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.

Chapter 1

Henry McRoss stood at the edge of the dock, watching the blue-canopied speed boat traverse the far shoreline.  The distant whir of the engine floated back on the breeze.  Occasionally he could catch the high pitched squeals of his daughters.  The boat moved rapidly to the north, then seemed to stop as it turned either toward or away from Henry.  Then back again to the south. 

Other boats crisscrossed the center of the lake.  The boats pulling skiers held their straight-line counterclockwise trek around the shoreline.  Occasionally one sped past Henry on the dock.  Pursuant to the unwritten up-north custom, first the driver then the skier would wave as they passed.  Henry gave the obligatory wave in response.

The tubers zigged and zagged, acting as the primary wave-generators, agitating, but not stopping the skiers.  Like his daughters being pulled behind his father-in-law’s boat, screams of fear and delight trailed behind those boats.

The fishermen were spread thoughout various hotspots on the lake, stoically stationary, frustrating the purpose of the recreational boaters.  Ski hours be damned, the fishing charts told them now was the time.  They’d brave the rough waters of the tubers and the middle fingers of the skiers to land the monster catch.

Henry saw his father-in-law’s boat begin to round the eastern edge of the lake as if it were coming home.  He tapped his foot on the dock impatiently hoping that was the case.  He didn’t want to leave without kissing his girls goodbye. 

His eldest daughter Allison was 10 years old.  She had inherited her father’s dark brown hair, and general risk-aversion.  Gabrielle, on the other hand, inherited her mother’s light complexion, green eyes, and complete lack of any instinct for self-preservation.  Although Gabi was only 8, she happily jumped on the tube at age 5.  Allison, on the other hand wouldn’t even ride on the boat until she was 8.  Only last year had she reluctantly agreed to join Gabi for a slow trip around the lake.  Too tame by Gabi’s standards, but at least it was a start.  This year Allison had graduated to leaving the wake.  Gabi was already making her way up the ladder to become a world class water skier.  With a little help from her Uncle Tom, Henry’s wife was convinced Gabi would be on one ski by the end of their vacation.

Henry’s closely cropped hair was motionless against the breeze.  He stood just taller than six foot, athletic build from his dedication to physical labor.  His daily work activities alleviated any need for working out.  He was sufficiently fit for age 36.  His deep blue eyes, protected by a pair of black wraparound sunglasses, scanned the lake trying to read his father-in-law’s intentions.

Despite the heat, Henry McRoss wore his dark blue collared shop shirt and a pair on neatly pressed khakis.  The shirt bore his company logo, “McRoss” emblazoned in gold on the breast pocket.  He wore a pair of tan work shoes.  Even though Henry was the sole owner and CEO of McRoss, he remained indistinguishable from any other employee, not only in dress, but in duty.

Henry was born and raised in Conneaut, Ohio.  As an only child, Henry exhibited early signs of being an over achiever.  He wasn’t content with the standard lemonade stand.  He brought the show on the road, selling to neighbors door-to-door.  He began working during his freshman year of high school as a bag-boy at the local Krogers.  In the summer between his junior and senior year he took a job on the maintenance crew at the local dock company.  He was well liked by the regulars, but could not understand how to navigate through the union and company politics.  At the beginning of his senior year, he quit the maintenance crew and began freelancing, doing janitorial work for local businesses.   By the end of high school he had earned enough to pay for his first year of college.

He attended Emory University studying business.  While a college student, Henry continued to contract out to area businesses for cleaning and maintenance work.  As a sophomore, he met Karen Keene, a second year nursing student.  Eventually Henry was able to earn his Bachelor’s in Business Administration through Emory’s Goizueta Business School.  He graduated debt free, completing his studies in only three years.

