The Food Bank - a short story by allan hudson

Welcome to the "Scribbler

I had an opportunity once to visit a food bank to drop off a donation one time and the experience inspired a story. I posted this previously on the Scribbler in 2014 and I thought it might be time to re-post for your entertainment.

The "Food Bank" was originally published on commuterlit.com, as well as in the limited edition of SHORTS, Vol 3. It will be featured in an upcoming collection of short stories titled "Boxes of Memories", due for publication in the fall of 2018.

This is a comment left by a faithful reader.

 Our storyteller, the maintenance worker, craftily draws his readers through the doors of the food bank. Once inside, we cannot help but feel the author’s varying emotions. And we soon discover his deep compassion towards the less fortunate members of our society. It makes for a good read. Very poignant, specially during this holiday season of festivities, excess and abundance.

(Paul Chiasson)

The Food Bank

Food is a necessary staple of everyone’s life. Because of that I toss my loose change in an old cookie jar daily, a bust of Woody Woodpecker I bought in a yard sale, sans cover. Stationed on my night table by the lamp he faces the closet; the ceramic peeping-tom watches me change my clothes all the time. At the end of each month, he and I probably save up sixteen to twenty dollars. Whoopee! But today is cause for celebration; I counted this month’s take after breakfast and found a couple of misplaced toonies for an all time high of $23.44. I am elated. There will be eight more Mr. Noodles to dole out.

Today’s my day off, Wednesday, the end of January only one day away. My to-do list lying on the kitchen table nags at me, do these, do that, do this, do that, but I grab the pencil sitting next to it and tick off number one, “Donation time!!!!” The Maritime Megamart with over two acres of supreme shopping pleasure is where I’m headed. It’s not far so I decide to walk. I retrieve my wool pea jacket from the closet, gloves from the basket on the upper shelf, boots from the rack. Just before I’m ready to leave, I remember the frosty abstract art on my bedroom window. It’s likely colder than it looks I think, deciding to use a scarf. A Tip Top Tailors suit hanger holds a bevy of colored wraps, snaked about each other; the brightest and flowered ones belong to my wife. I opt for my favorite grey and black checkered one pulling it from the tangled mess. When I do so, a beige scarf falls to the floor.

I’d almost forgotten about it. It belongs to my son. It’s thick and dotted with flecks of dark brown, if it was stretched open it would read, “Burton” in orange letters. He won a bunch of gear in a snowboarding competition four winters ago. There had been two identical scarves, he gave one to me. I don’t know where mine is now, I gave it away. The memory it evokes is forceful and gives me shivers; the irony of finding it today causes bumps about my flesh. I have to sit down, my mind races with the memory of my first and only visit to the Food Bank. It was the end of January three years ago that this ritual began.

I work in the maintenance department at the Jollywell Hospital. Every year since I’ve been there, our department puts out bins in the lunchroom at the first of December to be filled with non perishable food items. Not for Christmas as our supervisor explained, every one gives for Christmas, we would give ours in January when it was needed more, made sense to me. Someone taped a loose leaf to the side of one bin. It was a bit crooked with nicely shaped letters from a black marker, “For the Homeless and Hungry.” The bold lines were a revelation for me, I’d never been hungry; as my ample girth would suggest because I’m a bit overweight. I bought more. I even volunteered to deliver the bins. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.

Manoeuvring four overloaded blue receptacles into my Ford wagon early one Saturday morning around eight, I set out with the elation of doing a good deed, of representing my co-workers, of benevolence. It took me some time to find the building, it wasn’t well marked, which seemed odd at first but I realized a fancy sign wasn’t important. The main building ran parallel to the street, curved sheets of corrugated steel formed walls and ceiling, crusted snow lie in some troughs, the virgin white softening the dull galvanized grey. A smudged and dented garage door about twelve feet wide on the left faces the road, the entryway of patched asphalt is neatly shoveled free of snow and ice. A cleared walkway leads to an extension, an add-on with a gable end facing the street, it looks like a store front except it has no window, only a dark green door, a lighted doorbell the shape of an angel, black four-inch high digits that said 41 and a white sign the size of a license plate, which I couldn’t read from the driveway but I knew it said The House of Plenty.

