Marshall Ramsey

It was a warm spring evening on the small college campus. The 19-year-old RA (Resident Assistant) sat at the front desk of the boys’ dorm, desperately trying to stay awake. He had the night shift this weekend. That meant he had to sit there from 11 p.m. until 5 a.m. to answer the phone and make sure there were no disturbances. Boring but necessary work, he thought.  He peered out to the city’s skyline off to the east. The clock on the top of the bank building read  1:59 a.m. It was almost time to Spring Forward.

He hated Daylight’s Savings time. It was a sleep-sucking hell unleashed by Ben Franklin so many years ago. You moved the clock ahead an hour and lost an hour of sleep.  While he liked “Fall Back” because he gained an hour, “Spring Forward” was nothing short of a curse. It sucked. The only blessing about it this time was that he would have one less hour to work tonight.

He looked up at the clock not the wall in the dorm office.  He sighed — guess he would have to change it, too. He pulled the spare chair over to it and climbed up on it.  He took the clock off the wall and moved its big hand slowly around until it read 3 a.m.

Suddenly the world got blurry and went black. He dropped the clock and fell off the chair. When he woke up on the floor, the dorm was in flames.

It was 3 a.m. — but for some reason,  the world had also moved ahead an hour, too.  The RA heard a beating on the door. He grabbed a rag and carefully opened the scalding hot door knob.  A fireman was there and helped him hustle outside. He heard the screams as dozens of students were trapped in the flaming building.  A boy jumped from the fourth floor — he was on fire and crumpled to the ground when he hit the concrete in a sickening thud.  Students were making the choice between death by fire or by jumping.  A fifth fire truck pulled up.

The RA ran over to the fire chief.  He heard him telling another fireman than the fire had started on the fifth floor in room 513.  A candle had tipped over at around 2 a.m. and lit the dorm room on fire. Smoke had killed the the boys sleeping in the room as the fire slowly licked its way down the hall, consuming the other rooms.  Twenty boys died in their sleep from smoke inhalation.  Then the fire began to grow.

The RA sat in horror.  He watched as his dorm exploded and the screams became even loaded. Bodies were everywhere. It was what Hell must be like, he thought.  The firemen were powerless.  The Chief gave the call to pull back.

But one person didn’t pull back. He ran back into the flames.

The RA ran back toward the office.  He covered his mouth and dodged the flames as he burst back into the door.  There, on the floor was the clock.  He grabbed it, took his finger and pushed the big hand back around.  The clock read 1:59 a.m. And then the RA felt dizzy once again and passed out .

He woke up to find the dorm wasn’t on fire.  But he knew what he had to do. He grabbed the office fire extinguisher and ran up the closest staircase.  513.  He found the door to the room he remembered the Chief talking about and kicked it in.

The fire was just starting to spread.  The students heard the door crash in and woke up. “CALL 911!” the RA yelled.  Both boys saw the flames and ran out of the room.  With flames licking at his face, the RA turned the extinguisher on them.  When it was empty, he grabbed a second extinguisher and turned it on the dying fire.  WHOOSH.  The RA won the battle, snuffing out the last remaining flames.

The RA dropped the extinguisher and fell to his knees.  The room was a loss but the fire had not spread any further.  He had saved the building and everyone in it.

He walked back down the stairs and went into the office.  He picked up the clock again and moved the big hand forward.  He once again passed out and woke up on the floor.

A fireman patted him on the shoulder and said, “Son.  Son. You OK?”

The RA lifted his head and looked up at the fireman.

“I understand you’re a hero.  You saved a bunch of lives tonight.  How did you know the room was on fire?”

“I just did.”  The RA really could not tell the fireman the truth. “I guess you could say I just sprang forward.”

The fireman smiled and helped the boy to his feet and shook his hand.  “You lost an hour. But no one lost their life. Good job.”

The RA looked up at the clock and said the only two words he could, “Thank you.”

The late March Mississippi humidity was as thick as the sugar in his sweet tea.  Pollen swirled around in dust devil on the sidewalk, signaling a change of seasons. Conn Hurley was a million miles away from Dublin, Ireland.  But he loved springtime in the Southland.  The greenness reminded him of his former home.

His accent had faded with time, being replaced by a soft Irish/Southern drawl. He even said an occasional “y’all.”  His freckled skin, accent and red hair was a great conversation starter. If he had a dime for every time he had heard, “You ain’t from around here, are you?” he could buy the golden eagle on the top of State Capitol.   He took another sip of his sweet tea — an exotic concoction that he had learned to love.  The waitress, an attractive lady in her fifties, brought him his lunch.  “Here ya go honey.”  His heart beat slowly looking at all the fried chicken. He loved living in Mississippi.

