Divine lightning has been known to strike twice, but only if it is directed by a Guardian Angel.
With a job in his pocket, the few loose coins that jingled in his khakis sounded like a hundred dollars.
John Henry made it a point to stop by, to offer up his thanks to Sargent and Sunny for their helping hand. Their kindness was the kind that stuck with a man, went deeper than any he’d known before.
Sargent asked John Henry to join him for a stroll down the sidewalk, just the two of ’em. They walked and smoked on their Lucky Strikes, talking about this new job that was waiting for John Henry like an open road.
They trudged along the sidewalk, the setting sun beating down on their gray fedoras, until they came to a halt in front of a small, weathered, stucco bungalow. A faded ‘For Rent’ sign hung crookedly from the porch railing, creaking lazily in the faint breeze. An older woman, around Sargent’s age, sat in a creaking swing, sipping listlessly at a glass of iced tea; she gave them a slight wave as friends do. The only sounds were the rhythmic groan of the swing chains and the growing buzz of cicadas, their evening song a mournful hum that seemed to vibrate through the very air itself as dusk drew near.
Sargent took one last drag on his cigarette, the ember flaring orange in the dusk. With a practiced motion, born of countless battlefields, he field-stripped the butt and sent it swirling into the breeze. Beside him, John Henry echoed the gesture, the ritual of it a comforting reminder of days past and the unbreakable bonds of soldiers forged in blood and fire.
Sargent spoke up.
“I’ve already gotten the okay from the owners; they’re fixin’ to move up to San Francisco for a spell, maybe a long one, five or six years they say. The house is yours for the taking if you’re so inclined. I put in a good word for you, figured my vouchin’ would mean something to them. Hope our bond of friendship will be the thing that seals this deal tighter than a jug of moonshine on a hot summer day.”
John Henry let out a hearty laugh, the easy kind that comes from deep in the belly, at the mention of moonshine.
“I ain’t touched the white lightning in near 10 years, Sargent,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “But I’ll take the house, and you can bet your Justin boots our friendship is stronger than any gold or jug of ‘shine you can find.”
That evening, after John Henry shook on the deal for the house, he stopped at a butcher shop around the corner from Sergeant’s house. He counted out what little change he had left, just enough for three thick pork chops, a couple of fat red potatoes, and a sweet onion. Tonight, he’d throw the chops on the campfire, watch ’em sizzle till they were good and done, and bake the spuds in the coals. Bertha and Johnny, they’d eat like King Farouk. And Lady, she’d get her a big chunk, too, because this was a night for celebration if there ever was one. One thing he had learned in life is to take your blessings as they come and give thanks because they may never come again.
Click the link below for Chapter 5.
https://notesfromthecactuspatch.com/2024/07/06/life-in-california-chapter-5/
Notes From The Cactus Patch 