Short Stories
It had been a long day in the field for Tom. He had prepared over 600 acres for planting, but now that part was over. After putting all of the equipment away, he walked slowly into the house where his shower was calling.
A little over an hour later he sank into a porch chair to relax before bed.
He had only been there a few minutes when an old worn out truck wheezed its way up the drive towards the house and coughed to a stop next to the porch. It was Tom’s closest (and oldest) neighbor Kriva and his equally old dog Tippy.
“Howdy, neighbor” called Tom.
“Howdy yourself when you get as old as I am,” replied Kriva.
“Have a seat if you think you can make it to the porch.”
“I may be old, but I can still whup’ up on you youngsters when I have to.”
The two men made the most unlikely friends. Kriva had come from India with his parents when he was a baby and had grown up in the same house where he still lived. At almost 80, he was feeling the effects of a lifetime of farming. But he still made it a habit to come over to Tom’s house at least twice a week to chew the fat.
Tom was in his mid-twenties and had bought the farm moved into the area about a year ago. He and met Kriva about 2 months after he moved in at the towns only gas station.
“Ain’t you the new feller down on Old Church Road?” asked the old man on the other side of the pump.
“Well I do not recall having seen a sign for Old Church Road, but I did just buy a farm in the area” replied Tom.
“I thought that was you with the shiny new truck that I saw going by my house this morning. I saw you come back and you pulled into the house with the purple shutters” said Kriva, leaning back onto the side of his truck.
“Yes, that is my house. I bought it only about a week ago. Why do you ask?” said Tom.
“Well, I’m you nearest neighbor. The name’s Kriva. Number’s 5602 if you need anything. Mind if I drop by this evening to chat?”
“That would be just fine. About 7:30 then?”
“Sounds good. See you then.” And with that Kriva went into the store to pay.
Since that meeting Kriva had become a source of information, humor, and history to Tom during his evening visits.
After an hour or so of conversation, coffee, and good-natured bantering, old Kriva decided that he better get back home: “Well, I better be getting’ back. The wife might call for a police search if I’m gone too long.”
“That was about the funniest thing that I ever saw” said Tom. “Those cops were searching all night and most of the morning before they decided to ask me if I had seen you.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” growled Kriva good-naturedly.
“And there you were, sleeping on my porch when they came to call.” Tom laughed at the memory. “I hadn’t the heart to wake you when you fell asleep, and I thought you could use the rest, so I used the back door when I started work the next morning.”
“Yeah, well you’ll get old too someday, just you remember that before you laugh too hard at us old folks,” Kriva said as he opened his truck door. “Up Tippy.”
“I’ll do that. Just you be careful now, ya’ hear,” was Tom’s reply.
“Well, if I have to.”
“I’ll tell your wife if you don’t.”
As Tom walked back into the house he heard the old truck start its wheezing way back down the drive towards the old man’s house.
“What a nice guy,” thought Tom to himself, “even after all he has been through he still hasn’t lost his edge.”
Just then the phone rang.
“Tom here,” he said into the receiver.
“Nebraska, Martin County, eighteen hundred west and eight ninety north, south east corner,” came the response.
“Thanks,” said Tom. “I’ll leave in an hour.”
“The transfer will be as usual.”
“How many,” asked Tom?
“Five, the middle five, of course,” said the voice on the other end of the phone.
“How long will I have,” asked Tom with a hint of steel in his voice.
“As long as you want,” came the reply.
“Good. It might take a while.”
“Good bye.”
“Thanks.”
And with that, Tom began to pack a small suitcase. But this was no ordinary trip. He was on a mission. His mouth was set in a firm but thin line, and his eyes showed nothing. Nothing but a great emptiness.
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