The pace was so much slower here. In fact, for the first six months, he had walked into the automatic opening doors. But he loved the slower pace, the friendly smiles and the soft Southern accents.  Even the racial tension seemed mild compared to what he had grown up with in Ireland.  No one understood hatred quite like the Irish and the Brits.

“I’m surprised  you didn’t order Frosted Lucky Charms. They’re magically delicious.”

His buddy Rick sat down at his table.

” ‘ello Rick. ‘Ow are you?”

“Aw, doin’ fine.  How’s my favorite Leprechaun?”

Conn never tired of Rick’s corny Irish jokes.

“Did you think that one up yourself? You should be a writer. Oh you are?”

Both men were now writers. But both had had much different careers in their former lives.

Rick waved over to the server. “Ginger, bring me what the Leprechaun is having.” Ginger smiled a knowing smile at Rick and headed back to the kitchen.

Rick looked at his Irish friend and said, “Hope you don’t mind if I join you for lunch.

Conn said, “Do I have a choice?  Didn’t think so.”

“You know I used to go out with your server when I first moved here. She’s got skill. Hey, I have idea. Let’s go get that pot of gold you’re guarding and go to the casino.”

“I thought you rednecks said, casina.” Conn still couldn’t understand a damn word former Governor Haley Barbour said. But casina was one word that made him laugh.  “Get your sister, I mean you wife, or whatever you Southerners call your spouse and let’s take a drive to the Coast. I want seafood for diner.”

“Shrimp. Sounds like a plan. Free your girlfriend from the Jackson Zoo and we’ll double date.”

Conn flipped his friend off. And then laughed out loud.  I’m going to tell Gloria you said she was a wildebeest.

Conn loved Mississippi. In the span of the day, he and his friends could have barbecue in Memphis, go to a game in Starkville, Hattiesburg or Oxford, listen to the blues at Ground Zero in Clarksdale or eat seafood on the Coast. Or they could go to downtown Jackson where Conn would play guitar at a local club. It was a fertile land full of creative people.

Ginger brought Rick’s chicken.  He ate like a wolf with a thyroid problem.

“Did you skip the day in school when they taught table manners?”

Rick looked up from his chicken leg and said, “You Brits are so civilized.”

Conn immediately went cold. “Don’t. Call. Me. A. Brit.”

“Sorry Leprechaun.” Rick had been a Navy SEAL.  After numerous secret missions and four tours of duty, he had hung up his military career.  And like Conn, he had randomly chosen Mississippi as his new home. After a career of war, he was looking for some peace. As a SEAL, Rick specialized in fading into native populations. In retirement, he had done the same.

Conn had his own secret. He had been in the Irish Republican Army before he walked away from it all.  A spin of a globe and a quick jab of his finger had found his new home. A Boeing 747 and a commuter jet had taken him to Jackson, Mississippi. He, too was looking for some peace. Probably the two toughest men in the state sat finishing off their plate of fried chicken.

“Hey Leprechaun, pay the pretty lady and let’s blow this fried chicken stand.”

Conn paid for both meals and Rick plunked down a $20 tip.  Rick winked at Ginger and both men headed toward the door.  The brilliant sunlight blinded them as they walked outside.

Drugs make good people do stupid things.  Alex Washington had been an honor student until a series of bad choices had hooked him on drugs.  He saw two men walking onto of the restaurant and thought, “Easy prey.” The beast needed to be fed.

He shoved the gun in their faces and screamed, “Give me your money!”

“Whoa, settle down there little fella,” Rick said quietly.

Alex, not used to someone challenging the power of his gun, screamed again, “GIVE ME YOUR MONEY!”

Conn smiled and said, “You REALLY don’t want to be doing this.”

Alex waved the gun back and forth between the two mens’ faces. And when he looked back at Conn, Rick knocked the gun out of his hand.  And just as quickly, Conn swept the kid’s feet out from under him.  Alex Washington fell backwards and hit his head on the pollen-covered asphalt.

Thud.

A yellow cloud rose up and floated off into the spring air.

Rick walked over and picked up the kid’s gun. “I told you didn’t want to do that. What’s your name kid?”

“Alex Washington,” Alex said in shock.

Conn looked down at him. “Here’s the deal, Alex. We won’t turn you into the cops but in exchange you have to join Rick’s gym. We’ll get you there after school.  Rick will train you.  It’s time for you to make something of your life. If you don’t, we’ll find you. And then you will wish we had called the cops.”

Rick cracked his knuckles and both men gave Alex a menacing look.  Alex scooted backwards.

Rick walked forward and handed Alex his card.  “I’ll see you there on Monday.”

