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janie_tangerineThe promised second part of the fic dump shall come tomorrow or the day after but meanwhile I'm going on with this one. These two chapters are grouped because they're both pretty short and nothing particular happens while from next part hell breaks loose. ;)
Title: I've Been Everywhere 7/14 and 8/14
Rating: PG-13 for both of these parts, will reach NC17 overall
Characters/Pairings for this part: part seven: Jack, Sawyer, Frank. Part eight: Jack, Sawyer, Penny.
Word counting: part seven, 2373 words; part eight, 2710 words.
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine and all the folk songs used here are not mine. The places really exist and I've never been there.
Summary: Sawyer is a rambling musician during the Dust Bowl, Jack a former L.A. doctor traveling with him.
Thanks to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elliotsmelliot for the great beta job for which I can't be grateful enough and to fosfomifira for the title. I'd still be searching for one otherwise.
A/N: the songs in here are How Can A Poor Man Stand Such Times And Live by Blind Alfred Reed and Shenandoah, traditional which I found by Pete Seeger and Springsteen but which I guess could be found by someone else, too. The election they talk about in part seven is the 1936 one.
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Part XII, Part XIII, Part XIV
Title: I've Been Everywhere 7/14 and 8/14
Rating: PG-13 for both of these parts, will reach NC17 overall
Characters/Pairings for this part: part seven: Jack, Sawyer, Frank. Part eight: Jack, Sawyer, Penny.
Word counting: part seven, 2373 words; part eight, 2710 words.
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine and all the folk songs used here are not mine. The places really exist and I've never been there.
Summary: Sawyer is a rambling musician during the Dust Bowl, Jack a former L.A. doctor traveling with him.
Thanks to:
elliotsmelliot for the great beta job for which I can't be grateful enough and to fosfomifira for the title. I'd still be searching for one otherwise.A/N: the songs in here are How Can A Poor Man Stand Such Times And Live by Blind Alfred Reed and Shenandoah, traditional which I found by Pete Seeger and Springsteen but which I guess could be found by someone else, too. The election they talk about in part seven is the 1936 one.
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Part XII, Part XIII, Part XIV
How Can A Poor Man Stand Such Times And Live?
Wyoming ain’t that bad of a place. Not really. The winter this year isn’t exactly as cold as usual and the weather is as dry as it gets. Sure, they spent a week working on some farm in the other half of godforsaken Nebraska in order to have the owner dropping them here with a fuller leather purse to make things even better. Sawyer is used to working and since half of the people around the farm were sick at least Jack had managed to do his own job. Not that Sawyer thinks he’d have objected to doing the hard work, but he has always thought that if there’s some job one is cut to do that’s what he should do if he can and Jack is definitely cut for his job. Sawyer hasn’t still understood whether he has found the job he’s cut for; sometimes he doubts that playing music is his true vocation. But it’s also true that the only other thing he ever was better at than playing music is conning and he’d rather have the music over that. Seriously.
So now they’re in Saratoga’s main street, him with pack on his right shoulder and guitar on the left, Jack with his bag, with kind of no idea where to go. He knows how to get to Salt Lake City from here, there’s a Greyhound, but he hasn’t ever been in this city and doesn’t know any places.
“Looks like a nice town.”
“Yeah, surely better than Madison or whatever the fuck it was. So, I guess we gotta find ourselves some place. You counted the money after we left?”
“Yeah. You won’t believe it.”
“How much?”
“Sixty-five dollars or something.”
“How much?”
“You really didn’t get the conditions? The guy was so desperate that he paid us twenty each for just that week.”
“Ain’t that fuckin’ great.”
“You know, we could pay the train ti...”
“I can concede you the bus only. Like hell I’m ever payin’ for a ticket on a train. Did it once and won’t do it ever again.”
He really doesn’t want to think about the last time he paid for a train ticket, Boston-Nashville, one way, while the first was Nashville-Boston, one way, too.
“Okay. Fine, as you wish. But I think we really should find some place.”
“Yeah, guess you’re right. Well, move your ass. That’s the main road, there’s gotta be somethin’.”
They discard at least two places, one seemed too pricey and the second one wouldn’t hear of live music, when they turn into some small alley where there’s an inn, alright.
“Jackass, what’s the name?”
“Do you trust a place called the Cockpit?”
“What, like in airplanes?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, guess it’s at least imaginative. Prices?”
“Low.”
“I’d say let’s get in.”
Jack nods and pushes the wooden door open; the floor slightly cracks under his feet as he comes in. The room is pretty big, the walls of the same dark wood that covers the floor; there’s a big counter on the far right, an enormous picture of President Roosevelt hung on there, a sign reading Republicans can fuck off hung exactly next to it. The tables are all of that same dark wood, the only window is open, a few people are playing poker and behind the counter is a pretty tall man, in his mid-fifties or early sixties, with a white beard and white hair, lively eyes and an awful to God blue shirt covered in red flowers. He’s cleaning a beer glass when he sees them and hollers to come on that way. The tone is pretty friendly and so they come closer. Jack opens his mouth, but the guy holds his hand up.
“Okay, my friends, just one question ‘fore you say anything. Who did you vote for at the latest election?”
He turns towards Jack, who clears his throat.
“Roosevelt, even if everyone I knew didn’t like it.”
“Good. You ever voted Republican?”
“Not really. I mean, when I voted I never voted Republican.”
“Good enough. What ‘bout you?”
“I ain’t ever voted.”
“Never.”
“Never. Got more pressing matters to think ‘bout.”
“Well, at least you didn’t vote Republican. That’s good. I’m sorry, but you read the sign, right?”
“Read it alright, Mr...”
“Lapidus, but you can call me Frank. I hate formalities.”
“Well, your Democrat friend here is Jack and I’m Sawyer and we’re searching for two rooms to spend the night.”
“Ooooh-kay, and what else?”
“What d’you mean?”
“You ain’t got the look of someone who wants to pay for said rooms, so what’s up your sleeve?”
Sawyer chuckles, thinking that he’s liking this guy here. Jack looks pretty amused, too.
“Well, he’s a doctor so I guess he could check you up for free if you needed that. While... well, I play music. If you need some entartainment in the house tonight...”
“Wait a moment, you’re tellin’ me you’re that Sawyer? The one of the french woman song? The one of that song about that brothel in Kansas and...”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s me alright.”
Suddenly Sawyer finds his hand being vigorously shaken.
