Chapter 1

Just after 11:45 AM, Martin Shackleford came through the door of Bettie’s, a dismal, outdated local hangout, and walked dejectedly into the dim interior. A blast of superheated air wafted into the none too cool building after him. He stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light after the bright late-August sunlight outside.

Bettie got up from her old threadbare recliner and almost rolled toward the bar. The chair sat beside the struggling, rattling old window air conditioning unit so the corpulent woman could stay as cool as possible. Between her weight, diabetes and poor eating habits it was almost all she could do to make the trip from her chair to the bar or grill, prepare, then deliver the order to her customers. Many times, the regular customers ordered and carried their own drinks and meals so she wouldn’t have to. On particularly bad days, she had one of the local unemployed older ladies come help her. Sometimes they worked as waitress, other times they cooked and did it all while she sat in her chair or was ostensibly in town purchasing supplies.

The air-conditioner and her small portable TV on the back of the bar was the only noise in the building excluding her wheezing and clomping as she walked. She almost glared at Martin when he took his usual seat at one of the mismatched tables scattered around the room. All the furniture had been picked up at flea markets or rummage sales. None of it matched the other pieces in the room.

Bettie stood for a moment then, in exasperation asked, “What’ll it be Marty; your usual, or are you just going to sit and take up space?”

Marty glanced at the back bar to see the sign one of the regulars made Bettie. Yep, it read “Grumpy Bettie” today. He rested both forearms on the table top and stared down at it for several seconds without answering. Bettie was beginning to become upset because he was ignoring her when he finally answered, “Yeah, I guess. Just as well let you have my money instead of the damn bankers. At least you need it.”

Marty got up and walked over to the bar. Before Bettie turned away and began preparing his hamburger and fries, he said, “Instead of a Pepsi gimme a draft. I need one today. The soda isn’t strong enough for this damn day.”

Bettie looked at Marty in surprise. Almost none of her usual lunch customers ordered beer during the day. Most of them were farmers or laborers and a little alcohol could precipitate a serious accident. Early in the afternoon some of the retired folks and drunks began filtering in and had a drink or two but rarely did a working man order one with his lunch. It was usually iced tea or a soft drink.

“What’s got into you Marty? You look like someone shit in your lunch bucket and you sure know you don’t need a beer if you’re working around your machinery. Are you taking the day off?”

“Yeah, I guess. Got a letter from the bank yesterday. Said if I didn’t catch up on my payments, they were going to take the farm. I spent almost two hours with that snotty loan officer and didn’t get anywhere today. All she would say was I had to pay up. Said no way would they even consider extending the loan. Asked me why I thought they should throw good money after bad. Wasn’t like this when George and his family owned the bank. This bank they sold out to doesn’t give a shit about us. All they care about is the damn money, the bottom line. I don’t think that woman even knows what a beef or crop in a field looks like. You’ve seen her all dressed to the nines and sleek and pretty. I bet she washes the dirt off that nice new Lexus she drives every day when she gets back to the city where she lives.”

While he was talking, Bettie pulled his beer and set it on the bar. She said, “Huh. I’m sorry. What are you going to do?”

“Damn if I know. Try to find a loan somewhere else but I don’t have much hope. Ever since Trump got into it with China and they quit buying agricultural products from us all the farmers have had to tighten their belts. I’m not the only one having trouble paying their loans but some of the guys I’ve talked to at least managed to get their bankers to work with them. I made it longer than some of them did. Might have made it all the way if Jenny hadn’t had that accident and died on me. Of course, the damage award not covered by the insurance just did me in. That’s what the majority of the mortgage money is. I thought I was home free when I managed to keep the farm after that but I guess not. Fucking bankers. Sorry.”

“Yeah. Well, it’ll be a minute.” She looked at his beer mug and continued, “That’s about gone. Want another before I cook your burger?”

Marty looked at his nearly empty mug, nodded and finished his first one in a couple of quick gulps. He stood waiting while Bettie pulled his second beer. She set it on the bar and said, “Here’s your brew.”

