work. Most of the time I would check it off. On occasion I'd have to tell them to do it again. After a year working on the job site I was made the welding supervisor and a full time employee.
I got a definite gay vibe off Mike but with him being twenty-one, I couldn't act on it. Damn, North Dakota's stupid age of consent law! Everyone on site was over twenty-one, making me forbidden fruit. If we snuck across the border into Montana, I knew the Sheriff would be waiting for our return. The guy's my age were afraid of my family's shadow, and to be honest they didn't interest me.
Mr. Barton asked for me to design a welding truck for the site. There was bad blood between he and my father now. Dad told him, "So long as I run the company, Haugen Fabricating and Repair will not work for your company." Over the winter Charlie, Mike, and I got it ready to roll. The guys could replace me. It was almost time to go.
After almost a year and a half on my own, I had graduated and was itching to move on. I decided to spend one last summer on the site. I would then take a massive road trip to "discover" myself. I know it's a sixties concept, but granddad inspired me. I would start my great journey in August, when I turn eighteen. First stop, Burning Man. I had secured a job on the site. Someone is always looking for a welder/fabricator.
Granddad always laughed at my carefully thought out plans. He thought I should just drop what I'm doing and get on the road. When he was transferred from the nursing home to the hospice, it tore my heart out. Those confident eyes that always exuded strength, now looked upon me weakly. "Tre, I have always loved you. You have been my favorite grandchild. You remind me of the strong handsome boy, who I used to be.
There's one difference between you and I. You have a stick up your ass about doin what is 'right and proper.' By the time I was your age I had sex with dozens of girls, and more than a few guys."
"Ewwwww, Grandpa." I think I would prefer having the sex talk with a nun than my grandfather.
"It's cold in winter, sex boils the blood. Tre, are you still a virgin?" I pulled my bottom lip into my mouth and blushed. "There is that rod again. Tre, do you know how I made it to Woodstock?"
"Yeah Granddad, you told me you hitched rides. Then you took two years to just cruise around to find yourself."
"Yeah and a lot of drivers insisted on 'compensation' for the gas. A lot of them were lonely long-haul truckers. I remember the one who got me from Moorehead, MN all the way to Chicago. I only had to let him fuck me twice, and blow him three times. He was so happy with me, he returned the oral favor."
Granddad got a dreamy look on his face, and then continued. "He also passed the word to the other truckers on the road. Telling them on the CB about a fresh faced boy out of North Dakota looking for a ride to Bethel, New York. I always had a ride after that. Tre, I know you like guys. There's no shame in that. The shame these days is in hiding it.
Tell me, with all of your shop classes, when you got into printing did you make a fake ID?" I nodded and handed it to him. He compared it to my North Dakota driver's license. It was an almost exact copy. "According to this it says you're nineteen why didn't you go for twenty-one?"
I laughed and said "Who would believe that I was twenty-one?" Shaking my baby face and wiggling my eyes.
He followed up, "Then why bother to make the ID at all Tre?"
I told him, "I wanted to get into the over eighteen dance clubs, buy porn..." my voice dropped to a hush, "or maybe sneak into the adult bookstore in Minot."
"So, why haven't you used it?" I dropped my eyes and blushed again. "There's that rod again. Tre, you have to start living your life. Not the life that your father wants you to live. You have to find out who YOU are. Your life can be a series of great adventures, if you just reach out and grab them."
Four days later Granddad, my hero, died. Mr. Barton, Shehek, and my trainees, accompanied me to the funeral. They were there to protect me from my father. I learned family is not just made by blood. Sometimes it's made of stronger stuff, sometimes it's made of steel.
After Granddad's funeral the guys walked me back to my truck. Mike asked if I needed someone to drive, if I'd be okay. For the first time in my life, I knew I was going to be fine. I climbed into my truck. I was on a quest. I had to drive to Minot... 100 miles away.
I parked in the lot and walked straight up to the closest adult bookstore. I presented my fake ID, bought my tokens, and at seventeen years and fifty weeks, I watched my very first gay porno. As the image flooded the screen, I smiled thinking of Granddad and the truckers. I felt fearless and ten feet tall.
When I came out I saw Michael leaning against my truck. "Mike, why did you follow me all the way out here?"