“Buddy, if I knew it was you, I’d have given you the room for free as soon as you said that. Your friend too, no problem. But if you really wanna play, why, that’ll be great. We ain’t had much music laterly ‘round here.”
“I’m really flattered, really, but...”
“Though you know what? You really should vote, next election.”
“Well, really, that doesn’t...”
“Yeah, yeah, I know it doesn’t effect you, but fuck it, it effects a lot of other folks and I’ll tell you, ain’t no one better to vote for than ol’ Roosevelt behind my back. Even though I’m sure they’re tryin’ to get him killed.”
Jack suddenly leans over the counter, his eyebrows raised.
“What? Since when?”
“Since Washington is a whole big conspiracy, and it’s always been really. But if they kill him what he’s done up to now won’t be no good and if he doesn’t get a good deal of votes they might outnumber him and I don’t want that. The man has half pulled this country outta its misery, I’m sure he can pull the other half, too. You see that we’re doing what we can.”
Jack nods and follows the conversation, while Sawyer is fine with ordering a whiskey on the house as they blather about politics and conspiracies and Roosevelt and shit; Sawyer has never given a damn about politics and he’s surely not starting now. For all that concerns him, politicians weren’t there when he buried his mother, his wife and his daughter and surely weren’t there when he had lied his way through life. Right, probably following Frank’s line of reasoning, he should go and vote the hell out of Roosevelt since all the shit that has happened during his life apart from his dad kicking the bucket was when Republicans were governing, but he just doesn’t give a damn enough. Looks like Jack does though, and he gets that. After all, the guy looks like the kind who votes. He wonders for a second whether he’ll end up waiting for him outside some run down school and he realizes that he has just assumed they’ll be going around together in November.
Pretty much crazy.
So he just drinks his whiskey, doesn’t listen to Frank’s conspiracy theories that are now concerning the other Roosevelt and sets on flirting with that nice waitress that has momentarily nothing to do.
--
So, thing is, playing sitting on a counter is way funnier than on those stages they usually have in bars; Sawyer doesn’t think that apart from Juliet’s there’s one he’s played on that hadn’t seen its better days during the Civil War. He likes playing on counters just because there’s people all around, it takes way less time to get himself a drink and it’s not like they’re harder than the chairs he always sits on anyway. Sure, playing with Roosevelt watching you from behind isn’t exactly the best option; considering the atmosphere this place has when it’s full it’s like God is watching you or something. But it’s okay like this; he has forgotten it after the first song anyway and he travels with a patented Democrat; God (or Roosevelt) will forgive him, or at least this one incarnation.
He has just been through the second round of Goodnight Irene and he’s kind of sick of it, especially because blues never was his style much; but Frank said his audience likes it and so blues it is. Sawyer actually thinks that he just lacks the background to play it any good, but after all Michael had told him once that he had never seen so black a soul in a white man. Even though Sawyer had always thought he had said it because of how he picked cotton, not because he ever heard him playing anything, but considering where his guitar comes from, maybe he’s better at it than he thinks.
Anyway, now that he thinks about Michael, he’s remembering this song that he thinks might be very appreciated. Especially from an audience full of Democrats who seem to have lost most of their money exactly when he lost his own but that look like they’re faring pretty decently, all things considered.
He savors his applauses, smiling again at the nice waitress; he takes a sip from the beer Frank has thrown him just now and then clears his throat.
“Looks like you like blues here, huh?”
The cheer he gets is enough to confirm that it was a rhetorical question.
“Excellent. Then I got this song an old friend of mine always sang that I think you might like. What ‘bout it?”
There’s cheer and there’s someone shouting let’s hear it and Sawyer is only too glad to comply. He places his guitar better and starts as half a smile cracks his lips.
“There was once a time when everythin’ was cheap, but now prices almost puts a man to sleep, when we pay our grocery bill we just feel like makin’ our will, tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live...”
He grins as a couple of people start to shout in approval. He really needs to think about the stuff Mike liked, it might turn out useful.
“I remember when dry goods were cheap as dirt, we could take two bits and buy a dandy shirt, now we pay three bucks or more, maybe get a shirt that another man wore, tell me, how can a poor man stand such times and live...”
It looks like they do remember when dry goods were cheap as dirt; he remembers that, too. Then he realizes there was another stanza and he completely forgot it, but whatever, no one is going to mind.
“Oh, the schools we have today ain't worth a cent, but they see to it that every child is sent, if we don't send everyday, we have a heavy fine to pay, tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live...”
Sawyer doesn’t actually mind that, he thinks that sending kids to school and forcing them there is pretty much the best thing that could happen to them, especially since he had to quit in mid-school and he has always resented that. Not like he has the chance to pick it up again now anyway. Looks like he’ll have to make something up to change that part. Anyway, he’s sure they’ll like the following one, though.
“Prohibition's good if 'tis conducted right, there's no sense in shooting a man 'til he shows flight, officers kill without a cause, they complain about funny laws, tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live? Most our preachers preach for gold and not for souls, that's what keeps a poor man always in a hole, we can hardly get our breath, taxed and schooled and preached to death, tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live...”
Frank winks at him and nods eagerly. Hell, he hasn’t chosen better a song in a while.
”Oh, it's time for every man to be awake, we pay fifty cents a pound when we ask for steak, when we get our package home, a little wad of paper with gristle and a bone, tell me, how can a poor man stand such times and live?”
And then there’s a part about a doctor that gives humbug pills, but he just repeats the last one making it seem like he has forgotten it. He has barely noticed Jack, who is drinking in the corner of the counter, looking alternatively at him and at Roosevelt, but he just doesn’t feel like he can sing that convincingly. It’s funny, a while ago he wouldn’t have had such a stupid quibble. He has now, though, but he settles on ignoring it and drink his beer when he’s done.
He looks at Jack, who seemingly knew the song since there’s a dry smile on his lips. Sawyer winks at him half a second, then turns back to someone who is requesting something and he starts playing The Midnight Special. Fuck, he really thinks that Michael would have a heart attack if he saw him now.
--
They leave the next day with two very hearty pats on their back, a flyer with Roosevelt’s face for each of them and a ride from a buddy of Frank’s to Salt Lake City.
“Sawyer?”
He turns his head towards Jack as they sit in the back of the guy’s pick-up.
“Yeah?”
“You know... I know that song.”
“What?”
