The Candyman- Part 2

“So, kid, how much do you know about your hometown?” Ezekial asked once we’d sat down and made ourselves comfortable.

“Well, I know it was originally used to house logging crews way back when, before the hippies passed through and ruined everything,” I said, only partly joking.

“Now that’s a half-assed answer if I’ve ever heard one. Let me guess, weren’t big on school, am I right?” The old man began to rifle through his knapsack as he said this, taking a long pipe and pouch of tobacco out and setting it on the ground next to him. I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could he put up a finger and lit up, giving the pipe to me.
I must’ve looked at him funny, because he sighed and took it back, sucking in a lungful before exhaling a massive pillar of smoke.

“It’s OK, see? Saw the ‘Spirits you had in the back of your jeans, figured a peace pipe wouldn’t go awry. Go on, have some. You’ll need it, soon enough.”

Don’t want to be rude.

I grabbed it from his outstretched hand and took a big hit, coughing at the surprising strength and thickness of the sweet fumes. I looked back at the old man, and felt my cheeks grow hot as a raspy chuckle rose from his throat.

“There ya go, that’s some good shit right there!” I passed it back to him, and he gratefully accepted, blowing yet another cloud into the air above our little pow-wow. We continued like this for some time, just passing it back and forth, letting the horrors we’d both seen wash away on a sea of nicotine-laden smoke. But after the third or fourth leaf was packed in, his face turned grave once more, and he continued.

“So we’re gonna have to start from the beginning. That’s fine, I guess. Story’s already long, an extra half hour won’t matter none. Time’s a wastin’, so I guess now’s as good a time to start as any.”

Note from Lenny:
I had Ezekial rite this part. He's a lot beter than me at gettin the facts strait, and I think him riting this part is good idea. Hard to recal anythin these days, let alone get them down on paper in a strait line.

Hillock was as town whose success, as you know, was based almost entirely on the logging industry. At the time, Oregon’s forests were thick and mainly untouched by Man, making logging a very profitable venture.

Founded in the early 1950’s by the late Mr. Mifflan Sr., the town originally served as a sort of collection of rough housing developments with a trading outpost or two. The town was unnamed at that point, and wasn’t officially registered as a township until the early 60’s.

Due to the explosion of his corporation’s profits, the town enjoyed rapid growth, rising from a population of a mere 100 or so to 1,000 within just a few years. The company grew even faster than the town, and by 1963, the net worth of Mifflan Enterprises sat at a whopping 6,000,000 dollars.

During this productive time, Mr. Mifflan Sr. expanded his crew even further, gaining an impressive amount of hard-working men on his logging teams. Outsiders thought it was suspicious how quickly he rose, but anyone who worked for the man knew he didn’t take his success lightly. And he never let it get to his head. The man wasn’t some sort of soft city-boy, and he worked every chance he had with his own men. Sweaty and covered in sawdust and grime, he supervised and inspired his subordinates with his own astonishing work ethic.

Now Mr. Mifflan’s daughter, Martha Mifflan, was the very picture of innocence. The poster-child for the phrase, “Daddy’s Girl” she could often be seen bringing food up from the town’s one and only grocery store, the Harney and Son’s supermarket, for her father and his workers. Of course she was all smiles and easy on the eyes to boot, so it was no surprise that she received more than a few potential suitors among the ranks of the wealthy and elite.

Despite this, the one she fell for was someone much different than the pandering effeminate city-folk who were her usual fare- she ended up falling for a young man by the name of David Stanford; a humble employee at Harney and Sons who often helped her carry her groceries. No doubt she was attracted to his simple demeanor, the way he treated her like a lady, not a goddess. Perhaps this was what prompted her to finally confess her feelings for him.

Now, David was a special case- he was the son of a couple of the hippies that traveled through Hillock some years back. The youngsters who had him couldn’t afford to put him up for adoption and didn’t want him, so they left him on Reverend Thompson’s door, and went on their merry way. He was the sad byproduct of “Free Love” and a perfect example of what happens when a couple of stunted adults think they can have anything they want with none of the responsibility that comes with it.

