Chapter 2

It took Henry a second to reorient himself.  He was curled up in a ball laying on his right side.  He could feel blow after blow to his left side, from his head down to his legs.  Looking through his left eye he could only see blood.  From his right, he could see the shuffling of work boots.  He noticed one pull back and realized he was about to get a steel-toe in his face.  As the foot swung back through he jerked his body up.  The foot swept under his head, but he took the full force of the assailant’s shin to his nose.  He felt instant pain and saw the splatter of blood on the retreating boot and sock.

Henry moved his arms as quickly as he could, trying to shield what he perceived as the most active areas of attack; first to his head, then back to his chest, the groin, and back up to his head.

He felt a tug on his khakis and immediately recoiled.  These guys are trying to take my pants off, he thought in horror.  He gave one kick to the unseen hand pulling on his pants.  He looked to the source of the new attack and saw two arms reaching again for his leg.  As kicked again he recognized the familiar dark blue of his company work shirt.  It suddenly occurred to him that Jeff was trying to pull him out of the melee by his feet.  He immediately extended his legs, exposing his midsection, but giving Jeff something to grab.  His reward was a powerful kick in the gut, followed by an adrenaline-fueled yank out of the bottom of the pile.

Jeff pulled with such forced, Henry nearly slid past him on the pavement.  Jeff quickly reached to the ground retrieving a tire iron he had taken from the trailer.  He waved it menacingly at the group of attackers.  Henry wiped the blood from his face and noticed the body-builder lying on the ground next to him.  He was moaning and rubbing his bloody face where he’d taken the first blow from the tire iron.

The attackers stood in abeyance.  Jeff kept one eye on the guy moaning on the ground, and the other surveying Henry’s assailants.  “Get in the truck Henry.” He said calmly and flatly.

“Fuck,” Henry said with a great deal of exasperation while wiping the blood from his face.  Clearly stunned, Jeff’s order was not immediately registering.

“Get in the truck Henry.” Jeff repeated, same tone, same volume, as if he were a recording.

“The lift.” Henry said, struggling to rise to his feet.

“Fuck the lift Henry.  Get in the God damned truck.” He said, increasing his volume with each syllable. Jeff could see that the attackers were doing the math.  They were clearly calculating that one of them would take some damage from the tire iron.  Maybe two.  But individually, the odds were in their favor it wouldn’t be them.  The group slowly began to close in around Jeff.

Henry staggered to the passenger side of the pick-up.  Once Jeff heard the truck door slam shut, he lunged at the group taking one last swing, connecting with no one.  He then turned tail and ran.  He slammed the driver’s side door and immediately heard the impact of truck and humanity.  The thugs had converged on the vehicle, pounding away on the door and roof.

Jeff started the truck, jammed it into drive and sped out of the parking space before anyone got the idea to block their exit.  One thug was in the process of climbing into the bed of the truck right behind the cab.  The sudden acceleration caused him to roll off, landing on his back in the middle of the street. 

Jeff raced to Forsyth and turned left.  As he rounded the corner, he and Henry saw the expanding riot oozing down the street toward them.  Jeff quickly threw the vehicle into reverse and began his haphazard retreat to the south.

The Mitchell street thugs emerged onto Forsyth and assemble in a line across the street forming a human road-block.  Jeff stopped briefly about 50 yards north of the obstruction.  He laid on the horn, and resumed his reverse charge at full speed.  The thugs thought better of the confrontation and quickly scattered like rats making way for the swerving truck. 

When Jeff was about a block south of the pursuers, he attempted a quick spin to right the direction of the truck.  His maneuver caused him to strike three parked cars along the street.  Without hesitation, he straightened out and sped south on Forsyth.

Henry sat slumped in the passenger seat.  “What about my truck?” He asked.

Jeff did not answer.  He was locked in a trance, focused on survival.  He held his attention to the road and the road alone.  He deftly ran stop lights, slowing down slightly to assess threats of cross-traffic, then slipped in between, resuming his frantic trek south.  He was two miles down Interstate 75 before he said his first words.  “Hostpital.  We have to get to the hospital.”

