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"Are you a native to these parts, Jake?" It was the kind of question that doesn't change anything. One man's assessment of another is based, to a large extent, on what he sees, and what I had seen in the way of actions from the man indicated integrity, concern and commitmentsolid elements, indeed. |
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Jake pursed his lips and took his time unwrapping a small cheroot. Like everything else the man did, it evolved into a kind of miniature ritual. He tucked the cellophane in his shirt pocket, used his pocket knife to cut off the tip, wet it, lit it and took a deep drag. |
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"Naw," he drawled, "come from up north of Calgary. Used to be a Mountie myself. Came home one night and found this note on the doorshe was gone. She'd had enough of it. Can't say as I blame her. It's no life for a woman, especially a pretty one who likes female doo-dads." His gruff voice trailed off, and he took a drag on his cheroot. |
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When a man begins poking around in the attic of his memory, you give him time. For most of us it's a little like probing the old body the morning after a street fight. It's done with a great deal of caution, gingerly testing the bruised areas, seeing how much they hurt. Then, and only then, does a man determine how much further he is willing |
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