“They sang it in camps. Anyway, I know it. All of it, I mean.”
“And so...?”
“Well, you forgot a couple stanzas yesterday.”
“Memory’s not as good as could be.”
“I think you forgot one on purpose.”
“What?”
“Leave it. Thanks anyway.”
Jack turns his head to the other side and Sawyer shrugs and takes his head into his hands.
He might just add another bit of his own now to that song. It’d end as all the stanzas do and mention cryptic, control-freak doctors. Why not?
TBC
Wyoming ain’t that bad of a place. Not really. The winter this year isn’t exactly as cold as usual and the weather is as dry as it gets. Sure, they spent a week working on some farm in the other half of godforsaken Nebraska in order to have the owner dropping them here with a fuller leather purse to make things even better. Sawyer is used to working and since half of the people around the farm were sick at least Jack had managed to do his own job. Not that Sawyer thinks he’d have objected to doing the hard work, but he has always thought that if there’s some job one is cut to do that’s what he should do if he can and Jack is definitely cut for his job. Sawyer hasn’t still understood whether he has found the job he’s cut for; sometimes he doubts that playing music is his true vocation. But it’s also true that the only other thing he ever was better at than playing music is conning and he’d rather have the music over that. Seriously.
So now they’re in Saratoga’s main street, him with pack on his right shoulder and guitar on the left, Jack with his bag, with kind of no idea where to go. He knows how to get to Salt Lake City from here, there’s a Greyhound, but he hasn’t ever been in this city and doesn’t know any places.
“Looks like a nice town.”
“Yeah, surely better than Madison or whatever the fuck it was. So, I guess we gotta find ourselves some place. You counted the money after we left?”
“Yeah. You won’t believe it.”
“How much?”
“Sixty-five dollars or something.”
“How much?”
“You really didn’t get the conditions? The guy was so desperate that he paid us twenty each for just that week.”
“Ain’t that fuckin’ great.”
“You know, we could pay the train ti...”
“I can concede you the bus only. Like hell I’m ever payin’ for a ticket on a train. Did it once and won’t do it ever again.”
He really doesn’t want to think about the last time he paid for a train ticket, Boston-Nashville, one way, while the first was Nashville-Boston, one way, too.
“Okay. Fine, as you wish. But I think we really should find some place.”
“Yeah, guess you’re right. Well, move your ass. That’s the main road, there’s gotta be somethin’.”
They discard at least two places, one seemed too pricey and the second one wouldn’t hear of live music, when they turn into some small alley where there’s an inn, alright.
“Jackass, what’s the name?”
“Do you trust a place called the Cockpit?”
“What, like in airplanes?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, guess it’s at least imaginative. Prices?”
“Low.”
“I’d say let’s get in.”
Jack nods and pushes the wooden door open; the floor slightly cracks under his feet as he comes in. The room is pretty big, the walls of the same dark wood that covers the floor; there’s a big counter on the far right, an enormous picture of President Roosevelt hung on there, a sign reading Republicans can fuck off hung exactly next to it. The tables are all of that same dark wood, the only window is open, a few people are playing poker and behind the counter is a pretty tall man, in his mid-fifties or early sixties, with a white beard and white hair, lively eyes and an awful to God blue shirt covered in red flowers. He’s cleaning a beer glass when he sees them and hollers to come on that way. The tone is pretty friendly and so they come closer. Jack opens his mouth, but the guy holds his hand up.
“Okay, my friends, just one question ‘fore you say anything. Who did you vote for at the latest election?”
He turns towards Jack, who clears his throat.
“Roosevelt, even if everyone I knew didn’t like it.”
“Good. You ever voted Republican?”
“Not really. I mean, when I voted I never voted Republican.”
“Good enough. What ‘bout you?”
“I ain’t ever voted.”
“Never.”
“Never. Got more pressing matters to think ‘bout.”
“Well, at least you didn’t vote Republican. That’s good. I’m sorry, but you read the sign, right?”
“Read it alright, Mr...”
“Lapidus, but you can call me Frank. I hate formalities.”
“Well, your Democrat friend here is Jack and I’m Sawyer and we’re searching for two rooms to spend the night.”
“Ooooh-kay, and what else?”
“What d’you mean?”
“You ain’t got the look of someone who wants to pay for said rooms, so what’s up your sleeve?”
Sawyer chuckles, thinking that he’s liking this guy here. Jack looks pretty amused, too.
“Well, he’s a doctor so I guess he could check you up for free if you needed that. While... well, I play music. If you need some entartainment in the house tonight...”
“Wait a moment, you’re tellin’ me you’re that Sawyer? The one of the french woman song? The one of that song about that brothel in Kansas and...”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s me alright.”
Suddenly Sawyer finds his hand being vigorously shaken.
“Buddy, if I knew it was you, I’d have given you the room for free as soon as you said that. Your friend too, no problem. But if you really wanna play, why, that’ll be great. We ain’t had much music laterly ‘round here.”
“I’m really flattered, really, but...”
“Though you know what? You really should vote, next election.”
“Well, really, that doesn’t...”
“Yeah, yeah, I know it doesn’t effect you, but fuck it, it effects a lot of other folks and I’ll tell you, ain’t no one better to vote for than ol’ Roosevelt behind my back. Even though I’m sure they’re tryin’ to get him killed.”
Jack suddenly leans over the counter, his eyebrows raised.
“What? Since when?”
“Since Washington is a whole big conspiracy, and it’s always been really. But if they kill him what he’s done up to now won’t be no good and if he doesn’t get a good deal of votes they might outnumber him and I don’t want that. The man has half pulled this country outta its misery, I’m sure he can pull the other half, too. You see that we’re doing what we can.”
Jack nods and follows the conversation, while Sawyer is fine with ordering a whiskey on the house as they blather about politics and conspiracies and Roosevelt and shit; Sawyer has never given a damn about politics and he’s surely not starting now. For all that concerns him, politicians weren’t there when he buried his mother, his wife and his daughter and surely weren’t there when he had lied his way through life. Right, probably following Frank’s line of reasoning, he should go and vote the hell out of Roosevelt since all the shit that has happened during his life apart from his dad kicking the bucket was when Republicans were governing, but he just doesn’t give a damn enough. Looks like Jack does though, and he gets that. After all, the guy looks like the kind who votes. He wonders for a second whether he’ll end up waiting for him outside some run down school and he realizes that he has just assumed they’ll be going around together in November.
