Barron's Land

Joseph Barron lay alone in the field of his New Mexico ranch, which he had inherited from his late father, Alan Barron in 1989, waiting for the lightning of God to come. He will come tonight, he thought. My dreams do not deceive me. It is time.

He lay in the spot where he and Irene had once lain together. Earlier, when he started thinking about Irene, he had been sad--but not anymore. The whiskey and beer had washed away all his painful memories and emotions on this gloomy, summer night.

"I've been waiting," Joseph said while lying in the field. "Always waiting....

He thought about the few really good things he had had at one time in his life and started to smile wistfully. He thought of his one, and only true love, Irene. He thought of all the fun times he'd had fishing with his father and grandfather in Northern California many, many years ago. Then, he'd thought everything would be okay, that it would last Forever.

Forever. He thought about the word with envy and disgust. At this time, there was no point in reconsidering his fate; everyone he had ever known and cared about was gone. And, unlike his past, no matter how much he drank, no matter how much confidence he once possessed, he still could never be happy ever again--no matter what.

The winds were blowing persistently; the rain was drenching his entire body along with his dog, Maxwell's--his only prized possession left on earth...or so he thought. Seeing Maxwell outside made him sad.

"Get out of here, Max!" he yelled at the dog, in a pathetic, half-drunken attempt to scare him away.

"Damn you, Max," he shouted as he stood up, rain dripping of his old Stetson cowboy hat. "Get outta here!" It dawned on him that the dog wasn't going to cooperate, so he whipped out his trusty 38. revolver from his jacket pocket, aimed it straight up into the air, and fired. The dog was not afraid.

"You get out of here," he blurted, and Maxwell finally whimpered away, more out of disgust of his owner than actual fear.

Joseph was all alone now. Just another idle part of nature, he thought. What have I ever accomplished? the sixty-two-year-old man wondered, lying in the dirt and soggy weeds of his property. It's all gone now, far into the unknown. The unknown was something that was no longer scary to Joseph; just exhilarating.

"Hurry up," Joseph said as he gazed up into the dark, ominous clouds shadowing his property.

Wallowing in self-pity—it was almost as if he were waiting for God to plunge his massive hands down from the Heavens and bring him home. "Home." He desperately knew where he belonged. "Let the lightning come, oh Lord. Let it pick me up and take me home. Amen."

Joseph was always well-prepared. If plan A didn't work out, there was always plan B. He knew that if for some terrible reason his flight to Heaven would be delayed, he could always use his trusty 38. It wasn't his favorite gun nor his favorite method, but it could get the job done, he figured. He didn't want to use it, but he thought if for some queer reason all else failed, then he'd only be a bullet away from eternal happiness...and Irene and the rest.

The whiskey had taken its toll. Joseph was certain that the lightning wouldn't come so he commenced putting his faithful pistol inside his mouth. But, first, he decided to say good-bye to his dog--

"Maxwell," he shouted, at the top of his lungs. "Get over here, ole boy."

The dog followed his owner's voice and sat next to him and licked his old face and ivory whiskers. Joseph began to cry. It was a strange sight, indeed.

"I've found you a good home, Max. You deserve better. Much better. The man will come by tomorrow to pick you up. Your food and water's inside the house. Mr. Winters is a splendid person, Max. Really, he is. He'll take you hunting like I did in the old days. Make him proud, buddy," the old man said to his dog.

Maxwell strangely seemed to sense the stench of impending doom lingering above his owner's head. He once again whimpered, and the sound of nearby thunder scared only one of them.

"Max! Don't give me that look. I know what's best for the both of us."

The old man had now put the barrel of the pistol deep inside his mouth, but decided on not pulling it just yet. He thought back on his past, his childhood. His vivid recollections seemed to slightly increase his sanity—slightly. He wished like hell he could start his life all over again from scratch...so that he could change it. He honestly had no idea where he'd gone wrong. It must be for some reason, he thought. Why else would I be in this situation? I went to church; I loved my wife, and my neighbor and this is what I get in return? And what about Irene? She was a genuine angel and she died a very long and slow and tragic death in that awful hospital.

And enough thinking about Irene, Joseph thought. We'll be reunited soon enough.

He put the barrel so far inside his mouth that it made him gag, and he almost felt like he had to vomit. He decided it'd be wise to count to three, then...BOOM. Eternal bliss.

He counted. And before he hit three he saw a red Ford Taurus approaching his property at great speed. When he saw the red car, and who was inside it, his heart filled with great joy and happiness and hope. Joseph got to his feet and greeted his new visitor with open arms. It was his son, Isaac.

"Isaac. My son. Thanks so much for visiting me."

His son got out of the car with a deeply concerned look on his face.

"Dad. What are you doing out here...lying on the muddy ground...with that damned pistol in your hand?"

Joseph couldn't answer his son, because he had no answer.

"C'mon, Dad, let's go inside. I think you need a good cup of coffee."

Joseph said nothing, but followed his son inside his house. He drank two huge cups of black coffee, then started feeling more and more like his old self again. No longer did he think he believed with God and Irene.

Later that night, he called the nice man who was interested in his dog, and told him he wasn't for sale.