I backed my car up to the building, off to one side. There were neither windows nor any sign of entrance around the garage door; the whole building had an air of anonymity. I saw a few cars, older models, parked in front along the street. Two men, separate from each other, were on the other side of the roadway having a smoke. A shopping cart from a local grocer stood alone near the walkway entrance, it was rusted in spots, had a missing front wheel. I could see that it contained mostly returnables, some poor man’s daily wages I thought. 

It dimmed my mood just a bit. I lifted the lightest of the bins from the back seat and headed for the entrance of uninviting green.

The door squeaked a little as I opened it, an early warning system maybe. I pushed my way in with my rump, carrying the bin to enter a dimly lit room. Directly in front of me, six feet away, was a wall extending ten feet to the right. The balance of the room stretched out towards the rear for about twenty feet where there were people waiting. The only thing that matched the low wattage of the bare overhead bulbs was the look on the faces I encountered. It was too quiet. My good cheer vanished like the rabbit in the hat. I rudely stared at the small crowd, my curiosity so intense when I realized these people were here for food. I had come in the wrong door.

The area made an attempt to be bright; white benches along two walls, dark brown fabric padding the seats, the pale blue walls too institutional for me. The temperature was just below comfortable; no one took off their jackets. A faint scent of Lysol was the only welcoming feature. No one spoke, most were just studying me. I wondered what they must be thinking; am I some kind of saviour, am I just a good guy or maybe they resent that I can give, instead of ask for, I can’t tell. None of the expressions change. The only sound was when some of the standing in the back shuffled and a floorboard squeaked.

My eyes focused on a woman at the front of the bench closest to me. She was bundled in a pink ski jacket decorated with long use. Her disappointed face was wrapped with a white scarf in stark contrast to her coat because of its newness. Perched on her lap of tight jeans was a small girl of perhaps four whose hooded coat was neat and pink also. The child’s head rested on her mother’s breast, her little body, only clad in faded jeans and sneakers, shivered slightly in the coolness of the room. I had to look away, it was too sad. I quickly eyeballed the remaining patrons.

They‘re about equal of both genders, more middle-aged than young, all of them too thin. I recognized the older man that sits in the back on the floor; I’d seen him many times downtown trying to be polite as he asked strangers for some change. He wraps his many coated arms about his drawn up knees. Four or five plastic bags squat at his feet like trained pets, probably everything he owns. His head and beard are grizzly grey, unkempt and stringy. I have no idea how old he is nor his name. I doubt he’s going to be able to carry away much when I realize he’s here for the warmth, it’s a line up he won’t get thrown out of.

The two young men that sit on the bench to my right, I can only think of them as punks, are out of place; like that joke about an NAACP tee shirt at a Klan gathering. Open jackets reveal tattoos on their necks. The flames and trident’s make me suspect they’ve been in jail. They stare at the floor. I try not to judge them but with both wearing new clothes, I want to throw them out.

Farther along the same bench sits an elderly woman. When I meet her eyes she haughtily turns them away. Her cheeks are too red from an abundance of blush, the rouge unable to brighten the pale, creased skin. A burgundy pillbox hat like the one Jackie Kennedy used to wear, is pinned neatly to her head. A luxurious fur coat bundles her slight torso. She wears black silky gloves with gemstones crested upon the back. Hat and coat are about fifty years old from my best estimate, the gloves, I’m not sure but they’re shabby too. She lifts her chin. I’m struck by the pride I witness in her bearing. I understand what the posture means; the neat, aging costume tells me she wasn’t always poor.

I try and focus on my mission; this wavering of feelings is unsettling. Setting the container on the floor I address a man that stands to my left in the corner. He’s chest level with a sliding panel that looks about twenty inches high and three feet wide on the wall in front of me. I try on my best smile.

“Where would I take this... this bin?”

I feel guilty somehow about saying food or donation.

The man was bearded and wore workman’s clothes, clean but worn. His somber face seemed kind as he nodded the peak of his John Deere hat at the buzzer to the left of the sliding door. It was unlit and painted the same blue as the wall, playing find me if you can, I hadn’t noticed it.