Pretty much crazy.
So he just drinks his whiskey, doesn’t listen to Frank’s conspiracy theories that are now concerning the other Roosevelt and sets on flirting with that nice waitress that has momentarily nothing to do.
--
So, thing is, playing sitting on a counter is way funnier than on those stages they usually have in bars; Sawyer doesn’t think that apart from Juliet’s there’s one he’s played on that hadn’t seen its better days during the Civil War. He likes playing on counters just because there’s people all around, it takes way less time to get himself a drink and it’s not like they’re harder than the chairs he always sits on anyway. Sure, playing with Roosevelt watching you from behind isn’t exactly the best option; considering the atmosphere this place has when it’s full it’s like God is watching you or something. But it’s okay like this; he has forgotten it after the first song anyway and he travels with a patented Democrat; God (or Roosevelt) will forgive him, or at least this one incarnation.
He has just been through the second round of Goodnight Irene and he’s kind of sick of it, especially because blues never was his style much; but Frank said his audience likes it and so blues it is. Sawyer actually thinks that he just lacks the background to play it any good, but after all Michael had told him once that he had never seen so black a soul in a white man. Even though Sawyer had always thought he had said it because of how he picked cotton, not because he ever heard him playing anything, but considering where his guitar comes from, maybe he’s better at it than he thinks.
Anyway, now that he thinks about Michael, he’s remembering this song that he thinks might be very appreciated. Especially from an audience full of Democrats who seem to have lost most of their money exactly when he lost his own but that look like they’re faring pretty decently, all things considered.
He savors his applauses, smiling again at the nice waitress; he takes a sip from the beer Frank has thrown him just now and then clears his throat.
“Looks like you like blues here, huh?”
The cheer he gets is enough to confirm that it was a rhetorical question.
“Excellent. Then I got this song an old friend of mine always sang that I think you might like. What ‘bout it?”
There’s cheer and there’s someone shouting let’s hear it and Sawyer is only too glad to comply. He places his guitar better and starts as half a smile cracks his lips.
“There was once a time when everythin’ was cheap, but now prices almost puts a man to sleep, when we pay our grocery bill we just feel like makin’ our will, tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live...”
He grins as a couple of people start to shout in approval. He really needs to think about the stuff Mike liked, it might turn out useful.
“I remember when dry goods were cheap as dirt, we could take two bits and buy a dandy shirt, now we pay three bucks or more, maybe get a shirt that another man wore, tell me, how can a poor man stand such times and live...”
It looks like they do remember when dry goods were cheap as dirt; he remembers that, too. Then he realizes there was another stanza and he completely forgot it, but whatever, no one is going to mind.
“Oh, the schools we have today ain't worth a cent, but they see to it that every child is sent, if we don't send everyday, we have a heavy fine to pay, tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live...”
Sawyer doesn’t actually mind that, he thinks that sending kids to school and forcing them there is pretty much the best thing that could happen to them, especially since he had to quit in mid-school and he has always resented that. Not like he has the chance to pick it up again now anyway. Looks like he’ll have to make something up to change that part. Anyway, he’s sure they’ll like the following one, though.
“Prohibition's good if 'tis conducted right, there's no sense in shooting a man 'til he shows flight, officers kill without a cause, they complain about funny laws, tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live? Most our preachers preach for gold and not for souls, that's what keeps a poor man always in a hole, we can hardly get our breath, taxed and schooled and preached to death, tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live...”
Frank winks at him and nods eagerly. Hell, he hasn’t chosen better a song in a while.
”Oh, it's time for every man to be awake, we pay fifty cents a pound when we ask for steak, when we get our package home, a little wad of paper with gristle and a bone, tell me, how can a poor man stand such times and live?”
And then there’s a part about a doctor that gives humbug pills, but he just repeats the last one making it seem like he has forgotten it. He has barely noticed Jack, who is drinking in the corner of the counter, looking alternatively at him and at Roosevelt, but he just doesn’t feel like he can sing that convincingly. It’s funny, a while ago he wouldn’t have had such a stupid quibble. He has now, though, but he settles on ignoring it and drink his beer when he’s done.
He looks at Jack, who seemingly knew the song since there’s a dry smile on his lips. Sawyer winks at him half a second, then turns back to someone who is requesting something and he starts playing The Midnight Special. Fuck, he really thinks that Michael would have a heart attack if he saw him now.
--
They leave the next day with two very hearty pats on their back, a flyer with Roosevelt’s face for each of them and a ride from a buddy of Frank’s to Salt Lake City.
“Sawyer?”
He turns his head towards Jack as they sit in the back of the guy’s pick-up.
“Yeah?”
“You know... I know that song.”
“What?”
“They sang it in camps. Anyway, I know it. All of it, I mean.”
“And so...?”
“Well, you forgot a couple stanzas yesterday.”
“Memory’s not as good as could be.”
“I think you forgot one on purpose.”
“What?”
“Leave it. Thanks anyway.”
Jack turns his head to the other side and Sawyer shrugs and takes his head into his hands.
He might just add another bit of his own now to that song. It’d end as all the stanzas do and mention cryptic, control-freak doctors. Why not?
TBC
7. Shenandoah
Jack likes real cities, nothing to do about that. After all, he grew up in LA; for once he really is relieved of staying a bit in a city instead of the usual small town.
Salt Lake City is good enough for his standards and as he’s more interested in taking a look around than anything else, he doesn’t catch all of what Sawyer is saying as they get out of Frank’s friend’s pick up. It’s early in the afternoon, it’s cold but the sky is clear and blue; for a second he wishes they would stay for more than one day, but then he shakes his head. That wouldn’t really do, after all.
At one point Sawyer stops, though, and now that’s strange because it isn’t some bar or inn or any kind of place Sawyer would stop at, in his (limited) experience. He’s looking at some bookstore’s window.
“You want to go in?” he asks after five minutes of standing there. It’s still cold and if he has to stay still, he’d like it better inside.
“Well, why not. Let’s have a look.”
Sawyer goes in and Jack follows him. The shop consists of a single wide room, pretty warm all things considered; books seem to fall from the shelves and they’re placed in second and third rows, in a semblance of alphabetic order. From the look on Sawyer’s face, Jack thinks this is the kind of order that he likes. He sits on a chair forgotten in a corner as Sawyer starts to flip through some very heavy hardback; then there’s a noise behind him and he almost falls off.