"Tre, we promised to keep you safe. I was about ready to go in and see how you were doing. What say we go get something to eat?" I nodded yes. "So did you have fun?" I dropped my head, blushed and drew my bottom lip between my teeth.
"I just watched the movie Mike. A couple of skeezy old guys propositioned me on my way to the booth." Mike laughed. "Mike, what does it mean when a guy sticks his finger through a hole in the booth wall?" Oh the education I received on the way to the diner.
We walked up the road to a 50s style Diner. That sounds more cool than it actually is. Just about every single town in North Dakota has a 50s Style Diner and a Dairy Queen. We sat and ordered. Our waiter was quite the cute stud. He was from the UK touring the United States and some great journey of his own. "And you came to North Dakota?" I shouted. We chatted a bit while we waited for our food, he was great.
We were waiting for our food and sipping our drinks when Mike started asking questions. "So what's the story between you and Shehek? Why does he call you Ooxa (Mike of course butchered the pronunciation) or Fox? Some of the guys are getting confused by the pet name `Fox' thinking maybe you guys are fuck buddies."
I first responded with a loud, "Oh, iiiick!" Then I laughed, "Both my father's mother and my mother were Mandan. Shehek is my first cousin. My uncle Nels and I would often come out to the reservation to help out on special construction projects. It would piss my father off but he and I didn't care, it was always for a good cause or family.
During one build a small child was playing on the site. He got pinned under a pile of rebar. Nels was too heavy to climb the pile, I was not. I belted myself to a staked safety line so Nels could pull me off the pile, if needed. I climbed the pile before anyone could stop me. I used Nels' equipment and cut away the bundles.
Each bundle that was cut, I was thrown up into the air a couple feet, only to regain my footing and continue the work. Each time the pile would pop, debris would fly from the pile. A molten rebar fragment even flew through the inside of my shirt, missing my skin and embedding itself in the wood awning above.
I was urged off the pile by the men, only to waive them away. I wasn't going to give up, even if I was injured. I could see with each bundle I cut, the grip on the boy would loosen, until at last he could be pulled free.
After the rescue my face was black with soot. The elders spoke of my use of the torch to save the boy, and the fact that I did not have a tribal name. There was some debate on what to call me. No name or legend seemed to fit. One of the children pointed to the red fox that had been following me all day, watching me.
The mother of the trapped child was Lakota. She and her son hugged me thanking me for my courage and help. Then she told us the Lakota tale of the To-ka-la.
The Kit Fox warriors (Tokala), were the bravest warriors. Before battle they made themselves sacred, and painted their faces black. Then they would say to one another, that it would be a good day for a man to give his life. They wore sashes and during battle, they would stake the sashes to the ground as a sign that they would fight on that spot until victory or death.
In the culture of several other nations it's the fox who brought fire down to the people. My Uncle and Mandan family agreed it fit, but thought the name should be Mandan. From then on, my tribal name was Ooxa, red fox."
Among other Indian nations the fox and coyote are considered tricksters. Among the Mandan, they are sought for their wisdom and cunning. Have you ever seen a fox or coyote hunt? If their prey somehow eludes them, they will think about how to capture it. They rarely give up."
Mike told me of his upbringing in New Orleans, and the spirit and color of the city. He told me of its dual nature. Fun and danger all wrapped up in a vibrant multicultural package. Mike picked up the tab. I made sure to palm the waiter a $25 tip and a note "Gary D, Thank you so very much for taking care of us and sharing your story."
Mike followed me all the way back to the site and we said goodbye. He hugged me for a long time, then kissed my forehead wishing he could wave away the pain of my grandfather's passing. That was an impossible dream, but a nice gesture. I could see the deputy out on the highway. Two more weeks and they couldn't touch me.
A couple days later Uncle Nels came out to the drill site. He asked me to stay away from town. "The lawyers told your Dad that Senior's will had been sealed. All company expenditures had to be approved by the executor. Accounts were frozen until the reading of the will, and would not be opened until August 10th.
The fact was not lost on dad that it was my birthday. The estate paid all of the bills to the nursing home, hospital, and covered the funeral expenses... and of course the taxes. Tre, Junior is pissed, I don't want him taking it out on you. If you have to come to town bring a couple guys with you."
The next day, the man I had always known as Uncle Bert, Granddad's oldest friend, now the executor of his will, came out to the site and invited me to the reading. I told him, "I am afraid of being in the same room as my father. Maybe I should just keep my distance."