“Thanks” I said and thumbed the switch. I had to wait a few minutes. I’m usually a talker in a crowd but there didn’t seem anything proper to say; people didn’t come here to meet people. My thinking was disturbed by the cautious opening of the white colored panel. I was confounded by the image it exposed; so much that I didn’t respond to the opener’s presence or request. The portal was like a television set in the wall, the scene so different to the room that I was in. It was brightly lit with shelves of various cans, boxes and bags of food along the walls I could see. People were scurrying about with armfuls of items, others sorting them on tables. They were joking and laughing. I looked quickly around embarrassed at first by the sounds of merriment next door but then I thought, why not? I guessed that these workers are volunteers, people unselfish of their time; they’re not hungry so why shouldn’t they be content. It just seemed so odd, the imbalance of emotions, the uneven see-saw of have and have-nots. My amazement was shorted when a loud voice suggested.

“We’ll only be open at ten.”

I was momentarily taken aback thinking he mistook me for a requester. I frowned at the older man; he was bald with white fringes overlapping his small ears. Round silver framed glasses were stuck on the end of his nose. He had a silver bushy moustache. He lifted his matching brows in question. I pointed to the container at my feet.

“I have some bins from the Jollymore, where would you like me to take them.”

His can’t-you-see-I’m-busy attitude changed with a thankful smile smoothing out the man’s long face.

“Go out to the garage door and give it a good thump or two and someone back there will help you.”

The cover slid back smartly, I was back in the gloom. As I was bending my knees to pick up the bin, the toes of the little girl’s shaking feet I see in my peripheral vision disturbs my concentration. I look up at the trembling child. The voice is frail but flowery.

“Can we go home soon, I’m cold Mommy”

The woman opens her jacket and folds the ends about the little girl. She doesn’t speak words of comfort, perhaps there are none? I’m acutely aware of the bundle of wool and polyester around my neck with a flash of the dozens more at home. It suddenly weighs a hundred pounds. My son just gave it to me. I decided he’d understand, knowing him, he’d do the same thing. Unwrapping the scarf from my head I step towards the woman. She watches me as I extend my hand while pointing at the wrap with my other. She reddens as she looks me in the eyes. I only see uncertainty, nothing to do with the scarf. She accepts my gift to hastily twist it about her daughter’s lower body.

The other people are watching us and I begin to blush. I want to escape so I don’t wait for acknowledgment. Hurrying to my bin, a stranger conveniently opens the door to enter. I quickly dart around the man as he shuffles in. Before the door clunks shut I hear,

“Thank you Mister”

The sincerity of her platitude waifs like warm breath in the nippy air, floating, lingering for only a moment. My neck is cold. Her words fill my heart. Pinpricks flourish along my neck and spine as I think of the crew indoors, the hungry, misplaced and the lonely. I vowed then to feed as many people that my skinny budget would allow. I would never volunteer to deliver the bins again.

The End.

I hope you enjoyed this tale. Thanks for visiting the Scribbler. Please leave a comment below, would love to hear your thoughts.

If you have a chance, drop something off at your food bank.

An excerpt from The Alexanders - 1916.

The Alexander's - The First Decade, is 85% complete. So far I've spent the last two years writing this story; a morning here, an afternoon there, whenever I can and I love it!

I'm happy to share parts of the story with you as it progresses and look forward to your comments.

I've shared several sections already and you can find them by doing a search on the left sidebar in Search This Blog. Type in Alexanders and they will all come up. 

Dominic Alexander makes a new life for himself when he immigrates to Canada, to Moncton in New Brunswick . Everything has been going smooth until 1916 when Dominic suffers his first set back.

1916

The fifth day of March is overcast. Sprinkled across the belligerent blue of the skies are clouds stretched thin by shifting winds and they yellow from the promise of sun. Snow clings to the edges of buildings and lies brown and crusty in the ditches knowing it’s no longer wanted. Last year’s stubble of brown grass is visible and people talk of an early spring. The air carries an odd scent, seasoned by the surrounding industry of railways and a busy river and the warming earth. Dominic can smell it when a cool breeze ventures through the open window that brings with it the morning whistle at the repair yards reminding everyone that it’s 8 a.m. This is the only day he sleeps late. He loves his new home and ponders for a moment of how fortunate he is.