“Do you need any help?”
A woman had appeared seemingly from nowhere, even though Jack figures she was probably washing her hands in a bathroom he can’t place the location of right now; she’s in her early thirties probably, wears black trousers and a blue sweater, her blond hair falls straight over her shoulders and it’s obvious that she hasn’t had a cut for a while. She smiles at both of them and it’s a friendly smile, her dark brown eyes matching it.
“Me, not exactly,” Jack answes smiling back, “but maybe he would.”
“Not much of a reader?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“Not really.”
Jack has an idea that she isn’t from here. Her accent is different. He needs to place it, also because he’s sure he has heard a similar one recently somewhere. If he just realized when...
“Don’t mind him, my friend there’s got other good qualities. You got yourself a nice shop, miss,” Sawyer says as he closes the book he was flipping through.
“Why, thank you. If it interests you, there’s a sale on.”
“Really?”
“Well, I sort of decide it is whenever I feel like it.”
She winks at him then and he winks back; he’s liking this attitude.
“So, you wanted something in particular?”
“Depends on what you have to offer.”
“Difficult client, I see. Well, what do you like? Who’s your favorite author?”
“That’s a tricky question, miss.”
“He likes Mark Twain,” Jack says as he rises from his chair and comes closer; he’s still trying to place the girl’s accent. Damn, where did he hear it lately? It’s faint, though; and anyway, she speaks way more properly than he has heard anyone speaking since the last time he saw his mother. Which was a long ago, but this isn’t really the time to think about his mother.
Sawyer rolls his eyes, but the girl looks quite amused. She searches for a bit in a pile and takes out a fairly new paperback. Jack squints and makes out the title, Tortilla Flat, but not the author.
“I think you might like this.”
“Well, I surely won’t refuse, if the expert says so. And if you make me a good price.”
“What’s a good price to you?”
“Seventy cents?”
“I think I have an offer you’d like better.”
“Really.”
“Take four and you pay three dollars.”
“We’ve got an economist here. Doc, what d’you say?”
“I’d say it sounds convenient. Go ahead, for once we have some money to spare I guess.”
Sawyer doesn’t answer and kneels near a pile of books precariously standing on the floor; Jack stands up and takes a look himself, figuring that he might as well. It’s not that he doesn’t like reading, it’s just that it never was a priority; since he started studying medicine there always was something more urgent to do than reading novels. He had liked it once, when there still was time to read and while he knew that there were expectations laid on him, he could afford to ignore the issue.
He picks up an old copy of Three Men In A Boat; he can’t help smiling briefly, he remembers reading that when he was twelve or thirteen and having his good deal of fun with it. He turns the pages slowly, then shuts it close. He’s about to place it back where it was when Sawyer snatchs it out of his hand and puts it on the counter over Tortilla Flat without saying a word. Jack watches him placing The Turn of the Screw upon it a few minutes after; it’s a while before Sawyer decides on one last book, an enormous paperback that looks about to fall into pieces.
The woman nods, but she can’t help gasping loudly as she sees the title.
“Miss? What’s up with Our Mutual Friend?”
“Oh, nothing. Just... it was my boyfriend’s... how do I explain it... see, he loves Dickens and has read everything he wrote apart from that. He’s... saving it. Says he want it to be the last book he reads before he dies.”
Jack senses Sawyer getting suddenly interested. He has an idea that Sawyer knows someone who said the same thing and...
Wait a second. Dickens?
Sawyer is about to speak but Jack goes first.
“That’s kind of peculiar.”
“Yeah, well, he was... is a peculiar bloke, alright.”
Oh, damn, Jack thinks. She said bloke and it sounded just like... some weird mixture between Desmond and Charlie, finally he got it. Considering that he was searching for one person he heard lately and not two... it sounds like she’s English (and she does indeed speak way more properly than Charlie did), but if she’s who he thinks, she has probably lived in Scotland for some time, and if the peculiar bloke is who he thinks then it’s no news that she might have picked that up.
“Is he here?”
“No. I mean, I’m not from here. I’m from Scotland. My... my dad was rich and decided that going to America would have been... a way to improve his earnings. And to... well, he never really liked my boyfriend. But he, my boyfriend I mean, had promised me he would come searching for me when he had enough money. We left almost eight years ago and I guess that even if he had come, he couldn’t find me.”
“Doc, are you thinkin’ what I am thinkin’?”
“I am pretty positive.”
“What...”
“Miss, is your name Penny Widmore by any chance?”
The woman’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times, her eyes incredibly big for a second, her face shocked.
“How... how do you...”
“By chance your boyfriend’s a former monk and his name’s Desmond?”
“Yes... do... do you know him?”
“Miss, he’s been searchin’ for you for six years. I meet him sometimes and I’ll be damned if from what he says he hasn’t covered half the country.”
“I... I think I need a chair.”
Jack fetches the one he was sitting on before as quickly as possible and she drops on it, her head between her shaking hands, a tear or two escaping from her eyelids.
“Oh God... Oh God... I mean... are you...”
“Yeah, miss, ‘m sure. There might be more than one person with your name maybe, but a fellow like him? Can’t be more than one.”
“Where... where did you meet him last?”
“He was in Kansas. But don’t worry, I run into him pretty often. If I see him, I’ll tell that you’re here. You ain’t movin’, right?”
She stands up again, trembling all over and nodding at him; she has to put her hands on the table to stop them from shaking, while she murmurs ohmygod over and over. She gets a grip only after a while and looks completely shaken, but the smile on her lips doesn’t leave doubts about how she’s feeling right now.
“Thank you. No, I’m not moving anywhere. And these are for free.”
“But...”
“No but. I’m not accepting money from you. I just hope you meet him soon.”
“At this point I kind of do, too, miss.”
Sawyer winks at her again as he picks the books and she smiles, blushing hard; Jack just takes his arm and waves apologetically at her as he drags him out.
“Oh, fuck,” Sawyer blurts out when they’re already a mile away. “I can’t believe we ran into her of everyone.”
“Well, at least we know. Right?”
“Yeah. I guess. When did you get it?”
“When she said bloke that way.”
“Yeah, guess it was enough. You got some Sherlock Holmes in you, Doc.”
Jack rolls his eyes and he’s thankful that there’s an inn just in front of them. He doesn’t tell Sawyer he never read a Sherlock Holmes story.