“Jeff, where the hell are you going?” Henry said.  Jeff suddenly realized Henry had been trying to speak to him for some time.

“I’m not sure.  Hospital.” He repeated blankly.

“Hey!” Henry snapped back, clapping his hands.  “Pay attention.  Where are you going?”

“Not sure Henry.” Jeff muttered.  “I think we have to…” he trailed off, then paused.  He looked over at Henry and suddenly snapped to the present.  “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, with a laugh and enormous smile.  “Oh my God Henry.  Holy shit! How are you doing?” 

“Not fine, but I’m alive.  I think they broke my nose.  I suppose we can kiss that lift goodbye.  And the trailer.  Shit.  And my truck.  And your truck’s a little messed up.  Jesus Jeff.”

“Downtown hospitals will be bad.” Jeff returned to serious business.  “Let’s get off, turn around and head back north.  We can hit St. Joes.  Just relax Henry.  You look bad, but….”  He didn’t exactly know how to end that sentence.

“Maybe they won’t find the other truck.”  Henry wondered aloud.  “Maybe we can go pick it up tomorrow.”  Henry’s last words trailed off.

Henry opened his eyes and saw his brother-in-law leaning over him.  Jeff’s characteristic beaming smile welcomed him back to consciousness.  He saw the white ceiling and immediately noted he was in a hospital.  “Hey!” Jeff said with some surprise and happiness.  He’d clearly recovered from his frantic state. “You’re back.  Broken nose, a couple ribs, but you’ll be fine.”

“Shit!” Henry spit. He felt the pressure in his nose from the gauze, and the bandage that sat just below his eyes, but he could feel no pain.  “The dog!  What time is it?”

“Six-thirty.” Jeff said. He looked up from Henry, “Lisa, did you call Karen?”

Henry turned to his left to see his wife’s sister bounding through the curtain separating the examination areas in the ER. 

“Yeah, she’s coming home.  How are you doing Hen?”  Henry winced.  He hated that name too.  Why couldn’t Karen’s siblings just use his proper name?  As she said it she turned her attention from her husband to Henry and let out a quiet but distinct gasp.  Jeff shot her a disapproving look, but quickly returned his gaze to Henry giving him a reassuring smile.  Henry knew he must look pretty bad.

“Don’t let her come home Lisa.  I’m fine.  Tell her to stay with your folks.  I forgot about the dog.”

“She’s on her way to Appleton right now.  She’s staying with Tom tonight and she’s booked on a flight first thing tomorrow morning.  The kids are staying with mom and dad but she’s coming.” 

Henry capitulated, thinking that was a probably the best thing to do.  “Lisa, please call Karen and get the number for the Kennel.  I was supposed to pick up Max.”  Despite the circumstances, Henry feared his wife’s rebuke almost as much as the mob.

“Karen told me.  I called the lady and you missed the time.  I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Is Karen pissed?”

“About the dog?  Are you kidding?” she responded with some incredulity.  “But I suppose if you’d done what you were supposed to you wouldn’t be here now.”

“No,” Henry agreed, “but your husband would be because he knows if he’d left my lift he’d be looking for a new job.” He quipped with a smile to Jeff.  “Can I go home now?”

“I’ll get the doctor to discharge you.” Jeff said while simultaneously jetting through the curtain.

“What happened down there?” Henry asked Lisa.

Lisa didn’t’ say anything.  She walked to the cabinet to the left of the bed and grabbed the remote for the wall-mounted television.  She turned on the set and flipped through the frivolous cable shows depicting the “reality” of buying a wedding dress, a home, living as twins, or triplets, as a morbidly obese youngster, fake business run by contrived families, etc., until she stopped on the local news.  A man with neatly quaffed hair stood on screen, a roaring crowd throbbed behind him.  He held a microphone and described the scene clearly visible behind him.  Chaos had infected Atlanta.

“The protestors have stayed somewhat centralized around the federal buildings.” The man shouted over the din of the mass.  Although he tried to appear professional, there was a sense that he did not entirely trust the mob behind him.  “There appears to be no leadership to what is happening here.”

“Mark,” the disembodied voice of the anchor queried, “have the police arrived yet?”

