“Now, back up a few steps. You got a name?”

            “Mark.”

            “Mark…”

            “Traxler. Mark Traxler. You?”           

            “I’ll keep mine in my wallet for now.”

            Mark tipped a nod as he backed up. The man wore desert camo pants with at least a dozen pockets for who knows what. Probably for more shells, magazines, c-rations, and lightly toasted tater-tots. On top more pockets stretched across a vest. Underneath a long sleeve tan button-down shirt. His wide brimmed hat was tied up on both sides which offset a thick mustache that crept around and down the sides of his mouth. His unlit stogie danced with each multi-syllabic word he spoke. He crouched and grabbed my gun.

            “I’ll keep this until I can get a bead on you. Mark, I don’t know what frays me more, your firearm or the thought of you pulling the trigger. A man in your state has no business carrying a toy-gun around.”

            “My state? Toy gun?” Mark blew out a sigh.

            The man stuffed the gun in a vest pocket and stood back with a grin barely visible underneath his hedgerow of a stache. His eyes took over where his smile left off.

            “Let’s go, Mark Traxler. Take a right when you’re back on my driveway.” The man waved his shotgun. “After you.”

             Great. A total stranger sniffed me out. Now I’m walking a rut to a scene from Deliverance. This old guy is going to shove me in a metal box in the middle of a bean field. I’ll be eating oatmeal with my fingers and lapping up broth though chapped swollen lips.

“Listen, Mark, my momma didn’t raise no dummy. She taught me the ways of the read. Look, you’re under an arrythmia of the soul. I need to figure out if you’re a danger to yourself or if my dogs and I are in the line of fire as well. They sure picked up on something, and I don’t think it was the stuff you dabbed behind your ears.”

My shoulders slumped.

“Mark, do you know that a man’s first right is the right to defend himself?”

            “I know it’s in the top three.”

            The man walked beside me now with the shotgun lowered over his right forearm. I sensed sage advice heading my way, and frankly, I’d welcome it over being locked up with the dogs.

            “Self-defense is the first defense. Selfish, perhaps, but if you get neutralized how can you help your neighbor? Put your oxygen mask on first and all that.”

            “Makes sense, mister.”

            “Mister? Okay, I’ll go with mister for now.”

            Mark knew he was Mr. Felks, but he was smart enough to not spill those beans. At the other end of the drive off to the right, sat a rough-hewn outhouse. On its door hung a placard which read “Don’t put up with crap.” Beyond that stood another outbuilding the size of a small storage shed. It looked like a retrofitted chicken coop. Then deep into the property stood living quarters. The front porch was neat. It bore two chairs and a small table. The metal sign over the stairs read “End of the Line.”

            “Come on up to the house, Mark.”

            As we got closer, a trio of growls broke the silence. Off to the side a dog pen was wrapped by overgrown shrubs.  

            “Settle!”

            The hounds instantly piped down and sat with their snouts through the fence. On a four by six board was painted “Moe, Curly, and Shemp.”

            “Which one’s Shemp?”

            “Shemp! Relax.”

            The bloodhound took a step back and laid all the way down with cheeks rolled out like a manta-ray’s wings. The beagle and basset hound remained at attention boring a hole through my calves as if they were drumsticks.

            “Have a seat, Mark. Need some water?”

            “Yes. Please.”

            The screen door squawked and slammed. The homestead was worn, and it was then I noticed a clap board barn on the other side of the driveway. Tucked in it was a fifties pickup truck, all curves and rust and islands of faded forest-green paint. A side-by-side ATV sat next to the barn as a chicken pecked away at tufts of crabgrass. This man of means didn’t seem as mean knowing he built a little sustainable plot with healthy animals.

            The door swung open, and I wondered how many years the sis-boom-bah swinging door spoke life into Mr. Felks humanity.

            “Here’s some H2O straight from the ground out back.” He handed me a camping metal mug which was cool to the touch.

            “Thank you, Mister.”

            He leaned the shotgun on the wall and sat in the other chair.

            “So, what brought you to my hillbilly estate besides running your girly car out of gas?”

            “I needed to get away and think. I zig-zagged my way out here to the sticks, and obviously didn’t think about the gas gauge.

            “I can remedy that. Got a big tank on stilts on the other side of the barn. The petrol is a bit aged like fine wine but still tickles the spark plugs. I can fill up a jug and get you on your way. But no need to rush off.”

            Does this guy have a trap door to the cellar? He seems nice enough, but do I want to be here after dark? Could he be another Ted Bundy or Ted Kacynski. There’s probably a corkboard pinned with strings connecting people and events in the chicken coop.

            “So, what is your name?”

            “Norm Felks.”

            Norm could be short for Normal. I couldn’t think of any bad Norms. Norm Hitler…No. I moved to the edge of my chair and offered a handshake. He gripped my hand solid and shook it down once.

            “Good to meet you, Norm.”

            He nodded and hummed.

            “Well, I don’t have any plans, so I could stay a bit.”

            “Good. Let’s go get your car before it’s pitch dark.”