--
They find a place early on that needs some entertainment for the night,even though they only have one room. But it has separate beds, so Jack figures it’s fine enough.
Sawyer just drops on his bed and starts reading the book Penny gave him first; Jack settles for trying to sleep some, he’s more tired than usual, except that after a while Sawyer starts mumbling and hissing and that’s not exactly soothing.
He turns on his side and sees that Sawyer is actually massaging his temples. Well, now there’s something wrong.
“What’s happening?”
“Nothin’. Headache.”
“Out of the blue?”
“Yeah, out of the blue. And anyway, I don’t know what the fuck’s up with that book. That print is fucking hard to read.”
Jack picks the book up and he doesn’t find anyhing wrong with the print. At least, he can read it just fine.
Definitely not good.
“Okay, sit back. I need to check you.”
“What?”
“It’s not normal and I can read that without a problem.”
“I am fine.”
“Yeah, and I’m checking you up for free and losing time to definitely be sure that you are. Shut up and just let me do my job.”
Sawyer mubles control freak as Jack starts searching for a candle; he finds one in the closet’s drawe along with some matches. Then he closes the blinds and waits a couple of minutes, then he kneels with the candle in his hand in front of Sawyer, who is now sitting on a chair and not on the bed.
“Okay. Open your right eye and stay still.”
Sawyer does, but as soon as the flame gets near his eye he closes it on reflex.
“Fuck, what’s that?”
“Fine. Let’s do it the other way.”
Before Sawyer can protest Jack cups his cheek with his hand and his thumb goes just over Sawyer’s right eye, keeping it open. He slowly moves the candle closer ignoring a tear forming spontaneously and then passes on to the other eye, repeating his movements. When he’s satisfied with it, he blows on the candle as Sawyer groans. He snaps his fingers in front of him and earns a glare; then he nods slightly and bites his tongue as he goes back to the window, opening the blinds again.
“What the fuck was that nod?”
“Just relax, won’t you? I need to ask you a couple questions.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Why, you like Jesus?”
“Don’t fuck with me.”
“Why, sensitive to the light?”
“I’m sensitive to you, dammit. Come on, what the hell d’you wanna know?”
“Ever taken pills for malaria?”
“D’you think I could ever afford pills for malaria even if I had it?” Sawyer answers harshly, not looking like he’s enjoying the conversation.
Jack senses that there’s something wrong, since Sawyer rarely gets on the defensive as he is right now. He was planning on having a little fun, but he’ll just lay it off for now. It doesn’t look like it’s the right time.
“Relax, I was joking. You need glasses.”
“What?”
“You’ve got hyperopia.”
“Hypero-what?”
“Hyperopia. You’re far sighted. It happens when you add strain to the eyes. And reading brings strain. And going to the cinema, I guess.”
“So what now, I need glasses?”
“Pretty much, yeah. Otherwise quit the reading. I mean, you should only need them for movies or books, but otherwise your eyes work fine.”
“Fuck. And where should I find glasses? They ain’t exactly the most popular good ‘round these days.”
“There’s one thing called opticians and you still have fifty dollars to spend. Guess we’ll find one in such a big city, right?”
“But...”
“Well, there’s four hours until you have to play and shops are still open. If you’re so fixed on taking the morning train tomorrow, fine, but you need to go now.”
“Fuck. Okay, but you come with me.”
“What? And why?”
“’Cause you have the money and ‘cause I don’t know shit ‘bout glasses.”
“I never was an oculist.”
“Don’t matter.”
Jack figures he will have to share Sawyer’s misery. Well, fine. He will, after all he deserves it. Well, not totally, but he guesses he deserves it to some degree.
--
Unfortunately the only available pair they find that is good enough (it’s not like Jack can write a prescription or anything, he’s no eye specialist by any mean), it’s definitely a women’s model.
Jack now really needs to bite his tongue as Sawyer rambles about fucking thieving opticians. The guy wanted five dollars and Jack figures it was a robbery, but there wasn’t any time for negotiating.
--
Jack sits at the counter as usual while Sawyer, this time, even got a stage; there were no particular requests and his glass covers his lips as he smiles when he hears Sawyer saying that today he feels like playing some romantic crap and it never happens.
Today his voice is particularly low though, it almost sounds fragile. Jack keeps his back on the stage. He doesn’t need to see anything.
“Shenandoah, I love your daughter, away you rolling river, I'll take her 'cross your rollin' water, away, I'm bound away, ‘cross the wide Missouri... My Shenandoah, I long to meet you, away, you rolling river, I’ll not deceive you, away, bond away, ‘cross the wide Missouri..”
He takes a sip of his drink. Why is that sometimes those song feel just like a punch to the gut? Not as much as that Ain’t Got No Home one, but he can’t help it when his mind wanders to some places he’d rather not revisit right now.
“For seven years I’ve been a roller, away, you rolling river, seven years I’ve been a roller, away, bond away, ‘cross the wide Missouri... Shenandoah, I love your daughter... away, you rolling river, I’ll take her ‘cross the water, away, we’re bond away, ‘cross the wide Missouri...”
It’s done. It’s just done. He thinks of Sarah. He won’t ever tell Sawyer that someone had played that song at his wedding and his mother had thought it improper, then. Maybe she was right, it really was improper, since after all it’s not like they ever loved each other. Or maybe they did, but too much time had passed to remember. Well, for one, trying to forget Sarah, he’s doing a hell of a job. But anyway, he won’t fall into temptation, he won’t buy himself another drink, he’ll quietly get to bed and tomorrow morning he’ll jump on some train to New Mexico and try not to think about what he’s doing. Looks like a plan, he thinks as he walks up to the stairs. The last thing he hears until Sawyer shakes him awake next morning at the crack of dawn or maybe earlier is we’re bond away, ‘cross the wide Missouri again.
TBC
Jack likes real cities, nothing to do about that. After all, he grew up in LA; for once he really is relieved of staying a bit in a city instead of the usual small town.
Salt Lake City is good enough for his standards and as he’s more interested in taking a look around than anything else, he doesn’t catch all of what Sawyer is saying as they get out of Frank’s friend’s pick up. It’s early in the afternoon, it’s cold but the sky is clear and blue; for a second he wishes they would stay for more than one day, but then he shakes his head. That wouldn’t really do, after all.
At one point Sawyer stops, though, and now that’s strange because it isn’t some bar or inn or any kind of place Sawyer would stop at, in his (limited) experience. He’s looking at some bookstore’s window.