The reporter held his hand to his ear piece struggling to hear the anchor’s question.  “Still no police.  It was noted when the initial demonstrations began that there was no form of crowd control present.  Since the violence broke out, there has been no sign of law enforcement.  We’ve asked the department for comment, with no response as of yet.  No one seems to know why this was left to grow like it has.”

“Are you safe?” the anchor asked, feigning concern for his street reporter.

“We’ve been staying at a safe distance.  As you can see,” he said indicating to the cameraman to pan the area, “there are other news crews, both local and national, lined up here along the north side of the courthouse.  None of us are crossing Spring Street.   It appears the protestors want us present, but not too close.  We can see down MLK,” the cameraman returned to the shot of his reporter who had turned to the side indicating between the two federal buildings, “that the bonfire has continued to grow.” Henry recognized the location of the bonfire as the spot where the minivan was attacked.  His thoughts turned to the man pulled from the vehicle and anyone else that might have been inside.  “But still nothing from the police.”

“Three reported deaths,” the anchor answered Henry’s unasked question without emotion.  “Number of injured still growing.  Mark, please break in if you have anything new.”

“Thank you Robert, I will.  Reporting from Atlanta, I’m Mark Curtis.” He finished, throwing control back to the studio.

“No comment from city hall thus far,” the anchor adlibbed.  “Where are we going now,” he asked to no one apparent. “To Sarah Edwards in Buckhead.”

“Thank you Robert.” A pretty young blonde appeared, trying in vain to bring gravitas to the situation.  Her pageant-girl appearance wouldn’t allow it.  “As you can see behind me, the northbound lane of Highway 400 is packed solid and barely moving.  From reports we’ve had around the city, very little traffic is going in, but a lot of traffic is leaving.  As the fear of spreading violence grows downtown, people are seeking safety in the suburbs.  Robert.”

“Let’s get out of here Lisa.” Henry said with a groan.

“She’s right Hen, the roads are jam packed.  No need to hurry.  It’ll take us more than an hour to get home.”

Henry stepped into his dark kitchen and threw his keys on the marble island.  He walked to the refrigerator, opened the door and surveyed the situation.  With the exception of condiments, three cans of Coke and a can of beer, it was pretty much empty. 

Henry grabbed the can of beer, popped the top then tried to maneuver the opening past the obstruction attached to his nose.  The can barely touched his lips.  As he tipped it back a small stream of beer ran out the side of his lips, under his chin and down his neck. 

Frustrated, he grabbed a drinking glass from the cupboard and a children’s straw.

Once in the family room, he switched on his 52 inch television and turned to the local news.  The mob was beginning to spread.  Apparently the news crews had retreated, relying on citizen reporters with cellphones and guts.  Based on occasional updates from the local hospitals, the death toll had risen to six. 

Henry lay back on his couch and followed the reporting until he drifted off to sleep.

The house telephone jarringly woke Henry from his uncomfortable slumber on the living room couch.  He scrambled to gain his composure, cleared his throat and lunged for the phone.

“Hello.” He answered in a gruff morning voice, doing his best to sound as if he’d been awake for hours.  He was conscious of the fact that he sounded nasally as if he were plugging his nose.

“Good morning.  Did I wake you up?”  His wife asked,

“No, I’ve been up for a while.” He lied, checking his watch.  Eight A.M.

“I’m at Tom’s.  My flight leaves at 10.  It’s kind of a screwy flight but it’s all I could get.  I’m flying through Minneapolis with a three hour layover.”

“Good Lord that’s bad.  Who’s your travel agent?”

“It’s a mercy trip, so shut it.” She demanded.

“Call me from the Cities?” He asked.

“Sure thing.  How are you feeling today?”

“The drugs are wearing off, so not very good.”  He said while walking to the hall mirror. “Jesus!” he exclaimed, “I am not pretty.”  He had a large “X” made of medical tape spanning his face, crossing between his eyes.  Gauze was taped over the bottom portion of the “X” holding the packing in his nostrils.  Under both eyes was a deep shade of purple.  He could see traces of dried blood peeking out under the dressing.

“Oh, you’re still pretty.” She said reassuringly.

“You haven’t seen me lately.  I can assure you, I am not.”

