by Tim Young
“Die, you bitch!” Jesse screamed as the rattler fell limp.
Jesse rushed back toward Shane but tripped on an embedded object at the mouth of the spring. He fell at Shane’s feet. “Goddamnit!” Jesse shouted, looking back to see the rusty metal he had dislodged. “What the hell?”
His mind briefly diverted from Shane’s suffering to the dislodged obstruction. He scraped wet pine needles away and clawed with his fingertips, using one finger to outline a smooth metal surface. Jesse darted his eyes back and forth looking for a stick, as he feared that the forest floor might be alive, slithering. The mountain soughed as the wind whistled through the pines. Jesse’s senses had never been so heightened. His trembling fingers picked up a stick. He used the tip to outline a metal shape that slowly became recognizable as he unearthed over a century’s worth of humus to free the rusty relic.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered. “An old double-barrel shotgun. Son of a bitch! Hey, Shane!”
There was no response, and no response would come. Shane’s chin dug into his chest as his lifeless eyes fixed on the poisoned soil between his legs. Jesse had been seduced by the moment and possessed by his archeological find at precisely the moment that Shane’s life expired.
“Shane!” Jesse shook Shane, snapping his fingers and using his inadequate skills to revive him as he leaned the rusty shotgun against the boulder. “Shane!” There was no response and no pulse. Only a corpse remained that resembled Shane, except that his grotesquely swollen throat made it appear that he had two rotting heads stacked atop his torso.
“I’ll go get help!”
Jesse knew that it was too late to help Shane, but couldn’t believe it. Refused to believe it. He needed to do something, to take action, so he had to move—had to get help. If not for Shane, then for himself. In the midst of 100,000 acres of Rabun County’s undeveloped wilderness, Jesse stood in a state of shock and tried to remember where he was, why he was there, and how he got there. He shook his head as he forced the cobwebs out and looked back through the pine thicket and back to the brambles.
“That’s right,” Jesse said, as if Shane could still hear him. “That’s the way.”
He took off toward the brambles and stopped after thirty yards to look back at the cathedral’s lone landmark. The enormous granite boulder was now adorned with a man leaning against its side, motionless, as if sleeping. Shane Samuel Dixon didn’t appear dead, only slumbering peacefully at the spot where Joshua Dixon’s brother had died so cruelly in 1898 along with his wife and children. Now, Joshua’s great-great grandson lay with them.
Jesse forged ahead. “I gotta get back...I gotta get help,” Jesse said aloud, alone. Shane was no longer there to respond, but Jesse’s inner voice was.
Sure you do, the voice said, but can you find the way?
Chapter 7
Blake stood outside The Olive Twist on Washington Street. He would have preferred a pub or sports bar, just for old times sake, but there was always the outside possibility that someone would recognize him, want to buy him a drink and tell him what a shame it was what had happened. He knew it wouldn’t be likely since he wasn’t topical in Athens anymore, but with glossy black hair and a six-foot, four-inch muscular frame, he might rekindle a memory. That’s not what he wanted. He needed to unwind, alone, and to think. The Olive Twist was a more relaxed, upscale bar, and it would do nicely.
A green canopy channeled visitors into the bar. Blake pulled open the smoked glass door and walked in. He removed his sunglasses and surveyed the room. The lights were dimmed, and the darkness contrasted starkly with the sunlight that had so brightly reflected off the sidewalk. An immense antique mirror covered the wall behind the bar, catching some of the light that filtered through the smoky windows and reflected it to the dark wood floor. An array of leather barstools surrounded a horseshoe-shaped bar. The bartender stood in the center with a TV tuned to ESPN on each side of the bar. Two men sat at the bar nursing drinks and watching neither of the screens. Blake took the last seat on the right side, next to the mirror, directly across from the other TV and several seats away from the men.
“Welcome to The Olive Twist,” the bartender said with a courtesy smile. Not an over the top smile and annoying chatter like you’d get at a chain restaurant. Just casting a line in the water to see how much, or how little, the customer wanted to talk, to open up to the therapeutic bartender.