Henry chose to stay with Karen at Emory, working toward his Master’s Degree.  During his first year in the program, he lost his parents to an automobile accident.  While returning from their Florida condo, Henry’s father suffered a heart attack behind the wheel.  Henry’s mother was apparently asleep in the seat next to him.  At least Henry hoped she was.  The car drifted off the road and struck a bridge support, killing both instantly.  Henry’s reaction was to double down on his studies.  He quit his side job and poured himself completely into his school work.

After Karen earned her degree, she began working as an obstetrics nurse at Piedmont Hospital.  A year later Henry completed his graduate program at the top of his class, landing a job in a downtown brokerage firm.  That summer, Karen and Henry were married in her hometown of Appleton, Wisconsin.  Aside from a few mutual college friends, the only person on Henry’s side to attend was his mother’s older brother Alex.

Henry’s career progress through the firm was certainly on track.  He exceed all goals for a young star in the firm.  He impressed his bosses and began to build his own client base.  Despite his successes, he complained to his wife that he didn’t feel like he was doing anything productive.

Henry would never forget the day he quit.  Completely against his personality type, he made the decision during the elevator ride up to his office.  He told his managing partner that although he appreciated the opportunity, the work just wasn’t for him.  The partner stared dumbfounded as Henry shook his hand and left.  He then drove to a Ford dealership in his suburb and traded in his BMW 5 series for a dark blue pick-up truck.  He returned home, enjoyed a beer and waited for his wife to finish her shift.  When she got home, he proudly declared that he was now the boss of his own maintenance company.  He expected to be met with some skepticism.  He did not expect the reaction he actually got.  “You idiot, I’m pregnant!” 

Despite her misgivings, within two years Henry had a solid book of business and three employees.  At the end of his third year he hired Karen’s little sister’s boyfriend who had graduated from the University of Wisconsin and recently completed two tours of duty in Afghanistan.  Within four years Henry was a major competitor in the market with more than 20 employees.  Now, he had 57 hard-working men and women earning a living as a result of his uncharacteristically bold decision a decade prior.

“You ready to hit it?” he heard his brother-in-law Tom ask from the grassy shore.  Tom’s appearance was a significantly more laid back than Henry’s.  He wore a pair of plaid shorts and a white golf shirt.  Tom was slightly taller than Henry, but not nearly in as good of shape.  He had a mop of relatively unkempt dirty blonde hair, and a pair of wire rimmed sunglasses perched on top. 

“Hold on,” Henry said.  “I want to say bye to the girls.  Looks like your dad’s heading in.” 

Tom joined Henry on the edge of the dock.  “It’d be nice, huh?  No work.  Stay up here.  When I was a kid up here, we’d ski rain or shine.  You couldn’t get us out of the water.  I learned to drive that boat when I was ten.  Allison’s ten.  She doesn’t seem ready.”

“No she doesn’t.” Henry paused.  “Gabi might be.  Allison isn’t.”

“You know Henry,”  Tom continued, “when Karen first brought you up here, you used to ski too.  Now, not so much.  Why’s that?  I think your girls would be impressed if they knew what a stud their dad was.” Tom finished, jabbing Henry in the ribs with his elbow.

“Thanks Tom, but I’m getting too old for that.”

“For ‘that’?” he asked with exasperation, gesturing quotation marks on either side of his face.  “For fun?  When you and Karen were in college you were a lot more fun.”

“We’re getting old Tom.”

“You’re getting old.  I’m still young.”  Tom replied with conviction.  “Growing up wrecks everything.”

At 30 years old, Tom was certainly an adult by Henry’s measure.  “Yeah, pretty much everything,” Henry answered.  But he didn’t really think so.  He liked his time with the in-laws, but had difficulty relaxing.  He was too focused on his company.  He enjoyed every ounce of responsibility, every ounce of achievement and fought daily to remain at the top of his field.  From the minute he started his vacation, he was counting down the days until he could return to his crew in Georgia.

Henry and Tom watched the boat make a quick turn north, then east, then south again. “He ain’t coming back any time soon.” Tom observed.  “We’ve got to head out if you’re going to make the flight.”

