Chapter One: Cut Loose
I awoke slowly. The morning sunlight filtered through my closed eyelids. I groaned. It was time to get up. I gradually got off my bed, and stumbled onto the floor. I stood up straight and stretched languidly. My eyes opened and shut right away, trying to hide from the light. I rubbed them. I looked down at myself. I was only wearing a pair of light blue boxers. Ugh, what the hell happened last night?
I rooted around my room for a shirt. There was a button down of red plaid on the floor, I picked it up and put it on. The phone rang. I glanced at the digital alarm clock. The neon green numbers red 10:37am. Great, just great.
I begrudgingly picked up the damned ringing instrument.
"Benson here. Yeah, talk to me" I answered.
A gruff, annoyed voice replied, the familiar voice of one of my illustrious colleagues. He worked for the same local fish rag I did, covered local sports. He was an alright guy, if a little brash and uptight.
"Yeah Art," I said. "What is it this time? Uh-huh, yeah."
I opened the top drawer of the nightstand and removed a pack of cigarettes. I rustled around it a little more and uncovered a lighter. I shook the pack and a single cigarette dropped out. I plunked it into my mouth and lit it up.
"Yeah Art, I sent it in two days ago. Yeah, well, dunno what to tell you." As I began to smoke the cigarette I could feel the tension of the morning begin to slip away.
There was some more rabble on the other end of the line, something about missed deadlines, erratic scrawling and puff pieces. Most of the so called journalists and writers down at that paper were real crocks anyway.
"Yeah, I'll be here." I hung up the phone. There was a distant squeak. Mail call. Not even eleven o'clock and the mail was already here. Must be my lucky day. I left my bedroom slowly, pausing in the doorway after I opened it. I looked at the mirror hung over at the other wall. Weary hazel eyes looked back. I was a mess. My brown hair looked as if a Hun had been its stylist. I could use a shave too, and some exercise too. I was out of shape, with a beer belly already slightly forming.
I groaned and moved on. I meandered through my living room, reaching my stereo. I pressed the play button, not even caring what CD was in. Some alternative rock band could probably use a better signer. I turned the volume up and continued my way to the front door and the mail slot. There were a few white envelops scattered in a small area before it. I picked them up, and plopped down on the beat-up couch that made up the living room's centerpiece.
Bill, bill, you may have one million dollars, some junk mail about dishwasher, and a dirtied up envelope addressed to… "Cousin Benny?" I said aloud.
I tossed the other mail aside and tore into this mystery letter. Who would call me 'Cousin Benny?' No one had called me that in years, and no one about that would send an envelope that looked like it made its way through a safari. The return address was listed as 3-1 Riverside, Flower Bud Village. No name listed.
I tore open the enveloped, eviscerating much of it in the process. I was never good at opening the blasted things. I had a feeling in the back of my mind who had sent the letter.
Hello, Cousin Benny!
Oh. It was my cousin Jack. I shook my head and grinned. I should've known from the start. The letter continued with my cousin's usually style of being overly-cheery, overly-nice, and overly-annoying. He was beating around the bush. I skimmed until I reached a good part.
Anyway, the reason I'm writing you is that I'm currently running a farm in Flower Bud Village. I was wondering if you'd like to come down here and help me run it. You were always good with plants and stuff and I seem to be having some trouble getting things to grow.
Jackie Boy, what have you gotten yourself into this time? Farming? Farming! You big dolt. No doubt he went in being the blind optimist he was with absolutely no regard to the consequences. I laughed a little. That was so Jack. The letter went on to describe contact information, as well as directions to this Flower Bud Village.
Before I could mull over the letter anymore, the phone rang. This I was expecting; no doubt a personal call from the editor, my superior, a typical hardass with no room for slackers or flow. He was my antithesis. I went back to my room and picked up the phone.
"Yeah Ned. Yup, I talked to Art." There was some boss-like moaning at the other end. "What's this got to do with… Now hold on here for a sec."
The day just turned sour.
"Liability? What kind of crap you trying to pull here, Ned? You listen here you son of a bitch…" The other line went dead. I slammed the phone down on the receiver. Well, hello unemployment. I rubbed my eyes and finished off my cigarette.
I sighed. "Well, crap."
I went back out into the living room, meaning to go the fridge and get good and smashed. I passed my cousin's letter on the couch's arm. I stopped. Farming, eh? I grabbed the letter, and went back to the phone. I picked it up.
"Yeah, operator? Get me a connection with somebody in Flower Bud Village, please."