The Dirt Man

My name is Joseph C. Hagin. The C stands for Charles, as that was my father’s name. I never knew my father as he had passed on my 7th birthday. Joseph was my mother’s father’s name, so I guess my mom won out when it came to picking my first name. For some reason, every time I would ask my mother about what had happened to my father she would be extremely vague and always changed the subject. I knew his death had some strange circumstances behind it, but I never really pressed the issue. She would usually just offer that he drank too much and so on. Being born in a small town just outside of the North Dakota plains made her story more plausible as there wasn’t much to do but to drink, especially for a poor and struggling dirt man. In short, dad dug holes for a living. To say we were dirt poor is certainly a pun intended!

Ever since I was a kid I had dreams of being a private detective. I would read the 5 cent papers as Dick Tracy became my hero of sorts. I definitely didn’t want to be a dirt man like my dad. My mother struggled to raise me and did things to earn a living, but sewing was usually the thing that paid the bills. For my 15th birthday my mom bought me this old, black trench coat she found at Gilder’s Thrift boutique. I could tell she did some patchwork, but I must admit it was a cool coat! That’s where my story gets interesting…

It was a Tuesday night, and we got hit with a brutal rainstorm. While the wind was kicking up hard, my mom asked me to hurry out the back and grab her clothes from the line. The wind was so strong it actually knocked me to the ground as I landed in a mud hole. Did I mention that I was wearing that trench coat that I had thrown on as the temperature was dropping fast? The next day I noticed the mud had hardened to a slight crust on the coat, and that actually brought a tear to my eyes. I went out to our shed and got a brush to try to get the thick stuff off. While vigorously wiping and brushing the trench coat, I felt a slight bulge inside the left side hidden pocket that I had not been aware of before. When I opened the zipper there was this small, black notebook with only one name with an address in it. Did mom plant this? Could this name have any significance to me? Guess you could say my days of being a detective had just started.

You should know that also branded just below the address in the black notebook was a scribbled drawing of a huge rock and what looked like a pecan tree. Kinda made me think this may be important to seek out.

As my mind keenly played it out, I hopped on my trusty bicycle and headed to the address with caution and with a spirited excitement. It took me about 45 minutes when I arrived at an abandoned oil landing. The smell of old oil and tar was something out of an old movie. As I glanced around, there it was, that exact tree standing tall hovering over a huge rock. I walked with purpose when my life was about to change.

In slow motion my mind wondered about this mysterious black notebook with only one name, address, and drawing. Tucked just beside the rock hidden from view there it was! A rusted, old gasoline can. The back had a hinged door that someone rigged up. I felt like I was in a Hollywood movie. I bent down cautiously and fought to get the hidden door open, cutting my hand in the process when I heard a voice.

“You’ve made me proud! I can only hope some day you’ll forgive me for being a raging failure.” I slowly turned shaking like a tree, only to see an older, spitting image of myself looking down at me. Without offering too much here and now, we talked for hours as we both cried in unison. A tall, older gentleman dressed in typical chauffeur garb slowly appeared handing me and my dad baseball gloves. One glove had a baseball tucked deep inside the web. We had a catch as we both had smiles on our faces as the chauffeur slowly descended back to where he appeared from. After our catch, I was offered an envelope. It was a certified check made out to me for $20,000. By no means did this place any kind of satisfaction or justification for a father’s abandonment, but it certainly was a conduit for others who may have suffered equally as a child.

I had made it home as dusk was falling. Holding hands my mom came clean about my childhood history and did what moms do best as she spared me some ugly truths, but did in fact give it to me straight. She asked for forgiveness and understanding as we embraced and just sat in silence for a while.

My mom searched for her favorite ballpoint pen in our kitchen drawer, and with check in hand we headed to the local Children’s mission to change the lives of so many.

I must admit a day does not go by that I don’t think about what was in the back of that old gas can with the hinged door. Should I go back and see, or just let it be? What significance does the old oil landing have to me, my mom, my dad, my life? I know more now than I once did, but is there more to this story? I can only assume the baseball catch we had was a father’s missed out delight. I will continue my journey for answers as my detective work has just started…

The End

Joey Fulco (C) 2021