Stretching and tossing the bed covers aside, he sits at the edge of the bed rubbing the night from his eyes to gaze out his window. He’d hoped it would’ve been nice today but he gathers that the skies look mean and it might rain. That’d be okay too, get rid of the last of the stubborn snow. Either way, he’s off today, Sunday being the only time he gets to himself. He has plenty to do with the business but he keeps this day to himself to do whatever he wants. The only plans he has right now is to fry the rest of the ham that Nick’s mother sent him and fry some eggs with fresh bread from Bailey’s Bakery. While he’s eating, he’s going to paste in the last five entries to his scrapbook he collected since the beginning of the year.

When he washes up and shaves, he decides to grow a moustache. He likes the way the stubble looks under his nose while imagining it thicker. Freshly polished, dressed in his every day dungarees and brown flannel shirt, he sits with a plate of steaming vittles at the table where he’s left his open scrap book and loose cut outs. While he chews between bites, he dabs some glue on the newspapers sections and pastes them in on different pages.

The Yankees buy Frank “Home Run” Baker from the Athletics for $37,500. Canada’s original Parliament Building in Ottawa burns down. The first bombing of Paris by German Zeppelins takes place. Military conscription begins in Britain. Germany begins to attack ships in the Atlantic.

While he dabs the bread crust in the molten yolk on his plate, he considers the last news story. Ships being sunk in the Atlantic. It must be scary to travel cross the waters that are rife with U-boats. He’s glad he has no need to travel although he yearns at times to return to see his family and friends. It’s not as often now but missing everyone remains as intense. Popping the last bite into his mouth, he closes the scrapbook and finishes his tea. He pushes his plate aside and elbows the table while holding his mug in both hands. He stares across at the window in the kitchen to see the barren field next to his house and the Ingersoll’s farm in the distance. There is activity in the yard and he expects the family are getting ready to drive into the city to attend church. Reflecting upon his own spirituality, he feels that he should be attending church too. He knows they go St. Bernard’s Catholic Church on Botsford Street and even though his family are Protestants, he might visit one day, but not today.

Thinking of what he might do, he decides to work on his latest sketch of his new home he’s doing to send to Gloria. Now that he thinks of her, he hasn’t had a letter from her for quite a while. He answered her last one in February and she is usually quick to respond. He guesses she is busy at school and helping her parents at home or at the bar. One thing he must do is compose an ad for the Transcript to find someone to help in his shop. Part time for now at least. In fact, he’ll do that first.

He cleans up his dishes and the frying pan and puts everything away. Digging a notepad from a drawer in the kitchen and a pencil, he returns to the table to write the ad. While he thinks of the right words, he’s pushing the hair out of his eyes reminding him he needs a haircut soon. Twenty minutes later after a few attempts he comes up with what he feels is the right wording.

Help wanted. Alexander’s Jewellery Repair is looking for a part-time assistant to assist with the public. Must have retail or office experience. Please apply in person before March 15^th.

Satisfied, he sets the papers aside. He will take it to the newspaper offices tomorrow during his lunch. He will leave a sign on the door for when he will be back. Donning a light jacket and his boots, he ventures out to the barn where he has set up an area for his sketching. He and Nick have installed a wood stove in the main floor where the hay was kept and he will light a small fire because even though the weather has been milder, it’s early March and the air still holds a chill.

Entering through the man door, set in the larger door, he walks into a wide common main level, open to the top lofts and enclosed by wooden walls on each side. Nick and Dave Ingersoll hauled old hay and debris from inside by the wagon full and the place is spotless. The rooms to the left are the old stables and storage, which Dominic has left for the same purposes. The rooms on the right are where the carpenter keeps his things in one and the other two are empty. Five feet from the back wall is a pot-bellied stove, sitting on a metal plate which rests upon a wooden floor comprised of heavy beams on their narrow side, strong as steel. Along the back wall away from the stove is a pile of split wood and sawmill tailings. Using old sections from newspapers, he soon has the dry wood ablaze.