“Fair enough.  Let’s get going.”  The two men turned to walk up the green lawn leading to the cedar sided house on the western shore of Maiden Lake.  “Karen,” Henry shouted to the house.  “Tom and I are taking off.”

“Hold it,” Henry’s wife shouted back from the screened window of the kitchen.  “Hold it, I’ll be right out.”  She emerged from the porch on the side of the house, meeting Henry and Tom on the brick patio leading to the driveway.  Her sun bleached hair bore witness that she’d spent the last week on the dock, watching her two little girls at play.  Karen McRoss stood about 5’10”, light complexion and slight of build.  She wore a blue one-piece bathing suit with a light wrap tied neatly around her waist. 

“I was just making some sandwiches for the girls.  Stay for one?” She asked.

“I’ve got to get going or I’m not going to make the flight.  Can I have one for the road?”

“Absolutely, hold on.  Tom?” she asked her little brother while retreating to the house.

“No thanks.”

She emerged with two triangles of wheat bread, salami and mustard.  “Here you go.” She said, handing them to her husband.  “Now make sure you get Max by five.  The kennel lady doesn’t allow after hour pick-ups.  Don’t just eat pizza while we’re gone.  And don’t sit up all night watching TV.  The girls go to bed at 7:00, so please be available for webcam before that.”

“Yeah, okay.” Henry dutifully replied to his wife’s list of demands.

“You promised them you’d webcam every night, so please make sure you’re around.”

“Got it.”

“Call me during the day so I know you’re fine.”

“I get busy honey.”

“Let’s go Henry,” Tom chimed in.

“Just call occasionally, or send me a text.”

“I will,” he leaned down to give her a kiss.  She smelled of suntan lotion and salami.

“I don’t know why you can’t take off more than a week.  Jeff is doing fine running the shop.  Besides, he takes off more time than you and he’s your employee.  Last year Jeff and Lisa spent two weeks up here.”

“I need to get back.”

“Mom,” Karen yelled back into the house “didn’t Jeff spend two weeks here last year?”

“Too late Karen, I have to go.  Let’s not fight.”

“He did,” came his mother-in-law’s reply from the kitchen window.  “You should too Henry.  You should spend more time with your girls.  They’re gonna grow up and you’re gonna miss it.”  She scolded from the house.

“Thanks for your advice, mom,” he called back in response.  “Bye now,” he said to his wife.  “Gotta go, mom.” He yelled back at the disembodied voice coming from behind the screen.

“What’d he say?” his mother-in-law called back.

Henry rolled his eyes at his wife.  “Gotta go sweetie.  I’ll talk to you tonight.”

Tom stood with his right foot on the sill of the driver’s side door.  His black Porsche idled while the air conditioning blasted cold air out over the hot driveway.  “Come on Karen, let him go,  I’ve gotta get out of here too.”

Henry picked up his small duffle bag from the patio and walked toward the forward trunk of Tom’s car.  “No room, sorry,” Tom said dismissively then plugged himself into the driver’s seat.  Henry looked back at his wife, shook his head and began the process of cramming himself into the passenger seat, his duffle bag mounted uncomfortably on his lap.

Tom pulled the black sports car into the right drop-off lane stopping at the first set of sliding doors.  “There you go big guy.”

“Thanks Tom.  What have you got on your plate today?”

“Just stopping by the office to see what’s up, golf with my loan officer and dinner with some friends tonight.  Are you flying direct?”

“No, Appleton to Detroit, Detroit to Atlanta.  I’ve got Jeff dropping off a truck at the other end, so I’ll be set.”

“Well, have a good flight man.  I’ll see you in November.”

“What’s November?” Henry querried.

“Anna and I are coming down for Thanksgiving.  If she’s still my girlfriend, that is.”

“What’s up with that?  You guys seemed fine last weekend.”