“You want to go in?” he asks after five minutes of standing there. It’s still cold and if he has to stay still, he’d like it better inside.
“Well, why not. Let’s have a look.”
Sawyer goes in and Jack follows him. The shop consists of a single wide room, pretty warm all things considered; books seem to fall from the shelves and they’re placed in second and third rows, in a semblance of alphabetic order. From the look on Sawyer’s face, Jack thinks this is the kind of order that he likes. He sits on a chair forgotten in a corner as Sawyer starts to flip through some very heavy hardback; then there’s a noise behind him and he almost falls off.
“Do you need any help?”
A woman had appeared seemingly from nowhere, even though Jack figures she was probably washing her hands in a bathroom he can’t place the location of right now; she’s in her early thirties probably, wears black trousers and a blue sweater, her blond hair falls straight over her shoulders and it’s obvious that she hasn’t had a cut for a while. She smiles at both of them and it’s a friendly smile, her dark brown eyes matching it.
“Me, not exactly,” Jack answes smiling back, “but maybe he would.”
“Not much of a reader?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“Not really.”
Jack has an idea that she isn’t from here. Her accent is different. He needs to place it, also because he’s sure he has heard a similar one recently somewhere. If he just realized when...
“Don’t mind him, my friend there’s got other good qualities. You got yourself a nice shop, miss,” Sawyer says as he closes the book he was flipping through.
“Why, thank you. If it interests you, there’s a sale on.”
“Really?”
“Well, I sort of decide it is whenever I feel like it.”
She winks at him then and he winks back; he’s liking this attitude.
“So, you wanted something in particular?”
“Depends on what you have to offer.”
“Difficult client, I see. Well, what do you like? Who’s your favorite author?”
“That’s a tricky question, miss.”
“He likes Mark Twain,” Jack says as he rises from his chair and comes closer; he’s still trying to place the girl’s accent. Damn, where did he hear it lately? It’s faint, though; and anyway, she speaks way more properly than he has heard anyone speaking since the last time he saw his mother. Which was a long ago, but this isn’t really the time to think about his mother.
Sawyer rolls his eyes, but the girl looks quite amused. She searches for a bit in a pile and takes out a fairly new paperback. Jack squints and makes out the title, Tortilla Flat, but not the author.
“I think you might like this.”
“Well, I surely won’t refuse, if the expert says so. And if you make me a good price.”
“What’s a good price to you?”
“Seventy cents?”
“I think I have an offer you’d like better.”
“Really.”
“Take four and you pay three dollars.”
“We’ve got an economist here. Doc, what d’you say?”
“I’d say it sounds convenient. Go ahead, for once we have some money to spare I guess.”
Sawyer doesn’t answer and kneels near a pile of books precariously standing on the floor; Jack stands up and takes a look himself, figuring that he might as well. It’s not that he doesn’t like reading, it’s just that it never was a priority; since he started studying medicine there always was something more urgent to do than reading novels. He had liked it once, when there still was time to read and while he knew that there were expectations laid on him, he could afford to ignore the issue.
He picks up an old copy of Three Men In A Boat; he can’t help smiling briefly, he remembers reading that when he was twelve or thirteen and having his good deal of fun with it. He turns the pages slowly, then shuts it close. He’s about to place it back where it was when Sawyer snatchs it out of his hand and puts it on the counter over Tortilla Flat without saying a word. Jack watches him placing The Turn of the Screw upon it a few minutes after; it’s a while before Sawyer decides on one last book, an enormous paperback that looks about to fall into pieces.
The woman nods, but she can’t help gasping loudly as she sees the title.
“Miss? What’s up with Our Mutual Friend?”
“Oh, nothing. Just... it was my boyfriend’s... how do I explain it... see, he loves Dickens and has read everything he wrote apart from that. He’s... saving it. Says he want it to be the last book he reads before he dies.”
Jack senses Sawyer getting suddenly interested. He has an idea that Sawyer knows someone who said the same thing and...
Wait a second. Dickens?
Sawyer is about to speak but Jack goes first.
“That’s kind of peculiar.”
“Yeah, well, he was... is a peculiar bloke, alright.”
Oh, damn, Jack thinks. She said bloke and it sounded just like... some weird mixture between Desmond and Charlie, finally he got it. Considering that he was searching for one person he heard lately and not two... it sounds like she’s English (and she does indeed speak way more properly than Charlie did), but if she’s who he thinks, she has probably lived in Scotland for some time, and if the peculiar bloke is who he thinks then it’s no news that she might have picked that up.
“Is he here?”
“No. I mean, I’m not from here. I’m from Scotland. My... my dad was rich and decided that going to America would have been... a way to improve his earnings. And to... well, he never really liked my boyfriend. But he, my boyfriend I mean, had promised me he would come searching for me when he had enough money. We left almost eight years ago and I guess that even if he had come, he couldn’t find me.”
“Doc, are you thinkin’ what I am thinkin’?”
“I am pretty positive.”
“What...”
“Miss, is your name Penny Widmore by any chance?”
The woman’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times, her eyes incredibly big for a second, her face shocked.
“How... how do you...”
“By chance your boyfriend’s a former monk and his name’s Desmond?”
“Yes... do... do you know him?”
“Miss, he’s been searchin’ for you for six years. I meet him sometimes and I’ll be damned if from what he says he hasn’t covered half the country.”
“I... I think I need a chair.”
Jack fetches the one he was sitting on before as quickly as possible and she drops on it, her head between her shaking hands, a tear or two escaping from her eyelids.
“Oh God... Oh God... I mean... are you...”
“Yeah, miss, ‘m sure. There might be more than one person with your name maybe, but a fellow like him? Can’t be more than one.”
“Where... where did you meet him last?”
“He was in Kansas. But don’t worry, I run into him pretty often. If I see him, I’ll tell that you’re here. You ain’t movin’, right?”
She stands up again, trembling all over and nodding at him; she has to put her hands on the table to stop them from shaking, while she murmurs ohmygod over and over. She gets a grip only after a while and looks completely shaken, but the smile on her lips doesn’t leave doubts about how she’s feeling right now.
“Thank you. No, I’m not moving anywhere. And these are for free.”
“But...”
“No but. I’m not accepting money from you. I just hope you meet him soon.”
“At this point I kind of do, too, miss.”