He’s tired when he finishes the sketch. Only stopping for a quick sandwich at noon and a couple of short breaks he’s been at it all afternoon. From the two windows in the back wall, he’s noticed the faint light move shadows across the floor as the day passes and he knows it is close to supper time, his growling stomach is telling him the same thing. Putting away his pencils and things, he stops to admire the drawing. From the perspective of standing at the end of the driveway, the house is finely detailed as in reality, each shingle is meticulously placed, the flowers of summer decorating the base of the porch, the small sign by the door, the sparkle of the bevelled glass on the windows. The barn is half visible behind from this angle but the detail is the same. The edges of the picture fades out to empty fields. He likes it. He straightens out a few thing on the old desk he uses and remembers the stove. Thinking to check on it, he opens the iron door when a gnarled knot in one of the wood pieces boils inside with sap and when it becomes steam it bursts, shooting sparks out upon the metal plate. It startles Dominic who has jumped back from the stove. Seeing the sparks on the floor, he starts stamping them out with the sole of his boot. There’s a half a dozen pieces smouldering and they are soon extinguished by the stomping. Dominic is sweating from the scare. Looking around to see lf he got them all, there is no sign of any more errant embers. He closes the stove door, takes his sketch and leaves.

There is one spark he missed. The one that rolled off the edge of the metal plate and lodged in a crack between two beams. It fell on its dark side, it went unseen. The glowing portion, however, is turned downward. As hard as the men worked to clean the floor, there is still remnants of old hay that has been pressed through the cracks over the decades. The hot ember finds some and there’s soon a gathering of flame and dry wood. Dominic’s barn catches fire. 

I'm aiming for a 2019 publication of my historical fiction novel. I hope you'll want to read more. Thanks for visiting the Scribbler. 

If you haven't read Wall of War yet and met Dominic's grandson in 2014, it's available on Amazon. Hard copies available from me. $25.00 plus shipping.

The Ship Breakers - a short story by allan hudson

This story received Honourable Mention in the Writers Federation of New Brunswick's short story competition a few years ago. It has been published in SHORTS Vol.1 (a limited edition printing). on commuterlit.com and will be featured in the upcoming short story collection - Boxes of Memories - to be published in the fall of 2018.


Ship Breaking has to be one of the most difficult jobs in the world. There are three major ship breaking yards in the world. One of them is in Chittagong, Bangladesh. Injuries and death are always around the corner and yet, there is a line up for the jobs.

I was inspired to write a short story based on my research of the yards for my novel, Dark Side of a Promise.

The Ship Breakers

The Neptune Giant is a VLCC, a very large crude carrier. When it was completed in 1979, it ranked among the largest oil tankers in the world. From bow to stern, 75 Cadillacs could park bumper to bumper. The crews used bicycles to travel the elongated deck. With a beam of nearly two hundred feet, five bungalows could be placed lengthwise side by side across the deck; her keel is six stories underwater. The raw steel is covered with over fifteen hundred gallons of paint. She’d been given a lifespan of thirty years; instead, she had sailed every ocean of the world, berthed at every continent, rode many storm’s fierce waves and trolled the endless seas for thirty-five years. Today is her final voyage.

Her last port of call, two weeks ago, was Saint John, New Brunswick, with two million barrels of Venezuelan crude. Now, the tanker cruises the Bay of Bengal at fourteen knots. At that speed she requires five miles to come to a dead stop. The ship breaking yards of Chittagong, Bangladesh, are only four miles away. The captain brings the ship to starboard, aiming the aging tanker directly at the muddy beach. The tide is high, which is necessary to allow the gargantuan machine to ground itself like an aged sea lion, as near to the shore as possible, where it will die.

The engine that powers the ship is eighty-nine feet long and forty-four feet wide with twelve massive cylinders – one of the largest engines in the world. It weighs two thousand metric tons costing more than the rest of the transport. Its thirst for fuel demands over fifteen hundred gallons of crude every hour. Its last chore will be to power the vessel onto the tidal mud banks, where humans who are dwarfed by its immensity will eventually take it apart, by hand, piece by piece. The work is extremely dangerous, with an exceptionally high mortality rate, and yet there is no shortage of men.

Of the approximately 45,000 ocean-going vessels in the world, about seven hundred per year are taken out of service for dismantling. Many go to Alang, India, the world’s largest ship breaking yard, or to Gadani, Pakistan, the third largest after Chittagong. Where the ships go, the jobs go. As difficult as the work may be, ship breaking is part of the momentum powering the economy of a young Bangladesh. The owners of this particular ship-breaking yard paid three million dollars for the Neptune Giant. 

