Fish Farm - Walt Sautter (accelerated reader books TXT) 📗

Fish Farm

By: W. Sautter


Copyright Sautter 2010

Jack looked out the third floor window of his shabby walkup onto a cold, gray day. His thoughts mirrored his vision.
“How did it happen?” he thought to himself rhetorically. He knew but it was hard to accept without the rage building within him.
He chased the thought away and continued to stare.
The relief was brief.
Again it flooded his memory.
It was a Wednesday morning. Dressed in his robe with coffee in hand, he opened the door of his condo and reached for the paper. The two-inch type of the front page burned its message into his brain.
“TYRON COLLAPSES” – it read like a death notice. It was.
He turned and walked slowly back into his house with the paper in hand, hung by his side.
He’s heard rumors but there were always rumors – rumors of triumph and rumors of catastrophe – ever since he began working for Tyron. None of which ever came true, until now!
He sank back into the easy chair and began to read.
“Yesterday, at the close of trading Tyron, one of the largest corporations on the NYSE, declared bankruptcy. Investigations into the collapse have begun. Fraud by executives at Tyron is high on the list of causative factors leading to Tyron’s downfall. Tyron’s CEO, James Wheeler is suspected of funneling millions of dollars to his own accounts while altering records of company finances…”
He mused to himself at his amazement that he remembered word for word, after all this time, the text of that article. It had to be at least two years now. He continued his vacant stare.
Suddenly, the ring of the telephone startled him from his trance.
“Dad! Did you see the TV today?”
“No.”, he replied.
“Turn it on. They have the results of the trial.”
“O.K.” He hung up the phone and snapped on the TV.
“This latest news bulletin. James Wheeler, Hal Meter and several other high- ranking executives who have been found guilty in the collapse of Tyron have been sentenced today.
Mr. Wheeler who has been free on bail over the past year has been sentenced to a ten thousand dollar fine and six months in jail. The others of those convicted received fines up to five thousand dollars and community service.
Judge Arthur Gavin instructed Mr. Wheeler to report to jail in two weeks deferring to his attorney’s request for time so that he may get his affairs in order.
Here comes John Hurley, Wheeler’s lawyer now.
Mr. Hurley – what is your opinion of today’s sentencing?”
“I think Judge Gavin was extremely fair. Justice prevailed. The judge’s sentence speaks for itself. That’s all I have to say. Thank you.”
Jack rocked back in his chair and clicked off the TV. His stomach churned and he felt a sickness come over him.
“Six months and ten thousand dollars. Justice prevailed. Extremely fair.”
The words echoed over and over in his head and amplified upon each rebound.
The phone rang again.
“Some bullshit! Some bullshit! What do you think Dad?”
“Well, it’s the way things go. Justice in America isn’t based on black or white as some people would have you think, it’s based on green!
I guess it has always been this way. Maybe someday it may change but I’m not so sure unless someone makes it happen.“
“You’re right, Dad.
“Have you thought about my idea of you moving in with us? You know how I hate you living down there. I worry every day. I know the neighborhood or should I just call it the ‘hood’. It’s really unsafe and I worry!”
“Listen Honey – we’ve been over this a million times. I’m not about to give up my self-respect. I really appreciate your concern and your and Dave’s offer, but I can’t.
I know the area here is not the best but I’m okay. I just watch my step and it works out fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
“But Dad…”
“Now, let’s not talk about that any more. How’s the kids?”
“They’re good. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Bye Dad. I love you.”
Jack put down the phone and reverted back to that vacant stare to which he had become so accustomed.
“Hey, Jack did you hear the rumor that’s going around?” as he peered through the open office door.
“What’s it now, Mark?”
“Three thousand are biting the dust. By the end of the week.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Ned, down in Human Resources, told me and he said he heard it from a couple of pretty good sources.”
“Well, if that’s true the tide is certainly getting higher. Two thousand last month and now another three! I wonder why? According to the annual report we’re doing great. Revenues are up, profits are up and our stock price is on the rise.”
“That’s all true but I did see where a couple of the suits were selling pretty good amounts of stock.”
“Yeah, I saw that too, but I also heard that both of Wheeler’s daughters are getting married and you know the receptions are not going to be held at the local VFW hall. They’ll cost a bundle. That’s probably why he’s selling.”
He remembered all of it like it was yesterday. At the time it was like a faint, distant clap of thunder warning of the approaching storm - an unheeded warning.
Jack’s memory fast-forwarded. The tide of lay offs did indeed rise and as it rose, simultaneously, the stock price fell. Which moved more quickly, it was hard to tell.
At every round of lay off announcements, Jack anxiously awaited his notice. It never arrived and each time he felt a sigh of relief.
