The eye of the lion

Tom Barrow took his last dirty, wrinkled “Camel” out of his shirt pocket and sighed. He wasn’t likely to be able to buy more cigarettes for a while, and that annoyed him.

He shifted the old rocking chair in the entrance of the makeshift porch and sat down in it, drawing a creak from the wood of the old chair. It was mid-morning and the sun was reflected in the surface of the lake, infusing it with beauty.

But no, Tom was not admiring the view. His thoughts were very far away, in Europe. Paris to be exact.

He had been living in that ramshackle old trailer for three years now, which was situated not by accident on the outskirts of “Novafield” Trailer Park, because of its pathetic appearance.

The trailer was a disgrace according to the inhabitants of the place, and they only put up with its presence because of the affection they had for the guy, who was shy and quiet, but very

obliging and ready to help anyone in need. Not with money, that was clear, but as a plumber, carpenter or painter, and almost always for a nominal fee.

“Novafield” was a group of mobile homes and trailers which had arrived at the lakeshore almost by accident and they’d been established there for almost five years. Since that time no-one had suggested moving the group.

The small lake, called Sunken Meadow Lake, was a mile and a half east of Claremont, Virginia, and only half a mile south of the James river. It was a place of great natural beauty and relative tranquility, as the nearest city, Hopewell, was about twenty miles from the trailer park.

Tom had shown up at the campground one hot summer’s day three years previously, the day of his thirty-third birthday, almost by accident. In those days he was working for an insurance company in Richmond and he’d arrived at “Novafield” looking for a certain Rob Lucas. Lucas’ brother had passed away a month before and Rob was the only beneficiary of his life insurance policy. Twenty thousand dollars.

Faced with the impossibility of locating Mr. Lucas, the insurance company had sent Tom to look for him. After a lot of trouble, the guy found him living like an outcast in the tumbledown trailer repudiated by the whole of “Novafield”.

Amazingly, Lucas convinced Tom to buy the mobile home off him with all its contents, for the modest sum of one hundred and twenty dollars. Then he immediately picked up his suitcase and the insurance check and left for good.

For years the people of “Novafield” speculated as to the reasons why a good guy like Tom Barrow would do such a thing.

Some of them even went to the extreme of asking him, without getting a clear answer. The hypotheses ranged in nature from rational to down-right absurd, like the one which postulated that Tom must have committed a crime that led him to hide away in that remote corner of America.

The reality was much simpler and less dramatic. Sick and tired of a life that made him miserable, Tom had abandoned everything to follow his dream: to be a professional writer.

He took a puff of his Camel and sighed. He saw the ducks flying over the lake and felt his depression coming on. He’d slaved over his novel for over a year. He’d struggled to survive doing odd jobs around the campground, hardly making enough to avoid starving to death. He’d lived in that filthy pigsty so that he could be alone, separated from the world and left in peace to concentrate on his novel, and all this... for what?

The rejection letters had piled up heartlessly, one by one, threaded onto the black nail stuck into the wall next to his type-writer. No-one seemed to want his novel. Some editors had even said they’d hated it.

If only he could at least get to Paris, meet the real writers and surround himself with people who would really appreciate his talent!

The sound of a horn jolted him out of his thoughts and made his heart jump. It was the horn of Mr. Galloway, the postman.

Tom turned to look at the road which led to his trailer and tossed his cigarette as he stood up. Mr. Galloway was coming down the road, towards his trailer’s porch.

“Good morning Tom,” said the two-hundred and fifty pound man, stopping in front of him. He rubbed his thick moustache with a plump hand and looked in his bag.

“I have one more for you this week.”

“How’ve you been, Chuck?” asked Tom, trying to hide his impatience at seeing the envelope the postman drew out of the bag.

“Oh, you know,” said the fat man, “a letter here, a letter there. Enjoying the countryside on this beautiful day.”

The letter was still in his hand. Tom was getting impatient.

“My wife’s having some problems with the kitchen sink, commented Galloway, rubbing his moustache again. “...And, she’d like to know if you might be able to take a look at it this weekend.”

“Of course,” replied Tom, smiling and looking at the letter in the postman’s hand.

“Have you heard about Geneva?” asked the fat man, frowning. “Damn reds! They must think we’ll do nothing about it!”

He was waving the hand that was holding the letter. Tom scratched his head.

“I heard something about it on the radio.”

“But Douglas has certainly given them something to think about!” boasted Galloway, waving the letter some more.

“Yes he has,” agreed Tom, holding out his hand and smiling. “Can you give it to me now?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Galloway, realizing his omission. “Of course Tom. Sorry.”

“No problem, Chuck,” replied Tom finally taking the letter.

The postman observed him, smiling, for a few seconds, pulling at his moustache again like an overweight cat.

Tom was staring at the envelope. The sender on the envelope was:

“New American Publishing Group”.

“Aren’t you going to open it, Tom?” Chuck wanted to know.

“Maybe later,” said Tom shaking his head.

“The fat man smiled and started up his engine. He knew Tom would never open one of those envelopes with him there, but if one day he should receive good news, he would surely tell him when he next saw him.

“Take care, Tom,” said Galloway, pulling out.

“You too Chuck,” replied Tom. “Tell your wife I’ll come to look at the sink on Saturday.”

“OK” responded Chuck, riding off down the road.

Tom gripped the letter and went inside the trailer.

Once he was sitting at a small wooden table which served him as a desk, he opened the envelope and read the letter. It said:

“DEAR MR. BARROW:

WE HAVE READ YOUR MANUSCRIPT ENTITLED “FANGO SUNRISE” WITH INTEREST. UNFORTUNATELY, DESPITE SOME INTERESTING ELEMENTS AND WELL-DEVELOPED CHARACTERS, WE WERE UNABLE TO UNDERSTAND THE MEANING OF THE DRAMA AND FIND A GENRE IN WHICH TO PLACE YOUR NOVEL. WHAT IS MORE, ITS LENGTH (1500 PAGES) MAKES IT VERY DIFFICULT TO MARKET AS A NOVEL. PERHAPS A SUBSEQUENT, MORE CONCISE WORK, IF IT WERE BRIEF AND CENTERED IN A SPECIFIC GENRE, WOULD BE OF INTEREST TO US...”

The letter went on for a few more paragraphs, but he didn’t need to continue. Tom knew what it would say. He took the paper and carefully proceeded to hang it on the black nail.

That same night, Tom put his clothes in a bag. He carefully put his Underwood type-writer in its case, along with the manuscript of his novel. He picked up the three hundred dollars he’d saved in three years of hard work and put them in his jeans pocket. He made a small bonfire of the forty-two rejection letters from his novel, and at midnight he took a bus to the port of Norfolk.

The next day found him on board a cargo ship bound for Europe.