“Lisa texted me a picture.  I think Jeff took it while you were sleeping at the hospital.  You look mean and tough.”

“Gee thanks.” He said without any real gratitude.  “How are the girls?  What do they think?”

“I told them you got hurt at work but it wasn’t bad.”

“That’s good.  Don’t forget to call from the Cities.”

“Will do.  Love you honey.”

“Love you too.”  He hung up and headed back to the mirror.  He began to pull back the tape from both sides of his forehead.  When he got to his eyebrows, he winced in pain as the hair was pulled follicle by follicle.  When he got the tape past the bridge of his nose it came off a little easier.  Henry endured the pain while he pulled the bandage from his nose and the gauze from his nostrils.  He wiggled his nose in the mirror and considered the damage.  There was a deep hue of purple-black under his eyes.  His nose looked almost yellow, but seemed to resemble its pre-kick structure.  He wiped the dried blood from his top lip, and splashed some cold water on his face.  Satisfied that he had survived that very unpleasant adventure, he turned his attention to getting on with business.

In the kitchen, Henry scanned the pantry shelf for coffee.  Usually Karen had a pot going for him when he came down after his shower.  When she was gone he’d usually hit a Starbucks on his way into the shop.  This morning, he didn’t feel like frightening the staff with his pugilist’s face, so figured he’d fend for himself.

After constructing a rather weak, generally tasteless pot of coffee, he poured himself a cup and walked out to his deck.  The heat was quickly building to a particularly bad July day in Alpharetta.  He was thankful that he had missed several days of a heat wave that had tormented the south.  Apparently, he had another week of the same to look forward to.

Henry took a seat in an iron café chair and placed his mug of coffee on the adjacent table.  The terrible pain from his ribs left him squirming for a comfortable position.  Nonetheless, he did his best to settle in and enjoy a slow start to his day.

He could see a foursome of golfers at the tee box across the pond to the north of his property.  The fairway of the 7^th hole ran the length of his backyard.

A group of swallows were swooping across his pool scooping up the unseen insects hovering inches above the water.  Henry marveled that they never seemed to get in each other’s way.  From the trees they’d make a steep dive to the surface then flatten out over the water.  Once parallel to the ground they would make several jagged turns then shoot straight upward before they hit the edge of the pool.

Henry had the pool installed a couple years ago.  It was one of the few toys he genuinely enjoyed.  His wife convinced him it would be good for the kids.  He reluctantly agreed, but quickly found the stark contrast between the sweltering heat and the cool pool was quite invigorating.  He generally finished each day of work with a quick dip before sitting down to dinner.

Although Henry’s large house was fully paid for, he rely on a home equity loan to install the pool.  He could write a check to cover the loan at any time, but with interest rates as low as they were, it was almost like free money.  Better yet, since his return on investments general outpaced the mortgage rate, it was like someone was paying him to have a pool.  He dutifully made his payment to the bank each month, always tempted to shed the debt with the stroke of a pen, but instead taking advantage of the economics.

Other than the home equity loan and a line of credit through his business, which he rarely used, he had no other loans.  He used credit cards for ease of bookkeeping and collection of air-miles, but never carried a balance.  When he married Karen, he assumed her student loans.  It took them ten years to be paid back.  He vowed to always maintain liquidity.

The first golfer cleared the pond with what looked to be a 270 yard drive to the center of the fairway.  Not bad, he thought.  Henry never golfed, but he’d seen enough good and bad from this tee box to know how to appreciate a nice shot.

His brother-in-law Jeff golfed frequently.  Henry bought his place on the course six years prior at the urging of Jeff.  All homeowners were automatically members of the course through payment of their dues to the Home Owners Association.  Initially Jeff mooched off Henry’s membership, which was his plan.  Ultimately Jeff was able to afford his own place on the course.

Under Henry’s strong guidance, and generous pay, Jeff eventually adopted Henry’s position on money management.  He purchased his home for cash three years prior.  Jeff and Lisa’s place was a few streets over alongside the green on the 12^th hole.