“Nothing up.  November’s a long way away, you never know.”  Tom was the youngest of the three Keene children; six years younger than Henry’s wife, and four years younger than Lisa.  Despite having a very successful career as a personal injury attorney, he took little else seriously. 

Henry had known Tom since he was a freshman in High School.  Until his current girlfriend, Henry had never known Tom to date a girl longer than six months.  He’d been with Anna for the last three years.  Lisa and Karen had been hounding him to propose, to absolutely no effect.

Upon graduating from law school in Milwaukee, Tom took a job with a small Appleton law firm doing plaintiff personal injury work.  He built up a significant case load and left the firm after two short years.  Since that time he built a decent practice of his own, occasionally dabbling in real estate investment.  His revenues varied wildly from year to year, but he always seemed to be on top.

“Time to grow up Tom.  You’re 30.”

“No thanks Hank.  I’m good,” Tom replied glibly. 

Henry cringed.  He hated that name, only second to his sister in laws pet name for him.  He remembered when Tom was a short awkward acne-covered freshman.  He was a disrespectful smart ass back then too.

Tom leaned over the center console so his brother-in-law could see him through the open passenger door.  He gave Henry a thumbs-up signaling for him to shut the passenger-side door and go away.

Henry shot him a quick smile and slammed the door shut.  Even though he thought his brother-in-law led a fairly frivolous lifestyle, he did envy him on some level.  Without any serious family ties, Tom had the option to devote a lot more time to his career, even though he never did.  Success seemed to come to Tom by happenstance.  Henry had to work very hard for it.  At least that was his impression.  With that sort of time, Henry could focus almost entirely on his business.  Unlike Tom, he’d actually do it.

Henry checked in at the ticket kiosk and made his way to security.  Appleton never had a line for security, and this time was no exception.  Regardless, it was still a hassle.  He fondly remembered a time when security meant a metal detector and carry-on X-ray. 

Once he reached the plane, Henry noted with a great deal of pleasure that there was no one in the seat next to him.  On takeoff he scooted over to the window to watch the farmland get smaller and smaller.  He had flown in and out of Appleton so many times before.  He enjoyed the sight of the ordered streets, the patchwork of farm fields, instantly recognizable highways carrying the travelers through the sparse countryside to the next city.

The plane initially headed to the southwest, then made a sharp turn to the east flying just south of Appleton.  He saw the small city to his left, and Highway 41 on its way north to Green Bay.  He had no idea this was the last time he would ever take in this sight.

On touchdown in Atlanta, Henry pulled his smartphone from his pocket and turned it on.  He noted three texts from his wife, and one from Jeff Grant, his brother-in-law.  He ignored the three from his wife and opened Jeff’s.

“Carl f-ed up the scissor lift.  Window broken.  Client pissed.  Call me.”

“You may now turn on your cellphones.” Henry heard over the PA system.  Oops, he thought to himself.

He hit Jeff’s speed dial and hoped for the best.  “I’m back, what happened?”

“Hey Henry, how was the flight?”

“Fine, what happened?” Henry pressed.

“Carl was doing a pressure wash on that apartment at Mitchell and Spring.  Apparently there is some sort of protest down by the federal building.  He was sort of not paying attention, watching the protest, and he accidently moved the lift forward instead of sideways and he busted one of the apartment windows.”

“Was the tenant home?” Henry asked.

“Yep, freaked out.  Then called the management company.  They said they were going to cancel our contract.”

“Come on Jeff?”

“Don’t worry, I talked the guy down.  I got some plywood up over the window.  I’ve ordered new glass, so we should be good.”

“Then you don’t really need me?”

“Well, initially I thought I would need you to talk to the manager, so I left that message for you.  I did settle that, but there’s another problem.”  Jeff let his words hang on the line for a moment.

“Well?” Henry pushed.

“I thought we would get going on the project again once I sorted the manager, so I left the lift down there.”

“And?” Henry said, almost pleading for Jeff to get it out.

