All in a day's Work

Copyright © 2023 by Mike Dixon

ISBN: 978-1-960764-09-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-960764-10-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-960764-11-9 (eBook)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Table of Contents

Love Will Always Find Its Way Home

An Author’s Agony—Ended

Success—Find It Anyplace

Three Wise Indians

Riders Up!

Happy New Year, Boris Simyonovich

Happy Ever After

Shavings or Straw? (The Feed Store)

First Day on Welfare

Something Meant for Someone Else

After All, I Am You

Something Out of Nothing

2001

The Last Nail

1986

The Eleventh Jack-o’-Lantern

1985

The Last Rights

Another World

The Captain and the Admiral

Most Valuable Player

Three Points of View— Notes on Money

Petrushka

Learn ’Em Right

A Moment of Despair

The Promise

A Member Of The Rest Of The Fools

The Mystery of Cowles Mountain

Love Will Always Find Its Way Home

You there! Get the hell away from here! You filthy bum! Every day you come here to beg, to steal, to stench up my market and run my customers off. I’ll call the police. They’ll find a place for you all right. Someone will find your body at the bottom of the river. Now be gone! Off with you!

And with that, poor Alexi Symyonovich peered up at Malechak, the store owner, with guilty, swollen eyes. He was in a state of disdain, shock, and disbelief. And no matter how bad he had wanted to snap back at Malechak, he knew it was no use. After all, Malechak was right. He WAS a bum! He was nothing more than a rotten beggar. Alexi turned, head bowed, and began to shuffle along Karensky Street toward Karkov Park, two kilometers away.

He walked hunched over, his forty-year-old, arthritic body bruised and callous from living like an animal. He wore old tattered brown pants that hung loose around his hips, an old red flannel shirt, and a pair of oversized work boots he had taken off from a corpse that he had stumbled upon the night before by the river.

As he walked, he stared down at the soggy, dirt path that led to the edge of the town square and onto the outskirts of Karkov Park. He looked at his hands, holding an old satchel containing his writings. His hands were black with soot from scraps of coal at the train station the night before. He brushed back his now long, oily, and vile-smelling hair. He began to tremble from the night’s cold and he folded his short, stocky arms across his chest as if seeking some false warmth from the bitter cold that was filling the evening air.

Alexi made his way to the park and turned right at the familiar old spruce tree with the three protruding branches that looked like a pitch fork. He descended down an embankment that led to the Vodski River. Several meters from the water’s edge, he suddenly halted and turned his head from side to side as if surveying the area and making sure he hadn’t been seen or followed. Next, he reached down and grasped what looked like a handful or clump of leaves and branches, but was actually a cover he had made from cloth, leaves, sticks, and grass. He lifted it up only to reveal a hole dug out at the base of a large oak tree. The hole was just large enough for him to crouch his five-foot frame into and curl up. Once settled, he pulled his roof over his head and gazed up at the heavens through a small opening he had made with his index finger. He looked at the brightest star in the sky and began to reminisce.

What happened? I was on the verge of being a great author. I had a beautiful wife, Anastasia, a wonderful, most precious daughter, Natasha. I had a dacha on the banks of the Neva River. I was making 50 rubles a week as an editor of a highly regarded state newspaper. Buy why? They drained me. Set me insane. And for this devotion I lost my wife and my most irreplaceable ruby—my dear Natasha! Oh how I long to see you again…

Alexi’s eyes began to close. His hands became numb from the cold, and he started to shake uncontrollably. And finally, as he had done each night for the last fifteen years, he sobbed himself to sleep. And as he did, he began to dream the same dream he always had, You promised, Anastasia. You swore to me that you would never leave! I have given everything to you, to Natasha, and to everyone. Why?

But one day in the spring, Anastasia did leave him, taking ten-year-old Natasha with her as well. The small dacha, the garden, and the counting of Kopecks was all too demeaning to her. So, on one fateful day in May, she revealed to him that she had been having an affair with one government attorney, Konstantin Vladirovich Akmatovich, and that she and Natasha were leaving with the honorable and wealthy gentleman to his estate in Riga.

Things began to go bad for Alexi the right way. The government closed the newspaper and the censors refused his latest novel. He could not find work, but for menial tasks, and without spirit he could no longer write. Soon, he gathered his writings, put them in his satchel, and left the banks of the Neva and headed south. Some two months later, after wandering for hundreds of kilometers he arrived at Karkou Park in the city of Gorodok. There he laid claim to his oak tree and hollowed out his home. And for the past fifteen years, he has roamed the streets of Gorodok as a madman, a drunkard, a heathen.

Good morning, Mrs. Lubounaya! How are you?

Fine, Alexi. And where is the great writer off to today?

Why am I off to see the provincial governor himself? He has requested my presence to begin writing his memoirs at once.

