Unburdened and Anew

Bert Thomkins was the kid in school who absorbed the rules and lived by them as canon. He was the member of the family that was always depended on, but never favored. He was the safe friend of the guy who got the girl. He was the one who offered to pick you up from the airport, or to feed your cat while you’re away without expecting anything in return. He skipped through life’s milestones like a game of hopscotch; he checked all the boxes and didn’t cause any trouble. He became, of all things, a banker. He loved his family. He didn’t own extravagant things, but he had enough. 

“Bert,” people in town said of him, “he’s just the kind of guy you root for, the type that has that potential all balled up inside just waiting to explode.” 

Despite Bert’s lifelong efforts to remain a quiet member of the universe, to tip the karmic scales if only slightly, towards the better, the universe just relentlessly shat on him. There was the time he found his mother going through his mail; the service had turned him down, and Mary reveled in reading his humiliation aloud to the rest of the family. Then, in his twenties, Bert lost his grandmother, Aggie, his favorite person in the world. She was hit coming out of an AA meeting by a guy who blew a .30 on the cop’s breathalyzer. Her death left the old farmhouse in Wyoming abandoned, and so Bert became a citizen and banker of the sleepy town of Sheridan by 21. Now, in his forties, Bert sensed the universe squatting again; he smelled the stench of what was about to be dropped on him next. This time, it was about the money. 

Bert sat at his desk in the back of the bank, staring at his calendar. The red circle around today’s date seemed to grow larger, darker, each time he blinked. It had been hard, setting a deadline and sticking to it. For the last few weeks, Bert’s heart and head wrestled with his reality. Even here, enclosed in his windowless cubby, he struggled. It was like the eyes in all of the family photos that lined his shelves were watching him, judging the piles of past due notices littering the floor. Bert knew, in his soul, that he needed to hit the road, clear his head, figure this out. He needed time, selfish time, where he could be relieved of his responsibilities. Once unburdened, he could begin anew. But, in order to do that, he needed to leave everything, and everyone, behind. 

Bert let out a deep, wizened, sigh as he grabbed his keys, turned off the light, and shut the door behind him. He stopped, quickly, at the vault, withdrawing his measly personal savings in full. How cruel, he thought, to be surrounded by exactly what he needed, but not being entitled to any of it. He counted his bills, zippered his bag, and silently dropped his calendar page to the floor. Though so careful of what he took, Bert did not consider what he left behind. It was April 25, 1972, and Bert Thomkins was leaving town, in what would seem to others as the first rash decision of his life. How very, very wrong they turned out to be. 

********

Bert had set his sights on NYC the day the first debt collector called the farmhouse. “The Far East, “ he would call it in his mind, the city that never sleeps because it’s a melting pot of people and opportunities that needs constant stirring. If he could get there, he could submerge himself in the masses, slipping into the anonymity he needed to quiet his mind. To decide what was next. The drive would take three or four days, certainly enough to call it a road trip, which was what Bert told the bank, and his neighbors. 

About three hours into his first night on the road, a large buck darted out right into the middle of the otherwise abandoned I-90 East. The animal rooted its strong legs to the asphalt and forced Bert’s car to a stop. For an eternal thirty seconds, the buck fixed its eyes on Bert’s, and they were both frozen in that heartbeat between flight and fight. Then, a bolt of lightning flashed, the ominous rumble of thunder right behind it. In the time it took Bert to blink, the buck was gone. Bert revved the engine and turned on his windshield wipers. He was heading straight into the storm. 

The days that followed were nothing spectacular. Bert fueled his car with Regular 87 octane and his gut with sandwiches; the crustier the bread, the better. He saw the world’s largest time capsule in Nebraska, set to be opened July 4, 2025. Ted would have loved it. Bert wondered about the dreams and secrets locked inside. He stopped at a roadside stand in Illinois to buy a tangerine, Alicia’s favorite. He had been intrigued by the proprietor, a blind woman who sat by her produce holding a sign that read “Do the right thing, even when no one is watching.” He took pause at a rest stop in Ohio, a dingy concrete building with four stalls, a vending machine, and a complex hand painted diagram of sorts, titled, “How to be Happy.” That one would make Sarah chuckle. Reluctant to hand over precious cash to roach-infested motels, Bert camped for the night in Pennsylvania, a cloud of Citronella lingering stagnant over his head. By the time he drove across the New Jersey border, Bert felt he had seen every form of roadkill there was–deer, turkeys raccoons–he even swore he spotted an armadillo curled by the curb somewhere He tried to put the gory sights out of his mind on this last night, at a diner less than ten miles from Manhattan. It was tough to do when the waitress kept recommending their famous cherry pie. Bert opted for the tiramisu. 

The next morning, Bert pulled his car into a stretch of wheat fields that would later become Battery Park. He left the engine running as he stepped out, stretching his legs and arching his back. He dropped his wallet a few feet to the left. He used the pocket knife his father gave him to draw a line in his flesh and spilled a few crimson tears before dropping the blade in the dirt. He pulled his bag out of the trunk and double checked that his remaining cash was secure. Then, Bert took a stone, just heavy enough, and placed it on the gas pedal. Immediately, the car surged forward, unwavering. With a blank expression, Bert faced the skyscrapers and started walking. He didn’t even flinch when he heard the groan of metal as it wrapped itself around the trunk of a tree. Instead, he prayed a silent eulogy for Bert Robert Thomkins of Sheridan, Wyoming, perhaps at peace, no longer in debt. 

He made it to the Social Security Office by 1:30. Wiping sweat from his brow, he grabbed a numbered ticket and joined the others waiting, like cattle, for their turn at the counter. 

“125!” He strode, head held high, towards the voice. 

“Hello sir. Thank you for your patience today. How can I help you?” Despite her official badge and confident delivery, the girl couldn’t have been more than twenty five. 

“Uh, yeah, hi…I lost my Social Security card, probably left it in my pants that went through the washer. I’ll need a replacement.” 

“Sure thing Mister…?” 

“Smith, James Smith.” 

“And your date of birth, Mr. Smith?” 

“April 25th, 1929.” 

“One moment.” 

Bert held his breath as the young woman turned down a hallway, out of sight. He blew it out, slowly, as his eyes scanned the room. Next to him, in the corner, a radio played “American Pie.” It was catchy, a foot tapping distraction in these agonizing moments. Before Bert could learn what happened on the day the music died, the network interrupted with a special announcement. 

Today, authorities are seeking the public’s help in solving a gruesome triple homicide. Early this morning, the Sheridan Police of Sheridan, Wyoming responded to a call for a welfare check at the home of Bert Thomkins. They entered the home after finding the back door unlocked. Inside, police found the bodies of a middle aged female, Sarah Thomkins, and two small children, Ted and Alicia Thomkins. Mr. Bert Thomkins remains at large. Anyone with information as to what happened, or as to Mr. Thomkins’s whereabouts, please call (307) 672-2413. All states be on the lookout for license plate number 248344. 

“Here you are Mr. Smith,” the woman chirped, bringing his attention back to the counter. “Be sure to check your pockets next time!” 

Smiling, he secured his future in his hands and thanked the woman for her help. With that, James Smith stepped onto the subway and disappeared into the bowels of the city, unburdened and anew.