He held my cheek and asked "Lil Mag, why are you afraid of him?" I showed him the pictures of my bruises. The bruises the sheriff didn't want to investigate for fear of irritating the powerful man. "You bring whoever you need to feel safe, but you need to be there." I promised I would try.
I asked Chris if he could go with me. He smiled and rub the back of my neck. "Of course buddy." I had given him my notice after my last visit with Senior. Granddad was right, I needed to start living my life. It was time to stop dreaming and start doing.
I had enough money for gas and food that I could spend a good six months on the road. I thought about driving South for the winter. It'd be kind of cool to be warm in December.
We gathered to hear my grandfather's will and final words. Nels was between father and I. Chris, Shehek, Mike and Charlie, were told to stay quiet, that they had no standing.
"To my youngest son Nels Haugen: I leave controlling interest in the company I started. Son it is my hope that you disband the monstrosity, only keep what you're capable of running, do what makes you happy. Sell off the rest, and start your own life. You need to stop living in your older brother shadow. If you choose to keep my company, remake it in your image.
To my son Junior: I leave my abject disappointment. I tried to show you love. What you learned was nothing but a profit sheet. You failed maintaining the heart of the business. Just as you failed at maintaining your family. You failed at being a son, a husband, and a father.
It is sad that I knew and loved your son deeper than you ever will. I hope that changes someday. The law says I must leave you something. So I leave you the first dollar that I earned. It's hanging in a frame above the register. In addition you may keep the company house and vehicle that I have allowed you to use.
To my grandson Magnus the Third: I have set up a trust fund for you. I also leave to you the Indian motorcycle, that brought me home. The executor of my will has control of the trust, until the time of your twenty first birthday. Under no circumstances is Magnus Haugen Junior to have any access to, or control over this fund.
Tre, take some time and discover yourself. Try not to be so uptight. Find your passion. Stop being a doormat. It is my hope that you use it to learn who you are. Live your life with courage. Make some mistakes for once.
It would please my heart no end for you to just blow the entire fund. I know that's not you, that's me. Tre, live your life fearlessly, like the Viking and Mandan warriors from which you come. When you find yourself, stake your ground and fight for what is yours. Know this, you are worthy to bear my name, and that I am so proud of you."
Dad started to cross the room with his clenched fists in my direction. Chris, Shehek, Mike, and Charlie swept in and blocked his path. Dad blanched and backed down, Nels smiled saying, "Junior, you are fired. I'll have one of the guys clear out your office." The executor went on at some length to the other absent grandchildren. Mostly they got the little trinkets that hadn't been sold.
When the reading was done Dad claimed he was going to vacate the will. Based on his father's diminished mental capacity. Both the attorney and the executor said good luck. He gestured menacingly at me. Then I said what would be the last words I would say to Dad, "Junior, Faen ta deg!" (May the devil take you!) He shook his fist in my direction and stomped out of the office.
Nels crossed the room hugged me, "What are your plans Tre?"
"I owe Mr. Barton and the guys another week on my two week notice. Then I am going to hit the road for a while. Maybe for a long while. I want to see some of the things that Granddad saw. I need to find something more than just occasional visits to Minnie and Paul (Minneapolis and St. Paul a common family vacation spot). Granddad thought I needed to find me, I think I need to find something bigger."
He hugged me and wished me the best, "I'll bring Pop's Indian to you. That way you don't have to cross paths with your father. Just promise to send me a postcard every so often. I should have been a better uncle. I'll try to be a better man, the man I should have been." I promised to send him the postcards.
Uncle Bert pulled me aside saying, "Tre, more than anything Senior and I wanted to make sure your dreams came true. I want you to remember this, when Senior came back from his two-year road trip he had a cool hippie chick traveling with him named Night Wind. You knew her as Grandma."
"Thanks Uncle Bert." The lawyer presented me with Granddad's diary.
He said, "There's a note to you on the inside of the front cover." When I read the diary I found out uncle Bert was not just Granddad's friend. They had been lovers for many years.
The rest of the guys headed back to the site. Mike, requested permission to stay with me, just in case anything happened. Burt took me over to the bank. I was presented a debit card from which I could access a certain amount of money a month. I looked at my allowance in shock, I was free...
--Continued.