It was a Leap Day by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

It was a Leap Day

by Mike Bozart

© 2020 Mike Bozart 

It was a Leap Day – Saturday, February 29, 1896 – and wiry, 43-year-old, black-haired, handlebar-mustached Caucasian American Miles McGlowinghand was broke and very distressed. The Panic of 1893 had been brutal; all of his Union Pacific Railroad stock – his one and only security – was now burnt stone-oven toast – completely worthless. Juanita, his Mexican common-law wife of seven years, had left their modest abode near the mouth of Jackass Creek (real name; this area is now known as Wheeler) three days prior to go live with a Latino logger in Leggett Valley in the heart of the Northern California redwood forest. She couldn’t take the stress, arguing, gloom and despair anymore.

As Miles walked up the treeless section of the wintertime-eroding-and-calving-in-chunks ridge just south of Jackass Creek in the still-sunny four o’clock hour, he could see a very long, north-south fog bank slowly approaching, hovering just above the predominantly teal-colored Pacific Ocean. He paused while his mind raced. The fog is right on schedule. And I’m right on schedule, too. I guess. No one is going to miss me. Mom and dad dead and gone. May they be resting in peace. Steve won’t care. [Miles and his younger brother had a falling out in 1888 over presidential politics; Steve preferred Benjamin Harrison, while Miles backed Grover Cleveland.] No kids to leave behind. Well, at least none of which I’m aware. And now, no woman, either. Wonder if anyone will remember me on Leap Day in 2020. Why did I choose 2020? Twenty repeated. 124 years from now. Wonder what the [United States] Republic will be like then. Benz’s Motorwagen [the first modern car] will be everywhere, I bet. Wonder if it is foggy right now in Buenos Aires. Jim [a local friend] said that this economic depression [The Panic of 1893] all started in Argentina. The crop failed, but the coup succeeded. Sure wish it would have been the reverse. Not sure if [President] Grover [Cleveland] has made things better or worse. Silver, gold, or currency? Hell, no one wants paper money anymore. All those bank runs. All the hoarding of specie. It has made things worse. Much worse. People got scared. Lemmings afraid of their own shadows. Destitution demons. A chokehold. A fearful mentality that spread like a virus. A global pandemic. London and most of Europe are feeling it, too. ‘Better to get a dime on the dollar than a penny.’ So tired of hearing that. And Jim always saying to ‘just hang in there.’ Yeah, right. ‘It’ll be ok; it all goes in cycles. Just be a miser and ride it out. Just live frugally for now. Better times are ahead.’ ‘When, Jim? Exactly when?! Of course I am living frugally; I have no choice. I’m completely wiped-out now. There’s no time left on my clock, Jim. It’s zero o’clock for me.’ Nope, no time left for me. None at all. The house is in default. Four months in arrears. Shameful. Bill has been extra-nice, but eventually he will have to take it back. My lack of [rent-to-own] payments is hurting him. He’s not rich enough to absorb my shortfall. He’ll probably have to oust me any day now for a paying tenant. And then what? Where do I go? Back East? And do what? Ugghhh … Face it: It’s over, pal. Oh, why didn’t I cash out in January of ’92? I waited too long. Way too long. And then waited as long as I could. The ball of economic fate has never bounced back up. How in the world did Jim come up with that analogy: a ball for the economy? ‘Well, that economic fate-ball was made of kiln-dried clay – not rubber, Jim.’ It dropped … <thud> … and cracked on that cold, hard Wall Street. Cracked into a million pieces for Charles Dow to tabulate. A million irregularly shaped pieces of dreams. Shattered. Way too many to put back together any time soon. Wonder if some crafty ones are making money in these dire times. Would not be surprised. Would not be surprised if Jim is. Such an understatedly sly one. A select few always make out in these downturns. Secret deals. Inside information. Rigged results. Oh, what do I know? Not much it seems.

Suddenly an orange-billed bird, a black oyster catcher, darts by. Miles starts walking again, but he is still lost in a morass of decaying thoughts. ‘No maritime bivalve mollusks up here, birdie.’ Bet that bird thought that I had dropped some food. Or had some food to give. ‘Sorry, birdie, no excess food these days. Lean times. Nothing to give ya, partner. Good luck scouring the barnacle below.’ Heck, you might see me down there very soon. I bet that I would be enough food for a year or two. Well, my flesh would probably be foul and rotten after a few weeks. ‘Still, feast on me while you can.’ A shark will most likely be the ultimate consumer of my corpse. No burial expenses. ‘Hey, whatever happened to Miles?’ ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seem that guy in ages. It’s like he fell off the edge of the Earth and disappeared.’ Yep, I can hear the chatter already. All two minutes of it. ‘Well, maybe he hit the big time somewhere. Maybe he struck gold in the Yukon.’ Yep, I’m all-ready to hit the big time alright. The big time being that intermittently submerged rock a hundred feet [30.48 meters] below. Let’s make sure that we hit it dead-center, head-first. <splat> Let’s nail this final task. ‘Go out as a game-winner, Miles.’ A game-winner? My mind is shot – mentally bankrupt. Oh, let’s just end this protracted agony. 

Miles groans as he hears someone rapidly approaching. It is burly, 6’-4” (1.93 meters tall), white-haired, crimson-cheeked Jim. He has a seething, teeth-bared, manic expression. Why is he coming up here? Did he follow me? Is he mad at me? For what? An unpaid debt? But, I don’t owe him money anymore. Does he know what I plan to do? How? I didn’t tell anyone. Never even intimated as much.

“Hi Jim, are you feeling ok?”

“I’ll be feeling fine in four seconds,” Jim barks as he runs. And jumps. Off. The rocky, brown-earth ledge. What the hell?! He just jumped off this cliff! Damn! He’s dead! I just witnessed a suicide. Right in front of me. What should I do? Won’t be jumping now. Jim has tainted this cliff. Should I report this? No, they will think that we were struggling and I pushed him off. Need to get out of here. Fast. Hope no one saw this. Who will find Jim’s body? When will they find Jim’s body? Really hope the marine life dispatches his corpse. Quickly. Very quickly.

Miles then starts to retreat towards Jackass Creek. Why did Jim do it? Was he not really doing ok financially? Guess one never truly knows. That image of him falling. He didn’t even flap his arms an inch. Totally immobile. As rigid as a hurled log. In the no-second-chance air. Wonder what his final thought was.

1897 finally arrives. The Panic ends and the economy improves. Miles regroups and moves to Virginia City, Nevada. He takes a bartending job in a struggling-to-hang-on, post-boom-time tavern. And one Thursday September evening, Juanita walks in. Alone. She takes a seat at the bar. Why is she here? Why at this barely-in-business watering hole?

After seven interminable minutes, the two male Caucasian American drinkers vacate their barstools. It is now just Miles and brown-eyed, raven-haired Juanita. She’s up to something. How’d she track me down? And right when I’m getting back on my feet.

“Long time no see,” Miles declares. “Did Julio give you the boot?”

“Why did you kill Jim, chico amante?” [‘lover boy’ in Spanish]