Bettie turned and waddled three steps to the grill and deep fat fryer to prepare Marty’s meal. Marty picked up his glass and returned to his table. He thought about sitting at the bar but the stools weren’t as comfortable as his usual chair and he really didn’t feel like talking to Bettie if she felt compelled to spout some of her words of wisdom or, more likely, some of her verbal crap.

When he saw her dishing up his meal, he took his now empty mug to the bar and waited for her to set his plate down for him. She pulled him another beer without asking this time. He managed to get his meal, beer and the condiment bottles back to his table in one trip. He doctored his burger and sat wolfing down his meal and ignoring Bettie, the obnoxious TV she insisted on watching and the three or four other customers that filtered in while he ate. After he finished, he just sat, leaned on the table and zoned out.

After the lunch rush Bettie finally couldn’t take any more and yelled at Marty, “Well, you going to just sit there all afternoon or you going to do something about this mess you’re in?”

Marty felt a quick jolt of anger then, if anything, he slumped more. He slowly looked up at Bettie and said, “Don’t know. I don’t have any idea what to do right now. Put the burger on my tab and I’ll catch up next time I’m in.”

Bettie looked at the wall calendar and said, “Ya know you have to pay up before the end of the month. Ya only have four days left.”

“Yeah, I know. Of fuck it.” Marty reached into his pocket and pulled his billfold out. He dug in it until he found an old worn, folded up check. He stood beside the bar and filled it out. Before he put the amounts in, he asked how much his tab was.

Bettie looked in her book and found his page then added up the charges. She gave him the figure and Marty returned to writing on the check. He signed it and pushed it toward Bettie as he said, “I made it out for $150.00. Let me know when that’s used up. The way things are going I may need a meal I don’t have to pay for before long.”

Bettie stood and watched without saying anything else as Marty walked across the room and out the door. She grimaced as the glare of the sunlight hit her eyes then turned and headed for her chair and the afternoons soap operas.

The next week passed slowly for Marty. He moved around in a daze. He tried all the local banks and none of them would loan him operating money or give him a new or second loan on his farm. He spent almost as much time in Bettie’s as she did. When she asked him why he wasn’t working all he said was “What’s the use? I’ll be damned if I’ll do anything to keep the place up so the fucking banker can make more money when he sells it. I’m just waiting until they kick me out then I’ll move on I guess.”

That was the last straw. Bettie waddled up to him and slapped him so hard he almost fell out of his chair. He sat looking at her in stunned silence while he rubbed his burning face.

Bettie glared at him and said, “You miserable son of a bitch. You think you’re the only one with problems? Hell, I have collection agencies calling me all the time. I was just lucky enough this shitty old building was paid for and I’ve been smart enough not to get a loan on it. At least I can live in the back room and my food is more or less free. You’re still better off than a lot of folks hereabouts. Look at me. I’m a fat hog with so many health problems I can’t list them all. You’re young and as far as I know healthy as a horse. Sure, you had some problems and Jennie didn’t help running that stop light and hitting that family but you’re able to start over if you get your head out of your ass and try. Move on. Hell, see if Ronnie’ll hire you for farm labor until you get another start. You know he’s always looking for good help, especially during crop season. If you don’t want to do that, get a job in town. Lots of folks do.”

Marty sat looking at Bettie for a minute and then rose and walked out of the building without saying a word. He got into his truck and slammed the door. After he got his temper under control, he started the engine and drove, none too slowly, home.

After he got home Marty took his last partial bottle of whiskey down from the cabinet. He was still so pissed he began drinking from the neck of the bottle while he sat on his porch and looked over his back field. As he drank, he kept noticing things that needed doing, then said to himself, fuck it. Why should I fix things when the damn bank is just going to get it and it’ll make the place worth more to them?

Unfortunately for his peace of mind, he couldn’t get Bettie’s tirade out of his mind. He kept thinking she was right. He knew how to do a hell of a lot of things. Surely someone would hire him for his ability to do something. Heck, a farmer was a jack of all trades and some, like him, were masters of a few. He had worked as a mechanic in the Army, then cross trained as a medic before he decided he really wanted to get back to farming. He could weld and operate heavy machinery. But, damn it, he was a farmer. He didn’t want to work in some god forsaken city or even inside an implement dealer’s shop all day. Damn it all to hell.