Three Minnesota Vignettes

Three Minnesota Vignettes



I


The Landlord King
(Poetic Justice; a Minnesota Vignette, 2006)




When Dennis Harley got into the tenant-housing business, they called him ‘The Landlord King.’ He ended up having several structures around town, buildings, single houses, duplexes and so forth. Dennis Harley paid his five-employees good wages, the best ever paid about here. That may have been his mistake because folks thought he was rich and easy.
They (his employees) began setting him up, robbing him a little here, and a little there.
They figured he didn’t know it (even his daughter Zaneta, who did the cleaning of the halls and his son-in-law Mike who did light maintenance, along with John and his wife, the caretaker of one large building of Mr. Harley’s, who lived in a given free apartment, with all utilities paid, the handyman, or fixit man); but the truth of the matter is, it didn’t much bother him (or so it appeared).
It would seem—when his wife brought up the issue—it simply amused him, he’d say “You get know the people better in such cases, their character, honesty, who they really are.”
It seemed to puzzle his wife.
His wife Rosa, would catch his workers loafing, all five of them, and confronted them, which only seemed to annoy the son-in-law, and his daughter.
But Mr. Harley was cleaver and generous, he again appeared to overlook some of that.
“Well,” the three said “let’s burn his house down, kill him before he finds out, or leaves the country and takes us out of his will (for even John was in the will at one time).”
The three went whole-hog on their employer, and around 4:00 A.M., on a winter’s morn, lit a fire in the garage by Mr. Harley’s car, and ran and hid, thinking the car would explode and thus, aflame the whole house; having fired all three of them a month earlier.
The son-in-law raved and swore and declared within the neighborhood, to the neighbors he’d get what was coming to him (of course the house didn’t burn down, it was poorly lit).
Dennis Harley kept quite when all this was happening, and sold the house they lived in, and all the other property he owned, and decided to leave the country and live a quiet and comfortable life, and took all three out of his will. And he just laughed and said to his wife, “They’re all fools, spoiled fools, they could have had it all, and my son-in-law in particular, traded it all for the few cigarette butts his father gives him, after he’s done smoking, about ready to stomp on it; yes, he traded for a cigarette butt.”
So Mr. Harley and his wife were all fixed for life and the three, Mike, Zaneta, and John, sat solemnly on their rickety old rented front porch, hoping their new landlord would be half as generous, wondering where Mr. Harley vanished to.

No: 530 (11-29-2009) SA


II


Firelight!
(The old and the poor; a Minnesota Vignette, late 1950s)




He was getting old, a little round shouldered, where at one time he was solid straight. He had avoided all his good physical habits. He took life as it comes; when he was young he had been too hasty, although his balance, poise and moments were right on. Hence, he put his overcoat on, took his cane and walked outside into the gray twilight, could hear the tires of cars, soft-voices echoed from a distance, too chilled too quick to speak, muttered something to himself (“I want to kill someone today…”).
He had come out of his house to a spot along the side of the Cobblestone Street he lived next to—it was a gray twilight, he glanced up and down the street, and then he just did what he come to do. Poverty was too much for he old timer, and it had lasted too long: of course he was in debt to everyone he knew. He and his wife were at the point, eating cat food.
Oh, he seemed happy enough, but he was just tired of it all, he breathed deeply and straightened up his shoulders and said, “I want nothing more to do with man and his world.”

When his wife came looking for him her shoes had holes in them, her toes sticking out of the front, her pajamas, shredded for the most part—from endless washings, she had been sitting by her hearth. She screamed a second time for her husband, to no avail, then tiptoed to the front porch window, drew back the curtains, looking out across the porch onto the street (a premonition you might say).
That’s all she did and then she saw her husband lying dead in the street, trampled over by automobile tires.
“It’s a wonder,” she said “that he didn’t go insane.”
And just seeing him there, all alone, that must have made her heart stop beating. All that remained of the two was the firelight from the hearth, in the little house on Arch Street, in St. Paul, Minnesota (and it was a cold, cold winter).
The cane the old man had taken with him, to help him walk was broken over his thigh, the rounded top, hooked tightly around his palm and fingers, as if in a fist.
Now they both lay silent, with both their minds gone, and the city block they lived on, empty, and the fire in the hearth had died out. The old woman had fed the last of the fire (for warmth and light) with the bills and the envelopes they came in—to the hearth.

No: 527 (11-29-2009) SA


III

The Onion Lawyer!
(A Minnesota Vignette, late 1960s)




He had an onion hid in his handkerchief—and when he wanted a few cheap tears the lower while presenting his case in the courtroom, would bring the handkerchief out, and wipe his face, and eyes, and a flood of tears would let loose from those dark eyes—and the jury and judge would most often let his fellow clients off with lighter sentences, if not dismiss the case.
He would tell the jury up front—while those tears flooded his cheeks—tell them, honest men must stick together. He said he was the man, the lawyer for the poor, down and out, a man of the people for the people, and such men as he and they must stick together. Behind those tears was a cold, iron-hearted man and he’d point his finger, shaking it at the jury.
“Set him free, gentlemen!” he’d cry.
Seldom if ever, did anyone get a conviction, he rarely lost a case.
If it was up to this lawyer, no one would have been accountable for anything, among his clientele.
“The lawyer,” everyone said “should have been an actor.”
And had they reviewed his past employment, they would have found out, he was.

No: 529 (11-29-2009) SA