“As we were talking to the manager in the apartment, the crowd from the protest seemed to drift down by us.  They won’t let us take the lift.”

“What do you mean they won’t let you take it?”

“I didn’t feel like pushing things, but in short, there is a crowd of people surrounding the lift and the trailer, and they’re telling us we can’t have our lift back.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m in my truck about three blocks away from the building.  I keep looking down the street to see if they’ve left, but they’re still there.”

Henry checked his watch. Not quite two thirty, I’ve got time to get this done and still get the dog. “Where are you parked, I’ll be right there.”

“The parking lot at Trinity and Spring. We put your truck on the second level of the south deck.  See you in thirty”

As Henry drove into the parking lot off of Trinity Street, he saw Jeff’s dark blue pick-up truck idling on the south edge of the lot.  The name “McRoss” emblazoned in gold on the door.  Henry pulled his matching truck next to Jeff’s.  “It’s down there?” Henry asked, indicating to the dwindling crowd north of the parking lot.

“Yep, just around the corner next to the building.  It’s locked out and I have the key, so they can’t really do anything with it.”

What would they do with it? Henry thought to himself.  “Let me walk down and check it out.  I’ll give you a call.”  Henry parked his truck in an empty space and began the walk up the street.

As he approached, he saw two separate groups of people.  There was a large crowd assembled on to the northwest at the federal courthouse and a smaller crowd near the corner of Mitchell and Spring where his lift was apparently being held hostage.  From his vantage point he could see what appeared to be between one and two hundred people on the courthouse steps, chanting and carrying signs.

At Mitchell and Spring there were only around twenty people.  They appeared to be taking a break from the protest up the street, relaxing in the shade of the apartment building.  As he rounded the corner, he saw his lift, parked parallel to the north side of the building.  The lift was dark blue with his gold logo emblazoned on its side.  A few people were sitting on the edge of the lift smoking cigarettes.  His dark blue trailer sat in a parking space on the south side of the street.  There were four guys sitting on that, leaning on their protest signs and lazily chatting.

As Henry stood on the corner, no one regarded him, or even seemed to notice he was there.  They were all talking amongst themselves.  Henry considered the situation and pondered why Jeff had any difficulty with these guys.  He thought he might be able to ask politely, even ask for their help.  After all, they appeared to have the build of working men.  He looked up the road at the courthouse and considered the possibility that the crowd around the lift might have been larger earlier in the day. 

Before engaging the men at the lift, Henry decided to walk north and survey the situation at the courthouse.  The time was 3:15.  He figured if he could get close enough to the group he could figure out whether the protest was just beginning or coming to an end.   The closer he got, he noted there did not seem to be any focus.  There were no speakers and no one seemed to be leading the chants.  He saw preprinted signs with slogans such as “JUSTICE NOW”, “NO JUSTICE NO PEACE”, and his favorite “EAT THE RICH”.  None of the signs appeared to be handmade.  The protest seemed somewhat manufactured. 

He sighed and continued north, considering the situation as he walked.  He thought again about saying a few polite words to the men, wish them a nice day and carry on with loading the lift onto the trailer.

When he reached the midpoint of the block, he could begin to see east on Martin Luther King Jr. Drive.  There appeared to be larger groups of people coming and going from the east.  He decided to walk to the corner of Spring and MLK to survey the area.  When he reached the corner, he saw thousands of people, in front of the Nunn and MLK federal buildings.  There was a speaker standing on the wall along the street shouting slogans and propaganda into a bullhorn.  The roads remained clear for the most part, but Henry could tell by the flow of people that the tide was rising rather than receding. 

The police presence was nonexistent.  The traffic was thus far winning the territorial battle for the street, but Henry could see the crowd busting at the artificial barrier.  Occasionally a person would pop from the edge of the crowd into the street, then quickly retreat back to safety.  He started his way down MLK to see if he could make sense of the squawking bullhorn. 

