The Glass Top Coffin (standard:drama, 2307 words) [2/12] show all parts
Author: Stephen-Carver Byrd	Added: Dec 31 2002	Views/Reads: 2878/1940	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
***Part 2.*** On Becoming - A Young Writer’s Inspiration

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

fishing equipment and supplies. Rods and reels, fishing line, live 
boxes of worms, flys, hooks, leaders and tackle boxes. Anything you 
needed for fishing was all there, yet not a single item had been 
disturbed in weeks. 

“I just knew how much you were looking foreword to making a little extra
money this summer, you know with your Mom and well....” Mr. Moore said 
awkwardly while glancing down at Jordan who was sitting in the old 
man's huge rocking chair. 

Oh, that's ok Mr. Moore, Jordan thought. Everyone around here knows how
poor Mom and I are. Maybe they should just put it up on billboards for 
everyone to see. 

Jordan sat rocking, staring up at the big moose head hanging on the
wall. Mr. Moore called it “Bullwrinkle.” He inherited the old moose 
when he bought the store a few years earlier. Bullwrinkle seemed an 
appropriate name seeing it's terrible, crumpled condition. Its left 
antler hung curiously to one side, one big glass eye was totally 
missing and it was covered everywhere with large bald spots. Mr. Moore 
estimated it to be at least one hundred years old, not to mention how 
old the fellow might have been when its head was butchered clean. 

“I finally finished my story,” Jordan called to the old man who was busy
pushing a large, red broom. “It's my latest and greatest,” he added 
proudly. “It's about a man who learned how to defy gravity.” 

“Now this I wouldn‘t miss for all the gold in Ft. Knox,” Mr. Moore
called back. Jordan smiled and dropped the folder to the floor. Mr. 
Moore was the only person Jordan had ever trusted to read his stories. 
The wise old man once told him it was probably a good idea not to show 
his writings around at this time, explaining, there were too many 
people in this world who had lost their own dreams for one reason or 
another and would cherish the idea of destroying his own---a natural 
process in the order of things. 

Mr. Moore's sweeping eventually brought him around to Jordan's feet.
“You know if you were a tad older, I'd let you run the store all by 
yourself this summer. Been wanting to take some time off, get caught up 
on a few things, maybe even go see my brother up in Kentucky.” Jordan 
already knew how to run the small store. He had done it a few 
afternoons when the old man had visited his heart doctor. The store had 
few costumers and most of the heavy work involved making small change 
and swatting at flies. Mr. Moore purchased the store some eight years 
earlier after his wife, Sara, had died. He'd once told Jordan he bought 
it just to have something to do. Mr. Moore had pointed out how much he 
hated sitting around his house in the big city, 16 miles away. “The 
walls were moving closer and closer each day that that I sat around 
that house. It was almost like those walls had eyes” 

“Maybe next year...maybe next summer?” Jordan asked with rising
excitement. 

“Well, we'll just have to wait and see, but when that time does come, it
will be mine and your mother's decision. Now get that into that thick, 
rootless head of yours,” he crabbed. Jordan lit another smile then 
slumped deep into the big rocker again. A sparkle flashed in the old 
man‘s eye. “Know what Jordi, when you get older, and I mean a lot 
older, maybe I'll just sell you this old store. Even give you a good 
deal on it, too.” Off course, Mr. Moore was not the least bit serious. 
Just out of curiosity, he wanted to see what sort of reaction he would 
get from the boy. Mr. Moore realized that Jordan's future stretched far 
beyond the path of selling snacks, tobacco and beer in a run-down 
country grocery store. However, the boy surprised him. 

Jordan glanced around the big room as if he were looking for something.
Then his eyes finally came to rest on a spot close to where he was 
sitting. He pointed to the floor; an area between the old rocker and 
big potbelly stove. “Yep, right here...right here is where I'm going to 
set up my desk and typewriter. Just imagine how quiet it'll be between 
costumers. That's a perfect idea, Mr. Moore; this store could be my 
entire writing office! “Jordan cried out in inspiration. 

“Glory be!” Mr. Moore said, rolling his eyes to the heavens. “Boy, you
sure have a way of making something out of nothing don't you? “You're 
talking about all those famous books you‘re gonna write someday, aren't 
you?” 

Jordan momentarily shined then nodded with self-conscious modesty. 