Tuesday morning, July 8th, eight A.M. Bam! Right between the eyes!
A team of security guards stood at the door as Mark exited the building. He walked towards Jack’s car as it entered the parking lot. He was carrying two large, plastic shopping bags, one in each hand. He nodded for Jack to pull over. Jack stopped and rolled down the window.
“Go get your shit! The party’s over.”
“What’s going on?”
“Didn’t you listen to the radio this morning? Our stock fell by ninety percent in over night trading and this morning we declared bankruptcy. They’re letting people in one by one to clean their desks. The Feds are up stairs right now.
Better go get in line to get your stuff”, he then turned and continued walking towards his car.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. She put up one hell of a fight.”
“Thanks Arnie, I appreciate your coming.”
“I’m sorry Jack. I don’t know what else to say.”
“I understand. Thanks Ann.”
The line stretched around the room and out into the hall of the funeral home. Sally had lots of friends. She was the kind of person who was always there for others and now it was their turn and they were all there for her.
Jack drew in a deep breath through his nose and swallowed hard and continued to greet the horde the well wishers.
Sally got sick about two months after he had lost his job.
“It was a terrible time to get ill”, he thought to himself but then again it’s never a good time to get cancer.
“That’s not what I meant!” he mentally chided himself.
No medical insurance, it disappeared with job. Then eight months of operations and chemo. The cancer consumed her and all that they had, not that much after the 401K collapsed with Tyron.
“Alright Dad. Do you think you have everything? Look around again just to be sure. Check the basement again.”
“I’m sure. I can’t take much with me anyway. It’s only three rooms you know.”
“Okay, grab the box and let’s go.”
Jack reached down and picked a large cardboard carton packed with pictures and a few books. Lying on the top was a large frame displaying military medals and decorations.
“Be careful. You don’t want to drop it.”
They walked through front the door out towards the car. Jack stopped about halfway there, turned and looked back at the house.
“Thirty-five years, gone in a flash”, he muttered and got into the car.
“Oh shit”, he thought to himself. “You can’t keep rolling this stuff over and over in your head. It’ll drive you crazy for sure.”
“Go out and get some air. Have a smoke and forget it”, he muttered to himself.
He stepped through the apartment doorway, closed the door and rattled the handle.
“Gotta make sure it’s locked, not that it would really make any difference”, he thought.
“If they want to get in the lock will only slow them down for a couple of minutes. And besides, what’s there to steal?”
He proceeded down the winding stairs to the front of the building and over to the bench near the sidewalk. He drew a cigar from his pocket, unwrapped it, snipped the end and lit it. As the first puff of smoke issued from his nose, he was for a second back at the Club. A snap shot of the first fairway, with its lush green hue, flashed through his mind and then disappeared as he exhaled with long, slow sigh.
“How ya doin’ Jack?” came a voice over the tap, tap, tap of the bouncing basketball on the adjacent playground.
“Not bad, Hal”, he replied unconvincingly.
“How about you?”
“Okay, for an old man I guess. The knee is acting up a little again. Other than that, not bad.”
Hal, a tall, light skinned black man with gray hair and slight limp sat down beside him.
“I guess it’s that old wound from Nam again. They never did get that piece of metal completely out.”
“Did you hear about Matty. They walked him down to the bank and made him cash his social security check and took the money.”
“What do you mean ‘Took the money’?”
“The dues! I thought I told you the other day. I guess they haven’t gotten to your building yet.
They got a new thing goin’. They come to everybody’s door and say they’re collectin’ for the Fire Prevention Fund. They call it the FPF. They get fifty dollars a month for everybody. Matty didn’t pay so they marched him down to the bank and got the money out of him.”
“What’s this FPF stuff anyway?”
“Here’s what they say. They’ll make sure that no fires start in your apartment if you pay your dues. If you don’t pay, they’ll make sure that a fire does start.
You know Petey, the guy that lives in the building next me? He refused to give anything. He’s a pretty tough guy, an old Navy Seal from Nam.
Well, a week or two ago he leaves his house to go to the store and when he gets back his door is knocked off the hinges and his bed is on fire. Lucky he got home when he did so he could put it out in time or the whole place woulda went up!”
“What happened after that?”
“Petey payin’ dues like everybody else.”
“Who are these guys?”
“A bunch of guys from the neighborhood here. Young guys you know.
They started their own gang - they call themselves the Firemen. They wear a little tat on the arm. It’s a flame with the letters FM in it.”
Petty crooks and dealers who decided this is an easy way to make money. Let’s face it; they’re right! They’re dealing with a bunch of old people. How hard is it gonna be?”
“So why doesn’t somebody call the