Ha! Alexi! You’re entertaining. Are you writing?Oh, yes! I’ve just completed six more poems, two short stories, and I am about finished with a beautiful love story. It’s about a little girl and her father. They would play together in the tall grass around their dacha. They would gather mushrooms, sing songs, and he would put her to sleep at night by telling her stories. And the man’s wife was…

Alexi! That’s dandy! Now, my kiosk is dirty. Tidy it up please; straighten my goods on the shelves, dump the trash, get your cup of tea and bread, and be gone please. I’ve no time for novels about little girls and their daddies. Now hurry, the train will soon be here and I’ll have a hundred customers. Lord knows you’d scare them off. Now please hurry.

Yes, Mrs. Lubounaya. Thank you, ma’am.

And, Alexi, his heart heavy and with tears in his eyes, finished his tasks, drank his tea, ate his stale bread, and departed. A young doctor had been reading the newspaper and sipping on black tea when he couldn’t help overhearing Alexi and Mrs. Lubounaya speaking. He turned to the lady and remarked, Sad, isn’t it. Poor fellow.

Yes, Mrs. L. began sadly and softly. Yes, it’s a shame. Tells me the same story every day, as if it were real or something. Poor fellow indeed. To have a dream only to see it vanish.

I wonder who he really is, asked the doctor.

No telling. He’s come here every day for fifteen years. Always carries that damn old satchel with him. Won’t show it to anyone but says he has the makings of Tolstoy and Chekhov in it. Poor thing. This homelessness can lead to these conditions I suppose. But the daughter part must be true. He shows everyone a picture of a beautiful little brown-eyed girl. He carries on about her, pretends he’s talking to her. It’s a terribly sad thing to watch. Alexi had reached the center of Gorodok and had started down a narrow cobblestone path that led to the governor’s mansion. As he walked, he began to talk to himself about his daughter, Natasha. Soon, he was walking faster and faster until he broke into a run, and all the while, he gripped his satchel to his chest. Soon, he arrived at a large brick and stone building. Standing outside two large oak doors were two royal guards. Alexi approached confidently and exclaimed, Good day, gentlemen! I have an appointment with the governor. I am to begin the Lordship’s memoirs at once. Please be so kind as to announce my presence. I am Alexi Symyonovich of Gorodok. I… Take another step and we’ll pummel you!, one of the guards snapped.

Alexi kept approaching. Suddenly the two burly guards struck Alexi in the head with their rifle butts, sending him to the ground in a heap. Slowly he got up, looked up in a dumbfounded state, and staggered backward, then finally fell down the steps. He got up clutching his bloody skull with one hand and picked up his satchel with the other, which had fallen, and began to tumble toward Karkov Park. Once in his dwelling, he lay motionless, staring up at the stars.

Finally, he passed out.

Two days later Alexi awoke. His head hurt and he was more saddened than ever before. Holding his satchel to his chest, he weaved his way to the river’s bank and sat down. He opened his satchel and took out a handful of crumpled papers. He began to read aloud, And once again, wild flowers bloomed, children sang happy songs, and the black birds flew freely once more. The sun was crimson, the moon and stars so bright. The father and his daughter were reunited and…

Alexi began to weep again. He lay down and, holding on to this page, he fell into a deep sleep again.

Meanwhile, a carriage had arrived at the police station in town. A young, beautiful woman of twenty-five exited the coach accompanied by a handsome captain.

May I help you, the police chief inquired.

Yes, my name is Natasha Symyonovich. I am looking for my father, the author, Peter Symyonovich. It is reported that he journeyed here some years ago.

You mean Alexi?

Yes! That is his nickname.

The man in rags that carries an old satchel and speaks of writing novels? This man is your father?

Oh yes, your lordship! Where can he be found?

In Karkov Park, by the river’s edge. He lives underneath an oak tree. He’s mad!

Natasha and the captain climbed in the coach and ordered the driver to whip up the horses and head for Karkov Park. They arrived some two hours later. Natasha got out, followed by the captain. Both ran down the path until they came to the oak tree. Farther down on the water’s edge, lay Alexi.

Papa! Papa! Natasha cried out.

Papa! It’s me! NATASHA!

Alexi lay motionless, too weak to move. But his eyes went wide open at the sound of the young woman’s voice. Natasha approached slowly and quietly. She knelt next to her father, held his hand, and lay his head in the palm of her other hand. She could see the novel in Alexi’s grasp. She reached to take it from him.

Just then Alexi turned his head and saw Natasha’s big, beautiful brown eyes. They both froze as their eyes met. Then, Alexi whispered meekly, Natasha. My sweet Natasha.

Natasha leaned forward and kissed her father on the forehead. The young captain looked on with tears of joy. Then Natasha rested Alexi’s head in her lap and took the paper Alexi was holding. She began to read aloud, The father and his daughter were reunited and the pain and suffering all but vanished…

And as Natasha stared into her father’s distant eyes, she read the last line of