Sweeping off into another direction the old man stopped then bent
slightly over. Jordan looked into his face, horrified that all the 
color was suddenly gone. Mr. Moore sat the broom aside and began 
wobbling slowly toward the rocker. Jordan leaped from the chair and 
helped the old man gently into it. Mr. Moore reached under his mammoth 
butcher apron and pulled a small white pill from his shirt pocket then 
placed it under his tongue. The old man relaxed, leaning back into the 
chair and closed his eyes. Jordan stared at him in shock, tears flowing 
from his eyes, afraid to talk or move. After a few seconds, Mr. Moore 
opened his eyes and exhaled a slight smile. 

“What was wrong with you?” Jordan cried, noticeably shaken. 

“Just the old ticker staggering around again,” explained Mr. Moore, the
color now flowing smoothly back into his face. “Have one or two little 
spills every day. Been having them for years. Nothing to be concerned 
over as long as I have these little pills handy. Only takes them a few 
seconds to get me up and kickin' again. Say boy, those aren't tears in 
those eyes of yours, are they?” 

Jordan dashed to Mr. Moore and threw his arms around the old man. For a
brief moment, Mr. Moore was slightly surprised, but then he encompassed 
his own arms around the boy. His big scarred and disfigured hands, from 
an occurrence in his earlier life -- a life he would never discuss with 
Jordan -- kindly kneaded on the boy's skinny shoulders and back. 

“I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you,” Jordan wept.
“You're the only real friend I've got.” 

The old grocer patted Jordan lightly on the back and the boy slowly rose
to his feet. “Now don't go getting all gushy over an old fart like me, 
you know I can't handle that sort of stuff,” Mr. Moore said in a soft, 
grumpy voice, his own eyes slightly moist. “Besides, I'm sure you have 
a ton of friends around here.” 

“None,” Jordan instantly shot back. “None at all. They all make fun of
me because I like writing stories. They think that's sissy kind of 
stuff.” 

“Nonsense,” the old man said. “I know most of the boys around here, and
they're all decent little fellows. Thing is, you're not a crowd 
follower. Never been one myself. Do what I feel like doing. Decided if 
someone doesn't like it, then I say the hell with ‘em.” 

As Jordan nodded in agreement, Mr. Moore reached down and picked the
yellow folder off the floor. “Well let's just see about this new story 
of yours.” 

Jordan sat Indian style on the floor, closely studying Mr. Moore's eye
movements as they slowly scrutinized every sentence, paragraph and 
page. When he had finished, the old man neatly put the seventeen, 
handwritten pages back into the folder and returned it to the boy. 

“Well?” Jordan asked, knowing he could be either brow-whipped or
generously praised. When it came to Mr. Moore's straightforward 
appraisals, the old man rarely held anything back. Jordan was prepared, 
he had heard it all. 

Mr. Moore said nothing. He simply got out of the rocker and motioned for
Jordan to follow. Walking around the counter he opened a small drawer 
beneath the cash resister and pulled out a single sheet of notebook 
paper. Jordan stood on the other side of the counter, closely watching 
him. Mr. Moore laid the paper on the counter and drew a large “V” then 
he turned the sheet to where the V pointed directly at Jordan. “There 
are three types of people in this world,” he began. “Look here,” he 
said, pointing to the left side of the V. “These are all the people who 
have a burning desire to do something special in their lives yet they 
all lack the talent to fulfill it.” Then he pointed to the right side 
of the V. “Now over here are all the people who have a wonderful, 
gifted talent yet lack the aim to do anything with it.” Mr. Moore 
turned the sheet to where the V now pointed toward him then reached 
back into the drawer and pulled out a large magnifying glass. He 
studied the very tip end of the V carefully for a few seconds. “Yep, 
there you are.” They both looked up and made eye contact at the exact 
same moment. “You see Jordi, all those who are down on the very tip of 
the V, have that wonderful, gifted talent as well as a blazing desire 
to accomplish it. Very few around, but I can see that you're right down 
there with them.” 

“Well....does that sort of mean that I'm...special or something?” Jordan
asked in a tiny, insecure voice. 

“No it doesn't son,” Mr. Moore replied while placing everything back
into the drawer. He ran his big flawed and damaged fingers through 
Jordan's golden, curly hair and whispered, “That makes you blessed.” 

Continued - See part 3


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