The Chief

The truck is old, but then again so is he. Like the truck, he has a look, one you cannot oversee, nor would you want to. Even with his speckled gray hair and the slowdown in his step that came with life, his look was classic- just like his truck. But he isn’t just handsome, he is worn. Worn in a way that only a full life could give. It is not so much that he is beat but instead tattered with experiences, both good and bad.

He spent twenty years at the fire house, five of those as Chief. Even now, ten years after his retirement, the people of Castaway still affectionately call him “Chief” around town. He loves it but he doesn’t dare show it. He has never left Castaway, not for long anyway. But today that changes. Today, everything changes.

He pulls into the station a mile outside of town to fill up on gas and coffee. He wants to beat the setting sun hoping his anxiety will descend with the daylight. If he is going to do this, he wants to get it over with but more than that, he wants to do it right. He reaches into his glove compartment and gazes emotionless at the dollars bills spilling out of a small, frayed leather satchel. This morning that space belonged to his car registration and a map but now it holds $20,000 sloppy dollars staring at him. He slams the glove compartment with unintentional force and gets out of the truck.

“Fill up on three and a cup of coffee,” he says to the cashier.

“I don’t know how people drink coffee so late, I’d be up until midnight if I did that,” she says as she rings him up.

That is the plan. He gives her a smile that takes more effort than he expected.

Usually the cabin is barely lit by neighboring lights, faint enough to see the red front door. But tonight, it was as black as the coffee from the station. He parks the car and slowly walks up to the door, partly because he is still stiff from the drive but mostly because even after all these years, he fears what is inside. After retrieving the spare key from under the mat, he fiddles with the lock longer than he wants to. He blames the pathetically lit front door.

“Fuck,” he grunts as he swings the red door open in a way that invites him in yet pushes him out. For a moment he considers closing it and turning around. Leaving forever. Not this time, not again.

Once inside, he flicks on the closest light switch and stands for a long moment wondering how his life ended up here. In this cabin. Alone. But he remembers he is finally facing his fears. The fears that have cast shadows on his life ever since that fateful day ten years ago.

The last time he was here he was a different person. Someone he does not know anymore. Someone he does not want to know anymore.

He was exhausted but he knew he would not be able to sleep. Not yet. First, he must do what he came here to do. And even then, he is certain he will not be able to sleep. He accepts this without resistance. Sleep seems so unimportant as he embraces for the task ahead of him. He walks over to the desk, full of doubt, suspense and fear. He pulls out the top drawer with hesitancy and stops halfway. He considers leaving. He takes a deep breath and pulls the drawer wide open exposing his reason for being there. The little black book is just as he left it all those years ago. Still haunting. Still unopened. Still holding pages of secrets. But not for long.