     With torches, sledgehammers, steel wedges, brute force and painstaking drudgery, it will take six months to dismantle the ship; one man will die and two men will be injured by a thousand pound slab of steel cut from the behemoth’s hide. It will net the owner millions more than he paid when he sells the scrap metal and he will provide no compensation for men that can’t work. They toil fourteen hours a day, with two half hour breaks and an hour for lunch, six and a half days a week. The men will eat their supper when their work shift ends. At least one quarter of the workers are illiterate; one quarter are children. The average wage is $1.25 per day.

*

Azhar Uddin is gently woken by his father. It’s 4:30 a.m.

“Come, my little man, you must join your brother at the table. You must leave for work soon. Come now.”

Hafiz Uddin turns from his son, supporting himself with his only arm grasped upon a homemade crutch; the other arm is buried beneath the muddy beaches where he once toiled, severed by falling steel at the same crippling yards where he now sends his two sons. He wobbles even with his lopsided support; the left knee and lower leg, the same side as the missing arm, were wrecked in the accident also. Unable to find meaningful work with only a single hand, one strong leg and a defeated spirit, he remains dependent upon his male children: Nur is fourteen; Azhar will be thirteen next week. Because they are exceptional workers, they earn two hundred and sixty takas a day, just over three dollars.

Rising slowly, Azhar sits up on the side of the bed and rubs his shoulder. The dull ache in his muscle reminds him of the steel pipes he helped carry all day. Long straight bangs of the fiercest black hang over his narrow forehead. His brown boyish skin is smooth and untroubled, not yet marked by the lines of struggle. A slight dimple on the end of his nose balances the squareness of his jaw. The man’s work he does has not taken the childish shine from his eyes. Blinking the sleepy fog from his brow, he rises to find his work clothes neatly folded at the foot of his bed. His father washed and hung them to dry before he retired for the night, as he would have done for Azhar’s older brother, Nur, also. There are no women in the house.

Azhar slips on his red and blue striped shirt, the collar and cuffs worn thin bearing unravelled threads. Wrapping a green and yellow lungi around his slim hips, he ties a double pretzel knot to keep it secure. He often wishes for trousers to protect his legs, but they would be too hot for work, and he knows there is no money for such luxuries. Every spare taka is sent to his mother, Naju, in Dhaka. He ponders a moment, thinking of her and his sisters. Rayhana is eleven and works with his mother; and Tasleema is six. He hasn’t seen them for over four months. It is for Tasleema that they all work and save whatever is possible so that she can go to school. As he thinks of her glowing eyes and tiny face, he remembers her promise.

“When we are together again, Azhar, I will teach you to read.”

The thought causes him to bend down to retrieve the tattered comic book from under his bed. In the dim light of the bare bulb from the kitchen, he scans the torn cover. The masked man with the flowing cape, he knows, is called Batman. One of his first jobs when he was only ten was to retrieve any usable items from the grounded ships that could be sold to the recyclers: rolls of unused toilet paper, cleaning supplies, pots and pans, furniture, bedding, tools, discarded books, coastal maps, light bulbs, cans of paint, rope, wire. The comic book had been in a waste basket; it was torn and thick with many readings. Azhar had seen other comics before, but he wondered where this one came from and how far it had travelled when he found it. His boss Mojnu told him to keep it, otherwise it was being tossed out. He was always impressed by the colored pages, the photos of cars, tall buildings, fancy clothes, fight scenes, smiles and scowls – and he longed to know what the squiggly words mean. More than anything, he wants to read.

Tossing the book under the bed once more, he tugs the frugal sheets into place neatly, as his father expects, before joining his brother at the table. Their home is corrugated metal divided into two rooms with few possessions, its shape a replica of the many shanties lining the dirt street where he lives. Theirs is different because their father keeps it clean. The walls are painted a bright blue inside and out; their roof doesn’t leak when it rains.

The smell of oatmeal greets him as it drifts from the boiling pot his father is bent over, stirring, on the Bondhu Chula, a cook stove. Oatmeal for breakfast is not common in their home or their neighbors’ for that matter. Most breakfasts are rice, sometimes with red or green chillies. Or paratha, a pan fried unleavened flat bread. Yesterday Old Angus Macdonald, the burly Scotsman who visited them sometimes, had dropped off a bag of rolled oats. They have no idea where he lives or where he comes from. They only know him from the story their father has told them. 