Jeff generally left work each night at 5:30 and drove straight to the club to get in a quick nine holes.  When he got to the 7^th hole, he’d usually send a nice shot over the pond then stop by Henry’s fence to chat with him while he swam.  If a group came up behind Jeff, he’d waive them through while he enjoyed a beer over the fence with his brother-in-law.  The number of groups waived through usually depended on how the day went for both of them.  Bad day?  Several groups and several beers.  There were some days Lisa would end up bringing the kids over for dinner because Jeff never made it past the 7^th hole.

Last night deserved a keg, Henry thought to himself as he sipped his coffee.

The second golfer didn’t quite clear the pond.  Henry watched with interest as the guy sent a second and a third ball into the drink.  Henry knew that once the pond got in a golfer’s head, it was hard to shake.  He’d seen it happen plenty of times.  Instead of sending a fourth into the water, the frustrated golfer shoved his club back in the bag and retreated to the rear of the pack to pout.

Henry continued to drink his coffee, grimacing between sips.  The cup tasted like bitter hot water.  Still, it had caffeine so he decided to power through it.

The third golfer had a nice drive, not quite as far as the first, but respectable.

Henry heard the home phone ring.  He set his coffee on the table next to his chair and walked in through the sliding glass door.  “Hello.” He said cheerily into the receiver.

“Henry, none of our guys want to go down to check things out.” Jeff answered back.

“Where are you?”  Henry queried.

“I’m down at the shop.  Sorry I didn’t get you this morning.  I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“No problem, I slept late.  Drugs and all.” He said, shrugging to Jeff even though the gesture would go unseen.  “So what’s up?”

“Nobody wants to go downtown.  I don’t think I can make anyone, but even if I could, I don’t think it would be a good idea.  It’s still kind of nuts down there.”

Henry heard the shouts of the golfers as the fourth guy sent his into woods. He got a favorable bounce off a tree to the edge of the fairway.  Must be a member, Henry thought to himself.  He turned to walk to his kitchen television.  He turned the set on to his normal 24 hour news network and saw they were still covering the ongoing riot.  “Just turned it on.” He reported to Jeff.

“They’re still going hot and heavy down there.” Jeff filled him in.

Henry watched as the shot changed from the news desk to an aerial view from a chopper.  He watched the screen intently trying to orient himself to the streets.  He could see the seething mob centered at Forsyth and MLK.  Occasionally the camera man would pan north then he’d move a little south.  Henry stared trying to will the camera to look south on Mitchell.  When they finally made it down that far, the building blocked the street.  He could not see his lift or the trailer from their perspective. 

The chopper appeared to head north, and panned back down to the south.  Henry could see the parking lot.  To his amazement, it appeared every vehicle had been torched.  Scanning the lot, he could make out what he thought was likely the shell of his company truck.

Sighing, he told Jeff, “Have Josie call the insurance company.  It’s all gone. And come pick me up.”

“Jeff, could you please have one of the guys clean out 7.  I’m going to need another truck.  I don’t want to drive Karen’s minivan.” Henry said between bites of his sandwich.  The lunchtime crowd at the sports bar hummed, eyes darting from screen to screen to take in the various sports reporters and games from across the globe. 

“Sure.  How are you feeling?”

“In pain.  How do I look?”

“In pain.” Jeff responded.

Henry’s cellphone rang.  He pulled it from his pocket and saw his wife’s name on the caller ID.  Henry looked at his watch.  1:00, she must be in Detroit¸ he thought to himself.  “Hi honey.” He answered.  “Where are you?”

“I’m still in Minneapolis.  There’s a general strike.”

“A what?” Henry asked confused.

“General strike.  An airport strike.”

“In Atlanta?”

“No, here in Minneapolis.  And apparently in Detroit.  I guess in Atlanta too.  It’s all over Henry.”

“So are you delayed?”

“No Henry, the flight is cancelled.  All flights are cancelled.  From what we’ve been told, the only thing they are doing is getting what’s already in the air down and safe.  Then they're shutting things down completely.”

“So when is it going to be over?” He asked.

“They told us our flights are cancelled, that’s it.  I guess we’re on our own.  The workers have left the ticket counters.  What the hell is going on?” The concern in her voice was palpable to her husband at the other end of the line.