As he made his way casually down the block, he noted several groups varying in size from three to ten people walking along the sidewalk with him either toward the large protest at the federal building or away to the smaller demonstration in front of the court house.  They held their signs high, either singing inane revolution songs or simply chatting with each other.  Still, no one seemed to pay any attention to Henry, so he continued.

He got about fifty yards down MLK when he saw the fuse lit.  To Henry, it appeared as if it happened in slow motion.  One brick spit out of the top of the mob on the north side of the street.  It seemed that all of the people around him caught sight of it at exactly the same time.  It appeared to hang in the air longer than gravity should permit.  It was palpable that all eyes traced its trajectory out of the crowd, to its apex over the intersection, through the front window of black minivan waiting to turn left onto Forsyth.

In an instant MLK transformed from a street into a shotgun.  The small crowds walking along side Henry merged together like buckshot rushing down the barrel.  Henry ran to the center of the street to get a better view, initially stopping against the momentum of the firestorm of humanity rushing past him.  He saw the crowd converge on the minivan.  Standing on his tip toes, he saw the crowd yanking the compromised windshield from its frame.  Once free it was tossed haphazardly backwards into the crowd.  Then he saw a man violently yanked from the driver’s seat through the front window, and quickly disappear into the crowd.  He saw the van being rocked back and forth until the side windows eventually gave way.  The van was consumed under the frantic mob.  Occasionally, the mass of humans on the van would contort and shift as if they had were removing and transporting another victim from the van.  It looked to Henry as if the crowd was acting as one organism, digesting its prey.

After pausing briefly, Henry’s first instinct was to run toward the van along with the rabid bunch running alongside him.  He foolishly believed he might be able to help, to bring sense to the situation.  After three steps forward he recognized he could do nothing to stop the mayhem.  He turned on his heels and began running back up MLK to Spring.  When he reached Spring he pulled his cellphone from his pocket and called Jeff.

“What’s the deal?” Jeff answered casually.

“Pull the truck around and get the trailer hooked up.” Henry shouted into the phone.  He was sprinting at full speed. 

Jeff could hear his brother-in-law panting hard.  “Are you running?”

“Don’t go down Forsyth.”  Henry gasped.

“What’s going on Henry?” Jeff pleaded.

“Hurry up Jeff.  I’ll be there in a minute.”  He spat back into the receiver.  Henry hung up and shoved the phone back into his breast pocket, never missing stride.

As Henry ran, he noticed the reaction of the crowd at the Court House and beyond.  Each individual acted like one small part of a malignant virus.  The reaction rippled through the crowd one person at a time.  They would reach for their phones, either in their pockets, purses or backpacks.  They would momentarily look down at the texts or twitter posts.  One by one the disease of ultra-violence spread through the crowd.  They all seemed to mindlessly respond to the electronic call for chaos.

At first they peeled off individually from the courthouse steps and began running up to MLK.  Then larger masses began to move, until a steady flow of hate was moving north on Spring Street.

Henry kept sprinting, weaving his way through the oncoming storm.  On their faces they looked both euphoric and maniacal at the same time.  They appeared to be in a hate-filled trance.  Their objective was at the corner of Martin Luther King Jr. Drive and Forsyth.  Everything in between was distraction.  They ignored the clean-cut man weaving through them against their tidal movement.

When Henry reached Mitchell, he noted that the group of folks at his lift had become smaller.  There were only a few large men loitering nearby.  They were looking at the messages on their phone, but they were not leaving.

Henry stopped dead at the corner and grabbed his knees to catch his breath.  He liked to think he was in fairly good shape, but he’d never been much for sprinting.  His lungs felt like they were on fire.  As he brought himself erect, he placed his hands on his hips, and breathed deeply. 

In response to Henry’s audible gasps for oxygen, a stocky man standing about 5’8” with a shaved head raised his eyes from his phone and looked squarely at Henry.  “McRoss?” the stocky man asked with some grit in his voice.

