Ron Burton

Francis Liberty

Francis woke, as he did every morning, to a wagging tail and panting breath of his dog Plato.  It was time to go for a walk, but first, Francis would prepare the coffee pot so that the morning brew would be finished before him and Plato returned from their eighteen-minute stroll through the dimly lit park.  Their routine was punctual and included a humble breakfast of toast and jam with five minutes of morning news before Francis was out the door on his way to work.  Although he considered his job important, and on no account would he shirk responsibility, his job was never a high priority to Francis; it was simply a way to pay for uncomplicated needs.  What really mattered to Francis was waiting for him at home—his only companion, Plato.  Francis clocked in promptly at eight o’clock and punched out at five without any fanfare. Then it was straight home to walk Plato, but beforehand, Francis would place a frozen dinner into the microwave, set the timer, and press the start button so that the frozen block would be ready to eat prior to him and Plato returning from their eighteen minute stroll though the sun-saturated park.

The same routine was followed day after day, month after month, and year after year, but on one particularly hot summer afternoon Francis and Plato arrived back on the doorsteps of their apartment, but instead of entering Francis sat down to catch his breath.  The frozen dinner grew cold while Plato whimpered and nudged his partner—Francis Liberty was dead.  At thirty-seven years old, the humble hermit had a heart attack and lay hunched over with his keys in one hand and the leash in the other.  Plato leaped into the lifeless lap and licked Francis’ face—without response.  Confusion grew in the little dog when he no longer felt the restraint of the leash and watched as it slipped from Francis’ still-warm hand.  Plato scratched at their door and went back to the hand that held the keys, but the keys would do neither of them any good, so Plato sat down next to his only companion and waited.  Thirty minutes would pass before Plato heard someone coming; he stood up and started barking.

The first to find Francis was an old homeless man whom he and the little dog would see daily sitting alone on a park bench.  From time to time, Francis and the man would exchange smiles, sometimes idle conversation, and although the man never asked for money, Francis would reach into his pocket and give him what little change he had. 

From his bench, the old man observed the joyful duo trotting off on their way home from the park.  He watched as Francis sat down on the steps and then appeared to say something to the little dog before falling over.  “Oh my God!”  The man said as he leaped from his bench and made his way to Francis.  The homeless man walked up to Francis and Plato, looked around to see if anyone was watching, then he poked Francis with a stick.  When he got no reaction, the homeless man removed Francis’ shoes and belt; he checked out the wallet, but found only a library card, a picture of Plato, and driver’s license. He considered taking Francis’ wristwatch, a modest digital wrapped in plastic, but instead, decided to leave the timepiece with the dead man because time was useless to them both.  The homeless man returned to the park with his barter, trading them to another homeless man for a half-full bottle of cheap wine. And with the coins the man collected from Francis’ daily walks, he bought a pack of cigarettes, but did not have enough left over for the matches. 

Teresa Kilborne was the next living soul to find Francis. The young nurse lived next to Francis for four years and recognized him from subtle passes through the corridor between apartments, but she never knew his name. And though they seldom spoke and she considered him odd, Teresa never felt threatened by Francis:  actually, the young lady felt safer having Francis across the hall because she feared the homeless men in the park.  Plato sat patiently and watched as Teresa tapped Francis on the shoulder while asking if he was all right.  “Oh my God!” she screamed as she ran up to her dwelling.  Teresa threw open her front door and slammed it shut just as quickly—securing all three locks. Then she ran straight into the kitchen, all along thinking that someone from the park must have mugged the poor guy that lived across the hall, and that the mugger might still be around.  The kitchen faucet poured forth hot water as Teresa filled her hands with soap in an attempt to wash the dead guy off.  Once Teresa calmed down and felt safe, she immediately picked up the phone and called her favorite pizzeria and ordered the special before it was too late for delivery:  a medium pepperoni, side salad, and a drink to be delivered to the back door.