Blake said nothing.
“What would you like?” she asked, sensing the mood as all good bartenders can. Still, she offered Blake a flirtatious smile as her blue eyes sparked in the sunlight that reflected off a glass jar on the counter. Blake glanced at the jar, which was the main feature on the bar top, a tall jar of Stoli Doli, a concoction of Stolichnaya vodka infused with fresh pineapple that had steeped for a week. He stared at the chunks of pineapple floating in the vodka and thought about the untold number of Stoli hangovers he had suffered from way back when. He turned his gaze back to the bartender.
“Belvedere up with a twist.”
She placed a cocktail napkin in front of Blake, twisting her body ever so slightly as she did. The space between the buttons on her white blouse separated just enough for Blake to catch a glimpse of her right breast. The glistening softness of the image burned into him, commingled with the thought of the Stoli Doli to reignite the passion he used to feel after games in Athens. When he would be on the hunt for soft skin, exotic eyes, and defined curves. In an instant, he caught himself and looked away, but not before the bartender had caught him breaking her horizon. She smiled and left.
“Damn it!” Blake mumbled, shaking his head. “That’s all you need, more trouble.”
Glancing at the clock on the wall, Blake noted that it was 4:40 p.m. He could make it home to Clayton in about an hour and a half and wanted to be home by 7:30 p.m. at the latest. Any later and Angelica might want to talk and ask a lot of questions. Questions that would cause him to snap. Blake began to fume silently as he thought about it. He hated that he snapped at Angelica...at life! He felt like he was losing control. Everything seemed so unfair. So fucking unfair!
The bartender returned with Blake’s martini. He looked up with a weak smile and nodded in thanks. She stood for an uncomfortable second before turning away, Blake’s half-hearted smile dissolving as he stared down into his drink. Blake stirred the martini, not knowing why, but he figured for the same reason he swirled the wine in his glass when dining at a nice restaurant. It wasn’t to release the bouquet or...whatever. It was because that’s what he had seen people do when he watched TV as a child in the housing projects, people like J.R. on the Dallas reruns or Blake and Crystal on Dynasty. People who were rich, who knew what they were doing and who were living the life of luxury that Blake wanted so badly when he was young. So when he got to UGA and was introduced to life beyond his drunken father’s alcohol of choice, Pabst Blue Ribbon, he did what J.R. and James Bond did. He swirled, stirred and mimicked the nuances of successful people.
Swirling the martini, Blake recalled the chicken he had squashed with his truck earlier in the day. He grimaced and felt utter remorse. Damn it, what the hell is wrong with you! The remorse turned to rage as Blake reflected on how quickly he now gave into anger, how truculent he had become. How out of control he felt. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.
The television flashed a series of highlights from the Georgia Bulldogs game earlier in the day, a humiliating home loss to rival South Carolina that dropped the Dawgs’ record to 0-2. “Ouch,” an announcer said. “Just look at this bone-crushing hit Georgia quarterback Buck Welch suffered in the third quarter.” On the screen, a player lay motionless on the turf, surrounded by coaches and trainers. Blake mashed his teeth and was tunnel-visioned into the player’s helmet as if he had taken that hit. His shoulders cringed, and he dropped his eyes to the bar. “Sort of reminds you of that career-ending hit that Blake Savage took several years back,” the announcer said as a picture of Blake flashed on the screen.
> Blake jerked his head to the screen and then looked around to see if anyone took notice. No one cared. He continued stirring his drink counterclockwise and lost himself in the eye of the swirling martini. His mind returned to his days at Rabun County High School, where he had poor grades, a penchant for beer, and one hell of a throwing arm. That throwing arm landed him a football scholarship at UGA and an unheard of starting role as the Bulldogs quarterback in only his sophomore year. Athens went crazy for Blake—“Blakemania,” the media called it, as fans body painted themselves while he led the Bulldogs to a 7-0 start. Then, on a crisp October Saturday, a safety from Vanderbilt shattered both his knee and his collegiate career on a blind-side blitz. In an instant, Blake’s future was ruined. With their hero wounded and evidently quite mortal, the legion of Blake fans faded back onto campus and awaited their next hero. Blake lay in the hospital for twenty-six days, increasingly irrelevant in Athens with each passing moment.