Of course, the good Reverend and his late wife agreed to take little David in, and raised him as their own. When the time came to tell him that they weren’t his real parents, David vowed to settle down in Hillock and show that he could do better than his true mother and father by repaying the kindness the others in the town had shown him.

Martha’s father, being a blue-collar working man at heart, understood his work ethic and willingness to abandon his checkered past and happily gave his blessing, and only a month after the two were engaged, they were married at the town chapel’s rough-hewn altar by none other than Reverend Thompson himself, on April 23rd, 1964.

Normally, this would be a happy ending. Unfortunately for Martha and David, their happiness would prove to be very short-lived.

Near the end of the flower-child movement of the 60s, one particularly bright pothead brought up an interesting point; trees aren’t infinite, so what would happen if they ran out?

This was a major concern, and despite the fact that it came from the mouth of someone who thought having sex with anything that could say “yes” and pass a joint afterwards was commendable, people began to seriously consider the consequences of logging for the first time in a long while.

This started the environmentalist movement in America, and proved to be the eventual downfall of Hillock.

Now, normally, even with the protests going on, Mr. Mifflan Sr. would have everything under control; the man was brimming with charisma and was well-respected within the community, even by those citizens who had taken up picket signs. However, at the time, Mr. Mifflan’s health had taken a turn for the worse, and as a result he had to retire early and leave the future of his company in the grubby little hands of his less-than-capable son, Mr. Mifflan Jr.

His son was the exact opposite of his father in everything he did. He preferred to manage the company from the comfort of his air-conditioned office, and was never seen out working the fields with what he no doubt regarded as “the common rabble”. No, he was far more suited to gentler things, like making bad business decisions behind his father’s back and embezzling some more of the company’s funds to buy his latest gal a new pair of shoes.

Goodness knows why he was chosen to run the company (rumors say it was because he went to some uppity private business school), but the combination of his management or lack thereof and the protests and harassment the logging crews had to go through on a daily basis caused morale to drop to an all-time low.

Long story short, many of the workers for Mifflan Enterprises quit their jobs and moved out of town, fed up with the way things had been run, and sick to death of the constant harassment from many they used to consider friends.

Slowly but surely, the company died out; workers leaving left and right and the decreased lumber output caused the company’s profits to plummet. Even then, they might have pulled through, but a certain man by the name of Al Gore brought environmental concerns up again in the public eye, causing the eventual inclusion of new laws targeting companies with less-than-ideal toxic output. This proved to be the final nail in the coffin for Mifflan Enterprises, and the company shut their doors permanently only a year later.

This is the situation Job Stanford was born into- a town with no exports, a failing economy, and very little in the way of creature comforts. His family was living in the 60s when the year was 2000...a time capsule of culture, technology, and economy.

And although that doesn’t in any way explain why he did what he did, or excuse the results at all, perhaps it was a key factor in the locals now call “The Hillock Incident”.

Note from Lenny:
Ezekial rote this part 2. He’s a beter storyer than I am, and he was the one who tawkd to Job, so it only makes sense. Details shood all be there, but Job was not in good shape when he found him, so things may be a litle...out of place. Pleece keep an open mind, it will al make sense later.

It all started when Old Man Trundermann moved into the old Jameson residence.

He couldn’t have picked a worse time to move in.

We first learned about his presence in Hillock when Clark and I were on our way home from school. We’d found an intact football behind the bleachers in P.E., and had smuggled it out in my knapsack a few weeks ago, making a habit of tossing it back and forth on our way home each day. We were kind of clumsy with it at first, but had started to get pretty good at throwing spirals.

“You know, my dad told me that in the big cities like New York and Chicago, they have so much money they actually GIVE students free education if they get good at football,” Clark stated matter-of-factly as he tossed the ball to me.

“No way, that’s nonsense,” I argued, tossing it back.

“Really, that’s what I heard him say. Honest!”

Clark’s dad had never been known to tell tall tales, but I couldn’t afford to agree with him, just out of principle.

“Come on, Clark. There’s just no way they’d be rolling in that much scratch. These days, you’d be lucky to even get so much as a dollar a month for allowance.”

“Really, though, it’s true! It even has a special name- SCHOLARSHIP. Yeah, that’s the one! Go on, ask your folks when you get home. They’ll prove it for me!” At this point we had almost reached the end of our walk, and our houses were in sight just around the corner.