The man was almost seventy when he commanded the Atlantic Pride, one of Canada’s largest ferries, to the yards in Chittagong when it was retired four years ago. He stepped onto shore after he grounded the ship and he never left. When the torches cut a section of aged steel from the nose of that very ship, a huge chunk crashed to the ground beside Hafiz, pinning his arm to the sand and breaking his leg. Had the piece fallen several inches to the left, Hafiz would`ve died. Maybe that was why the elderly man stopped by once in a while with a bag of oats or some other staples and a few taka notes. He never stayed long, spoke very little Bengali. Always laughing, always a mystery.

Nur sits in front of a dish of flatbread, resting on a makeshift table, which is a piece of discarded plywood his father has sanded, painted and polished. It’s the same teal that decorates the home, the same teal Hafiz got for free. Nur looks up with his usual wide grin.

“Good morning, little brother. Will you be having paratha or paratha for your meals today?”

Hafiz has his back to his boys, cooking their breakfast. He doesn’t turn around when he scolds his oldest son.

 “Be thankful you have food, Nur. There are neighbors who may not have any today, or tomorrow. Don’t make fun. And Azhar, wash up, do your morning duties, and hurry. This is almost done.”

Both boys answer in unison, “Yes, Baba.”

The man that owns the property their home sits on is the same individual who owns the breaking yard the boys work at. Not totally without empathy, he provides running water and outhouses. Perhaps it is benevolence that has him supply these accommodations; it’s also his desire that his employees should be healthy so they don’t miss work. Hence the covered latrines and cold, life-giving Adam’s ale. Azhar goes to the sideboard, where water heated by his father steams from an old porcelain basin that is storied with nicks and scratches. He washes the sleep from his face, tames the cowlicks on his head, before taking the bowl outdoors to discard the soapy residue. Setting it on the doorstep, he rushes to the outhouse to complete his morning ritual. Returning to the kitchen, he finds Nur bent over a smoking bowl of hot porridge with the grandest of smiles.

“Azhar, we have brown sugar this morning. Our Baba is good to us.”

Hafiz sits at the opposite end of the table, his own porridge barren of anything sweet. There is only enough for the boys, he feels. The used plastic bag that sits on the table holds about three tablespoons of crumbly dark crystals. Azhar sits at his seat, an upended orange crate padded with a cushion his mother made.

“Eat up boys. Divide that between you.”

As Nur digs into the bag, Azhar watches his father stir his breakfast to cool it, knowing such a treat is rare.

“What about you, Baba?”

Nur halts his sprinkling to look at his father.

“No, no, I don’t want any. Take it. And hurry, Ismail will be along soon with the truck to take you to work.”

Suddenly the kettle’s steam whistle erupts. Hafiz sits closest to the cook stove and twists about with his single arm to lift the heated pot to fill the three mugs for tea. When his father turns his back, Azhar hastily reaches into the bag, pulling out almost half of what is left. He stretches to sprinkle the sugar about his father’s bowl. Nur grins and tosses in what is left on his spoon. The boys are giggling as Hafiz turns around with the first of the mugs. 

He stops mid-swing when he sees what they have done. He guesses it to be Azhar, so much like his mother. He holds his youngest son’s gaze for a moment before looking at Nur. Mistaking the look on their father’s face, thinking him upset, the boys grow quiet. Hafiz briefly studies his sons, soon off to do men’s work, still childlike in their hearts. He yearns for them to run free, not to need their strong backs to survive. He is overcome with this simple gesture of love; a glistening tear zigzags down his haggard cheek. 

“Thank you, my sons. You are fine men.”

With everyone shy, the meal passes in solitude. The boys hastily finish so they can get ready for work.

The End

Thanks for visiting this week and I hope you enjoyed the visit to the yards and family of Bangladesh. Please feel free to leave a comment.

4Q Interview with Williston Payne - Lawyer, Defender and Master of Information.

Is Williston Payne a Vigilante?