Blake raised his glass, took a long sip, and savored it as he drowned himself in misery.
At first he had just denied the extent of the injury. As the reality set in, he focused his anger squarely on the running back that failed to pick up the block on the safety that put an end to his shot at the NFL. Then the blame shifted to the safety, who later became a first-round draft pick and claimed his fortune with the Baltimore Ravens. Then the doctors and therapists were to blame. Surely it was someone’s fault. Somebody had to be accountable for costing Blake the only future he had planned on.
“I tell you, the Dawgs could sure use someone like Blake Savage these days,” the announcer said. “But, I believe Blake is now residing in the ‘where are they now’ category”. Blake turned his attention back to the screen. He raised his hand at the waitress.
“Hey, do you mind changing the channel?” Blake asked the bartender.
“To what?” she asked with a flirtatious smile.
“Anything,” Blake responded. “News, whatever. Not sports.”
“Not a sports fan, huh? Sure thing. Let’s try CNN.”
His face remained staunch, unchanged, but his mind relaxed and the drink instantly began working its magic. Why the hell do they say alcohol is a depressant? Damn it feels so good, Blake thought to himself. He didn’t understand such notions too well, never was interested in learning about it in school or in life. Learning wasn’t his thing. Getting to the NFL was...had been. Now, he wasn’t sure what his thing was. He just stared at a crossroad every day doing what he did the day before, all the while digging himself a little deeper into a depression.
He took another sip of the martini and peered at CNN. Most of the time, he wouldn’t have been able to hear it with all the bar chatter, but before 5:00 p.m. on a Saturday game day when most people were in sports bars, it was quiet enough, as Blake was fond of saying, “to hear a mouse pissing on cotton.” Normally Blake couldn’t care less about the news, other than ESPN, but the headline caught Blake’s attention.
The graphic below a talking head read, “Secret Supper Clubs All The Rage,” and Blake tuned in. A reporter said underground dinner clubs were the hottest ticket in major cities across the country. As she spoke, video footage played of private residences where hot and trendy chefs served up unlicensed five-star dinners complete with wine pairings. She said sometimes the dinners were held in warehouses, on farms and anywhere in between. It was all secret until it was announced a day or two before the event. There was no menu and no charge, according to the report. Had the chefs charged for the meal then it would be classified as a restaurant and would require a license, health permit, the works. Instead, the chefs suggested “donations” as well as an amount, usually one hundred dollars a person or more. No one ever dared to refuse the suggested donation.
“Can you believe that?” one man at the bar said to another, after both had turned their attention to the news.
The segment broke to a live interview with a retired, married couple, Kevin and Monica Colbert, of Sutton, Massachusetts from CNN’s Boston studio. They looked like the “after” picture shots for a Charles Schwab commercial. Fit, gray, dressed sharply and now enjoying their success, just like the fairy tale ending promised to those who invest and save.
“We go anytime we can get in,” Monica responded to the CNN reporter when asked if they attended the “secret” clubs. “Of course it’s hard to get in. We never know where it’s going to be until an email invite shows up giving the time that reservations can be made, but there’s only room for thirty per dinner,” she continued. “Most of time we can’t get in even though we click right when it opens. We even synchronize our clocks with time dot gov just to be sure we’re on time!” she added.
“Heck, we’d pay to be on the short list if there was one,” Kevin blurted before the talking head could ask the next question. Exactly, Blake thought. Don’t worry; Nick will take your money with 50-Forks if you want in.