“Awright Leprechaun, let’s spring your girlfriend from the zoo and head down to the Coast. We have some shrimp to eat.” Rick helped Alex to his feet, stuck the boy’s gun in the back of his pants and patted his Irish friend on the back. “I want to hear more about where you learned those moves.”

Conn smiled. “Back at you, Rambo.” He sure loved living in Mississippi.

Alex Washington watched as the two men walked away and wondered what storm he had just run into.

He had met the ex-patriots.  Two men looking for peace and making it on a springtime Mississippi day.

The stale air hung low like fog clinging to the city’s harbor.  The nicotine had stained the bar’s wallpaper, which had released from its glue in several places.  Neon beer signs gave the dark room an eerie glow. Bright light and cheer both had abandoned the place a long time ago.  The bar sat empty except for a sole customer and a bartender.  The beaten-down man leaned on the bar and nursed his fourth beer — his pain was beginning to numb like the rest of him.  God had big plans for him. But He was locked out of the man’s bitter soul.  Self Pity guarded the gate and would allow no one in.  It’s pathetic when a man judges his self-worth by a person who got a bonus for eliminating his job.

The bartender looked 50 but was older.  Much older. He had made a deal centuries ago that allowed him to come back to the earth that he had loved so very much.  He quietly poured a fifth beer and slid it across the peanut-shell covered counter.  “Add it to your tab?”

“Um, sure.”

“What’s your story?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, I do or I wouldn’t have asked.  What’s your story?”

“It’s a bad story.”

The bartender looked at the man and wanted to slap the living crap out of him.

“You want a new story?”

The man looked up from his PBR and said, “Yeah. Who doesn’t”

The bartender walked over and thumped his nose.

“WHY THE HELL DID YOU DO THAT?”  the man screamed in outrage.

“I want you to remember this.  If you don’t like your story, make a new one.”

The man rubbed his nose and pulled his eyebrows down. “Look @#$#, I don’t want your self-help crap.”

The bartender thumped the man again on the nose.

The man started to come across the bar but fell down. The alcohol had taken over.

The bartender looked over the bar.  “Get over yourself.  You think you have it hard?  Please.  Imagine watching your child die from the Black Plague.”  The bartender immediately wished he hadn’t said that.

“What the….? What are you talking about?”

“I meant cancer,” the bartender recovered. “Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but it must’ve sucked for you to be sitting in this dive drinking cheap beer.  But dude, you can’t waste your life.  Trust me, it’ll be over before you know it.  You have eternity to feed worms.”

The now-drunk looked at the strange man. “I’m about to speak again. You aren’t going to flick my nose again?”

“If you don’t say something stupid.” the bartender looked at him disgusted.

“You my guardian angel? Like Clarence in  It’s A Wonderful Life?”

The bartender looked at the man and shook his head. “I’m not Clarence and you sure ain’t George Bailey.  But you could be.”

The man’s left eyebrow lifted. The last sentence had caught his attention.

“I could be?”

“You are a waste of air.” the bartender knew he was being harsh but he didn’t care.  He had little tolerance for pity parties.  He had survived the Crusades after all.

“But I got laid off. I’m worthless.”

The bartender flicked him again in the nose. “Only when  you talk like a loser.”  This man was slow to learn.  “Change your story.  Smile more. Be pleasant to others. Help others. Don’t sit on the sideline being a wuss. Life’s tough. It will knock you on your butt. But like the character Rocky Balboa said, ‘It’s not about hard you can hit. It’s how hard you can be hit and keep moving forward.”

“Who are you?” the man said, looking at the man in the glasses.

“You.  I was once like you.  Until I was flicked on the nose.  Look, I dare you to be better than you are. I dare you to change others’ lives.  Your life will change as a by-product. Change your story.”

He reached over to flick him on the nose again, but the man intercepted his hand and squeezed it.  It was unnaturally cold.

“You dead?”

“In a manner of speaking. Now get out of here. I’m tired of your attitude.”

The man threw $40 on the counter and stood up the best he could. “You’re an #$#@#.”

“And you’re a slow learner. You aren’t stupid enough to try to drive home are you? I don’t want someone to die because of your bad choices.” the bartender shouted across the room.

“No, I’ll walk. I have some thinking to do.”

“You sure do.”

The man walked out of the bar and looked back at it to get its name. He was going to make sure he never came back there again.

But when he looked at the old city storefront, it was abandoned.  The windows were boarded up and what remaining glass was broken.  He shook his head, trying to clear the cob webs out of his head.

Just then, a cab drove up. “Need a lift?”

The man said sure and got into the cab.  There, in the front seat, was the bartender. “Where to Mister?”

“A new story. I’m headed to a new life” the man said.

The cabbie turned on the meter and the cab headed east into the rising sun.