In response, Henry panted and grabbed his knees again.  He wasn’t exactly sure what the guy had asked him.  Does this guy recognize me? He thought to himself.

“McRoss?” the guy asked again, this time walking toward Henry.

Henry rose again and looked at the man quizzically.  It suddenly dawned on him that he was wearing the dark blue shop shirt with “McRoss” written in gold across his breast pocket.  “Yeah.” Henry said casually, trying to be friendly. “Hey, you guys are in the right place, a riot just broke out on Forsyth.”

“We know.” The stocky man responded, putting his phone in his jeans pocket.  “McRoss isn’t union.” the stocky one said with accusation in his voice.  He wasn’t asking, he knew.

“Um, I don’t think so,” Henry said stupidly, playing off that he was an uninformed cog in the machine rather than the top dog.  As he said it, he saw Jeff round the corner and begin to line the truck up to the trailer.  “Hey guys,” he continued casually, “I’ve got to get this thing out of here.” He said, motioning to the lift.  “Any chance you can help me and my friend here guide it onto the trailer.”  He didn’t actually need any help.  He was merely trying to appeal to the working-stiff mentality.  He knew guys like this.  At least he thought he did.

The group began to move forward toward Henry.  “McRoss is pretty big.”  Said a lanky twenty-something sporting a long straggly goatee and tattoos up both arms.  “You guys do the Conference Center, don’t you?”

“I think.” Henry responded nervously.  His voice trailed off as he thought about what to say next.  “Lot of folks up there by the courthouse.  Any chance you guys could watch my back while we load this thing up?”  Henry turned to his left to see Jeff backing into the spot in front of the trailer.

“No, this is ours.” Said the stocky thug.

“Now look,” Henry began in a measured voice.

“No, you look,” said a 50-something rotund man with red hair and a scraggly beard.  He looked like he wanted to be a biker but was clearly too fat to lift a leg over a cycle.  “We don’t help scabs.”

“Scabs?!” Jeff said with some surprise.  He stomped down on the clasp holding the tongue to the truck hitch.  Once the trailer was secured, he began walking to Henry’s side “There’s no strike on.”  Jeff said cheerily, continuing to approach Henry.  As he did so, the group began to flank Henry on his right, forming a barrier between him and Jeff.  Another heavily tattooed body-builder type positioned himself facing Jeff while the circle began to enclose around Henry.

“Now wait, we’re just trying to get a job done here guys.  We’ve got no beef with you.  I’m feeding a family too.”  Henry said, both arms raised in a conciliatory stance.

“On our bread.” Said one of the thugs from behind Henry.

“If you’re about ready to load this thing, you must have the key.” the stocky thug piped in.

The lanky one added “Yeah, give us the key to our lift and you can get out of here.  We’ll need the trailer too.” He finished with a nasty smile.

Henry hesitated for a moment.  He wasn’t exactly sure how best to extricate himself and Jeff from this hostile group.  As he looked to his left he saw the growing stream of people heading north up Spring.  To his right he saw Forsyth was still open at this block.  He slowly reached into his breast pocket.  They paused to see if he was retrieving the key.  As his cellphone emerged, he felt the first blow to his left temple.  He had no idea what hit him, but everything went black as his body crumpled to the ground.

Please Help

Following is my first attempt at writing.

I would really appreciate input from anyone willing to give it.  Please point out the typos, the grammar issues, and any plot problems or suggestions.  As I get your input I may go back and edit an entry, so this may be a monster that shifts and changes from time to time.  I will try to respond to comments by referencing appropriate edits.  Also, please feel free to share this blog with your friends as I would like as much input as possible.

I work a full time job and have plenty of family responsibilities so there may be some delay as I convert my outline to text, but please bear with me.  In fact, your encouragement and occasional nagging may be some help in spurring me along.

Thanks, and I hope you enjoy it.

Hodge