The second man at the bar responded to the other man’s question. “I not only believe it, I’ve been to one of those secret dinners! Right here in Athens, a secret dining club...well, it isn’t really a secret. I mean they have a website and all, but you know, there’s no schedule and you just get an email the week of the event, sign up on a Friday and if you get in the dinner’s the next night inside someone’s home,” he said. “Four course dinner and everything! But that’s IF you get in.”
The CNN segment switched from the Colberts back to the talking head where the caption now read “Food Safety Questions.”
“Joining us now from The Southern Nevada Health District is inspector Tom Masterson,” the reporter said, “and from the Food Safety Inspection Service in Atlanta, Senior Compliance Investigator Clint Justice.” An image of the guests appeared on each side of the talking head as the screen split into three sections. In a live interview, the reporter asked Mr. Masterson if these impromptu dinners were safe.
“Well, we just don’t know. If it’s a private event for friends and family there’s no requirement to regulate, but the minute strangers attend or are invited we believe they should be regulated. But they’re not, and if they’re not regulated then we don’t know where they get the food, or whether it’s properly labeled, stored, inspected, or handled.”
“Who is responsible for regulating these dinners?” the talking head demanded.
The health inspector repositioned himself in his seat and went on a rampage about local health departments, the USDA and the FDA, but the talking head summed it up best.
“So, no one inspects these dinners?” she asked the inspector directly.
“No, not exactly,” he confessed.
“What about that, Clint,” the reporter began, “does the USDA or FSIS inspect these dinners?”
“Well, that’s not part of the USDA’s jurisdiction. That’s really a local health department issue. The Food Safety Inspection Service, or FSIS, ensures the safety of meat, poultry, and egg products. Our aim is to monitor inspections and require that all food items pass inspection with the resources we have.”
“Resources you have?” the reporter asked.
Clint stared at the camera and said nothing.
“Can you elaborate on that, Clint?”
Clint shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Silos. That’s what Clint called them, silos. Every entity to itself, no one working together. But he had been coached on what to say and what NOT to say so he measured his response.
“Well,” Clint began, “it’s just that we have our job at FSIS, which is ensuring meat is inspected at the federal level. Of course, each state can also oversee inspection for meats that don’t cross state lines. But FSIS doesn’t deal with the restaurants or supper clubs. The local health departments oversee that.”
“What about the FDA?” the talking head asked.
“The FDA deals with product labeling, fruit and vegetables. They don’t actually inspect dairy farms, the states do that. But, then again, the FDA must verify that they comply with regulations...does that make sense?” Clint sto
pped talking and held his best smile, which on camera looked like a perfectly straight line across his lips. Different people, different standards, different agencies, different objectives, no communication. Silos, Clint thought to himself as his face began to redden.
The producers switched to a split screen with the talking head on one side and the Colberts on the other. Monica was smiling at the camera as if she had been coached or had made a point to Kevin that we must be sure to smile all the time because we won’t know when the camera is on.
“Mrs. Colbert,” the reporter asked. “What do you think about the fact that neither the food nor the dining establishment is regulated and hasn’t been inspected?”
“We trust the chefs,” she replied. There was a moment of silence. Kevin’s eyes darted around, seemingly unsure where to focus. Monica concluded that she hadn’t said enough and added, “They’re all James Beard award-winning chefs, you know.”
The men at the bar looked at one another. “Who the hell is James Beard?”
The talking head seemed a little surprised by how lax Monica was about food safety concerns. She pressed harder.
“But—you don’t know where the vegetables, dairy or meat came from? What if the milk is raw and not pasteurized? What if the meat wasn’t inspected? What if wild mushrooms weren’t properly identified?”
Kevin started to speak, but Monica leaned forward, signaling to Kevin that this was an opportunity for him to sit back and listen. “We all...everyone who goes to these dinners knows that stuff. That’s part of the intrigue, that the chefs can use whatever they want, that they’re not so restricted. One of the best dinners we went to featured Beluga sturgeon caviar and exotic truffles that you can’t legally get here. The chef smuggled them over from France in some diapers that he—” Monica stopped as she realized that her mouth had sped ahead of her mind.