I stopped and turned toward him, about to come up with something funny, a real zinger so I could get the last word on the subject. I had just come up with a good one when my thoughts were broken by the sound of a purring engine behind me.

I looked, and was surprised to see what looked like an early-model ‘Benz cruise by, windows too tinted to see the driver.
What the hell, I thought as the car continued toward the house at the end of the cul-de-sac, is that Mr. Perkowitz, the realtor? No, it can’t be...no way he could afford something like that.

I looked over at Clark, wondering if he saw what I did, and was relieved to see him staring at the unknown car, as well.

“Hey Clark, you ever see that car around here before?” I asked, eyes still glued to that gleaming rear fender.

“Nope, I’d remember it if I saw a beaut like that cruising ‘round here.”

“Huh.”

The rest of the trip home was silent, and we didn’t even bother saying goodbye once we made it to our splitting off point- we both knew without saying anything that this would call for a Meeting. When I got home, I only vaguely heard my mother’s gentle chastising for being late for dinner, and barely acknowledged my father before dashing upstairs to get a good look at the new car that had parked in the Jameson’s driveway- a place which, until that day, hadn’t been occupied for five years.

As I finished washing my hands and rushed toward my bedroom, I heard a car door slam. In an instant, I had my curtains drawn aside and my eye up to my window, hoping to catch a glimpse of our new neighbor.

Unfortunately, just as I managed to get a good view of the car, the front door clicked shut and the car’s former occupant disappeared inside.

Damn.

“Job, supper!” My mother called.

With a sigh of impatience, I gave up my search and tromped downstairs, reasoning that I’d probably have a better chance of asking about the stranger at the dinner table.

That night’s dinner was delicious, by the by; roast beef and instant potatoes with corn on the cob. It was rare in those days to have such a great meal, what with all the layoffs that had been striking the town’s workforce. It was so good, in fact, that I almost forgot to mention anything about the new resident until after I finished my first helping and was well into my second.

“Oh yeah,” I mumbled through my potatoes, “I wanted to ask you...who’s the guy who moved into the old Jameson place? I saw him pull up in that Mercedes earlier on my way home.”

I winced a bit as my mother gave me a disapproving glare, no doubt because I was speaking with my mouth full, but father just smiled at me and cleared his throat, making a point of waiting until he had finished before responding.

“Actually, yes. I met him briefly over at the post office when I was waiting for my new uniform to come in. The man actually has been in town for quite some time, but hasn’t got the opportunity to move in till now. Apparently he’s still waiting for his furniture to get here, but from what you’ve said it seems it’s just arrived.”

“So he’s really moving here, then?” I kicked myself as I realized that this came out a bit more harsh than intended.

“Yes, dear. His name is Mr. Trundermann- not sure what his first name is, but I do know that he seems to appreciate solitude. He’s getting on in years, so I don’t want to hear that you’ve been messing around his house or being a bother, understand?” She gave me that look. You know, The One. The “Mom Stare”. I nodded, but her answer far from satisfied me.

The conversation then turned to my father’s work, so I quickly finished my supper and politely excused myself from the table, making sure to rinse off my dishes before heading upstairs.

Before I rounded the corner, however, I couldn’t help but overhear the concerned note in my father’s voice. Their talk had picked up much more once they saw I was on my way to bed, and if I concentrated just so, I could make out a few words here and there.

“Don’t know...boss said...let go.”

I quickly shook my head. It was just more of the same- no need to concern myself over rumors.

But when I finished brushing my teeth and washing my face and lay in bed, my mind had other ideas. It seemed to take years before I could relax, and it was only when I moved my hand that I noticed the deep fingernail imprints in my palm and the blood that caught on the bed sheets.

---

This was Part 2 of a serial novel I plan to upload in its entirety to steemit. I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave an upvote and resteem if you did, or, if you didn't, leave a comment suggesting edits and improvements. I am always open to constructive criticism, and am looking to improve my writing with each release.

Thanks for reading, and I'll see you tomorrow for part 3!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

All cover photos in this series are my own work, drawn in Mr. Doob, a procedural drawing tool, on my Chromebook.