Sawyer winks at her again as he picks the books and she smiles, blushing hard; Jack just takes his arm and waves apologetically at her as he drags him out.
“Oh, fuck,” Sawyer blurts out when they’re already a mile away. “I can’t believe we ran into her of everyone.”
“Well, at least we know. Right?”
“Yeah. I guess. When did you get it?”
“When she said bloke that way.”
“Yeah, guess it was enough. You got some Sherlock Holmes in you, Doc.”
Jack rolls his eyes and he’s thankful that there’s an inn just in front of them. He doesn’t tell Sawyer he never read a Sherlock Holmes story.
--
They find a place early on that needs some entertainment for the night,even though they only have one room. But it has separate beds, so Jack figures it’s fine enough.
Sawyer just drops on his bed and starts reading the book Penny gave him first; Jack settles for trying to sleep some, he’s more tired than usual, except that after a while Sawyer starts mumbling and hissing and that’s not exactly soothing.
He turns on his side and sees that Sawyer is actually massaging his temples. Well, now there’s something wrong.
“What’s happening?”
“Nothin’. Headache.”
“Out of the blue?”
“Yeah, out of the blue. And anyway, I don’t know what the fuck’s up with that book. That print is fucking hard to read.”
Jack picks the book up and he doesn’t find anyhing wrong with the print. At least, he can read it just fine.
Definitely not good.
“Okay, sit back. I need to check you.”
“What?”
“It’s not normal and I can read that without a problem.”
“I am fine.”
“Yeah, and I’m checking you up for free and losing time to definitely be sure that you are. Shut up and just let me do my job.”
Sawyer mubles control freak as Jack starts searching for a candle; he finds one in the closet’s drawe along with some matches. Then he closes the blinds and waits a couple of minutes, then he kneels with the candle in his hand in front of Sawyer, who is now sitting on a chair and not on the bed.
“Okay. Open your right eye and stay still.”
Sawyer does, but as soon as the flame gets near his eye he closes it on reflex.
“Fuck, what’s that?”
“Fine. Let’s do it the other way.”
Before Sawyer can protest Jack cups his cheek with his hand and his thumb goes just over Sawyer’s right eye, keeping it open. He slowly moves the candle closer ignoring a tear forming spontaneously and then passes on to the other eye, repeating his movements. When he’s satisfied with it, he blows on the candle as Sawyer groans. He snaps his fingers in front of him and earns a glare; then he nods slightly and bites his tongue as he goes back to the window, opening the blinds again.
“What the fuck was that nod?”
“Just relax, won’t you? I need to ask you a couple questions.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Why, you like Jesus?”
“Don’t fuck with me.”
“Why, sensitive to the light?”
“I’m sensitive to you, dammit. Come on, what the hell d’you wanna know?”
“Ever taken pills for malaria?”
“D’you think I could ever afford pills for malaria even if I had it?” Sawyer answers harshly, not looking like he’s enjoying the conversation.
Jack senses that there’s something wrong, since Sawyer rarely gets on the defensive as he is right now. He was planning on having a little fun, but he’ll just lay it off for now. It doesn’t look like it’s the right time.
“Relax, I was joking. You need glasses.”
“What?”
“You’ve got hyperopia.”
“Hypero-what?”
“Hyperopia. You’re far sighted. It happens when you add strain to the eyes. And reading brings strain. And going to the cinema, I guess.”
“So what now, I need glasses?”
“Pretty much, yeah. Otherwise quit the reading. I mean, you should only need them for movies or books, but otherwise your eyes work fine.”
“Fuck. And where should I find glasses? They ain’t exactly the most popular good ‘round these days.”
“There’s one thing called opticians and you still have fifty dollars to spend. Guess we’ll find one in such a big city, right?”
“But...”
“Well, there’s four hours until you have to play and shops are still open. If you’re so fixed on taking the morning train tomorrow, fine, but you need to go now.”
“Fuck. Okay, but you come with me.”
“What? And why?”
“’Cause you have the money and ‘cause I don’t know shit ‘bout glasses.”
“I never was an oculist.”
“Don’t matter.”
Jack figures he will have to share Sawyer’s misery. Well, fine. He will, after all he deserves it. Well, not totally, but he guesses he deserves it to some degree.
--
Unfortunately the only available pair they find that is good enough (it’s not like Jack can write a prescription or anything, he’s no eye specialist by any mean), it’s definitely a women’s model.
Jack now really needs to bite his tongue as Sawyer rambles about fucking thieving opticians. The guy wanted five dollars and Jack figures it was a robbery, but there wasn’t any time for negotiating.
--
Jack sits at the counter as usual while Sawyer, this time, even got a stage; there were no particular requests and his glass covers his lips as he smiles when he hears Sawyer saying that today he feels like playing some romantic crap and it never happens.
Today his voice is particularly low though, it almost sounds fragile. Jack keeps his back on the stage. He doesn’t need to see anything.
“Shenandoah, I love your daughter, away you rolling river, I'll take her 'cross your rollin' water, away, I'm bound away, ‘cross the wide Missouri... My Shenandoah, I long to meet you, away, you rolling river, I’ll not deceive you, away, bond away, ‘cross the wide Missouri..”
He takes a sip of his drink. Why is that sometimes those song feel just like a punch to the gut? Not as much as that Ain’t Got No Home one, but he can’t help it when his mind wanders to some places he’d rather not revisit right now.
“For seven years I’ve been a roller, away, you rolling river, seven years I’ve been a roller, away, bond away, ‘cross the wide Missouri... Shenandoah, I love your daughter... away, you rolling river, I’ll take her ‘cross the water, away, we’re bond away, ‘cross the wide Missouri...”
It’s done. It’s just done. He thinks of Sarah. He won’t ever tell Sawyer that someone had played that song at his wedding and his mother had thought it improper, then. Maybe she was right, it really was improper, since after all it’s not like they ever loved each other. Or maybe they did, but too much time had passed to remember. Well, for one, trying to forget Sarah, he’s doing a hell of a job. But anyway, he won’t fall into temptation, he won’t buy himself another drink, he’ll quietly get to bed and tomorrow morning he’ll jump on some train to New Mexico and try not to think about what he’s doing. Looks like a plan, he thinks as he walks up to the stairs. The last thing he hears until Sawyer shakes him awake next morning at the crack of dawn or maybe earlier is we’re bond away, ‘cross the wide Missouri again.
TBC