Life for Mr. Payne had been quite normal until tragedy struck in 2001. His sister, Amber, and her best friend, while on holidays in Venezuela, died at the hands of one of the world's most evil men. (photo credit - Rene Bohmer. Upsplash.com)

It took three long years to find the man that did it. The law was ineffective in bringing him to justice. Payne turned to his friend, Drake Alexander, a former Canadian Commando, to find Bartolo Rizzato. Together, with the help of several ex-soldiers, a French ex-pat and a Bengali cop, they found him...and they killed him (Dark Side of a Promise)

From that day forward they vowed to scour the Earth for men or women that escape the law, evil people that the world would be better rid of! (Wall of War)

So yes, Payne and his cohorts are vigilantes.

Williston Payne has agreed to an exclusive interview on the Scribbler.



4Q: Are you a vigilante?

Photo credit: Thomas Tucker. Upsplash.com

WP: Do I take the law in my own hands? Yes. I have great respect for the justice system in most countries, I mean I'm a lawyer after all, but there are too many criminals that escape their due punishment. When my sister was murdered, it changed my life. There was too many law enforcement agencies involved because Rizzato was an international troublemaker plus he was very clever at hiding. There came a point when I had to turn to my best friend to help. He's the soldier, I'm an information man but I'm no hero. Drake Alexander is a good man, deadly and afraid of no one.

I eventually found out through my contacts that Rizzato was in Bangladesh. Drake and his team did the rest until we trapped him in Panama. Unfortunately, we couldn't arrest him. He ended up being lunch for a carnivorous beast and I'm not the least bit sorry.

Once we got a taste for revenge, we were hooked. Now we look for trouble.


4Q: Running a team of ex-soldiers and searching the world for criminals must be expensive. Who foots the bill for all this?

WP: As for myself, I've been fortunate throughout my career as a lawyer. Over the years I built a successful company of  law offices in the US, Canada and several countries in Europe dealing with international tax issues. Needless to say, I've become quite wealthy. During the search for Amber's killer, I retired from the business which is now under control of my brother and other trusted managers. We moved our command center to my Yacht. We have our own aircraft and can move anywhere, anytime. I'm an info addict. I love collecting other people's secrets. I have contacts all over the world and if I need to know something, I can usually find it.

Photo credit: Kony Xyzx. Upsplash.com

As for the rest of out team, Drake in an heir to a jewellery company that his grandfather established in 1915 in New Brunswick and his father managed in his later years. His mother was the only child of another jewellery family and she met Drake's father at a buying show in New York. Together they established a chain of stores in Atlantic Canada and New England. Normally Drake would've taken over the business but he's not interested. All his life he only wanted to be a soldier. But he still owns the majority of the business and money is no problem.

As for the others, there are two more retired soldiers. Dakin Rush, is a co-owner of a security firm and he's free to travel. Isaac Glass and his father own a helicopter company that pretty well runs itself, so he's good to go. His girlfriend, Plum, is an ex-convict and she goes where he goes.

No, money is not an issue.


4Q: What was the latest caper you and the team have been involved with?

WP: Recently, a man very close to Drake, a priest actually, discovered a strange document and an ancient gold dagger while renovating the church he was in charge of. The information it reveled got into the wrong hands. It wasn't long before Miguel Pisconte was in trouble. He accidently killed a young man and was kidnapped by a Spanish raider. Pisconte was unwilling to talk until his sister was taken prisoner by the same sinister people. We tracked them down to Peru, discovered a strange monument built of solid gold by the Inca hidden in the Andes and set a trap for the bad guys. Drake rescued them and Turi Salcedo is dead. 



4Q: Wow. That's heavy stuff. I'm afraid to ask what's next?

Photo credit: Annie Spratt. Upsplash.com

WP: Interestingly enough, one of our team members, Mireille Lambert, was with the Securite National in France until she met a Bengali Police Officer and fell in love. They married and she moved to Bangladesh with him and together they formed a private investigation company. She led us through the labyrinth of rivers there and the city of Dhaka. She died during the search for Salcedo and his men. When we attended her funeral in France, we met the master vintner of her parent's estate. His daughter was killed by the Monteau brothers on their bank robbing spree in the early 1980's. That's over twenty years ago and they've never been caught. We're going after them. It's been tough so far, it's almost as if they disappeared completely but not to worry, we'll find them.




Thank you Williston for being our guest this week. You certainly lead an interesting life.

And thank you dear readers for joining me this week to meet Mr. Williston Payne.


**Note: Williston Payne if a fictional character. As a tribute to one of my dearest friends whose last name is Williston, I've dedicated this character to him.



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