Ch.1: A Rich City Boy

The occasional sound of rubber scraping glass broke a trance I kept slipping into as the wiper blades gave a brief view of the front door through a sheet of rain. A porch light shone down on weathered wood planks that looked as though they could have been pulled from the wreckage of the Titanic itself. The porch wasn't the highest quality, but clearly somebody had put an amount of time and effort into erecting this meager structure. Whoever it was, probably loved this home.

Again I slipped from reality, wondering if it was him. Had he poured his own sweat and blood into building it?
**TAP TAP**

Startled out of my daze. This time by a state trooper tapping the butt of his flashlight against my driver side window. I hadn't seen him pass by, or turn around at the end of the road because he wasn't part of the plan. He wasn't supposed to be there, and he was going to ruin everything.
**TAP TAP**

Now, deputy Hagan was that type of guy you find in smaller towns around cities like Nashville. Straight out of high school, with no plans of going to college, Cody Hagan did what every man in his family had done. He joined the force, but not to carry out a legacy. He joined the force because it was the only career that gave a man instant respect from everyone. It was a chance to control his own life. His 6'4" broad frame probably carried his high school team to the state finals his senior year, but for now it carried a badge, and a mustache that any NASCAR fan would have been proud of. However, Deputy Hagan and his mustache, are another story.

As I rolled down the window,the sheet of rain,that covered my windshield,formed a waterfall. It devided the leather interior of my $87,000 Mercedes Benz with the Typhoon that was ravaging Daton, Tennessee.

"Good evenin, sir” he said in that cocky, invincible voice you gave your teacher on the last day of school. This, he followed with a hack, and a large wad of spit that spattered on the concrete simultaneously with an equally porportioned drop of rain. Again, he spat.



As for now, he sat patiently waiting (with his smile cocked to one side) for an explanation as to why I've been parked in front of this house to which my khaki pants, and Mercedes with Florida plates, clearly didn't belong. (Again, he spat.) I fed him a load about how I got off at the wrong exit and was attempting to navigate back roads to my hotel.

“Shit, you done' got off bout twelve miles short of any hotels." He spoke as if it were a regular occurrence to find strangers who have wondered this far into "Hicksville", and again, he spat. He didn't miss a beat with his offer to lead me into town. It would be too suspicious if I didn't accept such a gesture, since I clearly had no idea where I was. Besides, Mr. Curtis Randall probably wasn't there. Who's to say he even lived there anymore. Was he even alive?

I gave a cheap smile and thanks before I rolled my window up, not waiting for a reply. I took one last look at the small wooden house before backing up, and following Deputy Hagan down the small dirt road. It was the same dirt road I had imagined it would be, and, after looking at my watch, I realized it was the same dirt road I drove down 3 hours prior. Had it really been three hours? Ocassionally time will play tricks on the exausted mind, but three hours?

After Deputy Hagan led me to the Deer Ridge Inn, and gave me a friendly reminder that folks in this town might not take too kindly to a rich boy from Florida, I again thanked him and with another cheap smile bid him farewell.