The very next day it rained and Plato greedily lapped up the water that streamed out of the gutter onto the concrete steps where he and his partner spent the night.  It was the first of the month and Mr. Christian, the portentous proprietor, arrived early to collect rent.   Payments were to be placed in a lockbox on the last day of every month: the box hung to the right of the steps where Francis lay.  Mr. Christian opened the box and gathered the envelopes, but before he walked away, “hey, I’m short one check.”  He fumbled through the envelopes that had the apartment numbers written clearly across the front, and without delay, Mr. Christian marched right up to Francis’ residence and banged on the door.  Plato barked. “Open up!  I want my rent!” Mr. Christian proceeded to open the door with his master key; he was going to get the lazy mooch out of bed and get that rent check.  The apartment was sparsely furnished:  a wall clock, a modest couch, a plywood coffee table supported by two cinder blocks, a cracked ceramic lamp that had been glued back together, and a tiny black-and-white TV situated on a tower of milk crates. There was no dinning table, and all Mr. Christian found in the bedroom was an alarm clock, a raggedly old stuffed toy dog, a framed depiction of the Virgin Mary surrounded by Cherubs and glitter that hung above the bed, and a corroded samovar containing plastic red roses that sat on top of a battered antique dresser.   When he was exiting Francis’ hovel, Mr. Christian caught Teresa stepping out of her apartment, leaving for work.  “Have you seen the guy that lives here?” he said dispassionately.  Teresa shook her head “no” and went about her way.  Mr. Christian locked the door and went to confirm the box again—perhaps it fell on the ground.

     Plato wiggled his tail at the reappearance of Mr. Christian.  The little dog was cold and hungry, but besides that, he was ready for his walk.  Mr. Christian searched the ground all around the box, but nothing.  Plato barked.  Mr. Christian turned around and saw a bum sleeping on the steps.  As hard as he could, Mr. Christian kicked Francis in the back, “Get out of here ya bum!”  Plato leaped between Francis and Mr. Christian and began growling.  Francis’ rigid body did not get up and flee as Mr. Christian had expected, and with closer inspection:  “Oh my God!”  The bum turned out to be the guy that owed rent.

Mr. Christian ran to the maintenance office where the gardening tools and pool supplies were kept; he burst through the door and grabbed the phone, “Manuel, bring the push broom to the front of the building.  Now!”  Before leaving the office, Mr. Christian grabbed a FOR RENT sign and wrote in big black letters: 

Dead Man’s Special

1 Bdrm, 1 Bath, Fully Furnished

Ready to Move In -- Cheap!

Mr. Christian met Manuel and his push broom, at the front where Francis laid.  “Clean up this mess and call the dog pound.” he ordered, and then he buried the sign into the soft dirt and was on his way to deposit his checks.  Manuel swept Francis into the anorexic shrubbery that adorned the steps.  Plato picked up the end of the leash with his mouth and ran down to Francis.  The cold and hungry little dog wagged his tale and waited for his walk.  The dogcatcher arrived, took the end of the leash, and walked Plato to the truck.  From behind the screen barrier, the little dog could still see Francis and he whimpered for his master—but no response, and the truck drove off.

Two days passed.  Mr. Christian stood impatiently on the front steps waiting for the first of many prospective new tenants to arrive.  Dead man specials always attracted a crowd and Mr. Christian had back-to-back appointments booked all day for Francis’ apartment.  The earliest appointment was newlyweds answering an advertisement in the paper looking for their first home to be special—and cheap.  The young couple rounded the corner, spotted Mr. Christian, and waved; he looked at his watch, waved back and thought to himself, wait until I see that worthless Manuel, I told him take care of this mess by the stairs—I hope they don’t notice the smell.

“Hello.  We’re the Whites, we spoke on the phone about the dead man’s special listed in the paper,” Mr. White said.

“Yes, of coarse, well, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your new home!”  Mr. Christian’s eyebrows rose to make room for the oversized grin as he gestured the two forward.  The Whites smiled and the three strolled past Francis and up to what would become the Whites first home as man and wife.  The Whites decided, though, not to keep any of the furnishings.

“Manuel start clearing everything out and place it on the curb for heavy trash pick up,” Mr. Christian said while discussing the contract with Mr. White.  One by one, Manuel dragged the pieces down the stairs past Francis, and Mrs. White followed.  She carried the picture that hung in Francis’ room trying to decide if she would keep it—“I like the little angels and the glitter, but a weeping Virgin—it’s just too sad.”

Mrs. White stood on the steps trying to decide Mary’s fate when something in the shrubs caught her attention—it was Francis’ keys.  She bent over and took the keys out of Francis’ hand, “Excuse me.  Hello.” she shouted.  “Did you loose some keys?”

Manuel dropped the bed frame and frisked his front pockets.  “No ma’m.” he answered back, “Where did you find them?”  Mrs. White pointed down to Francis, and Manuel ran over to see.

“You know, you really need to do something about that” Mrs. White demanded, “if you don’t get that out of there before it totally rots, it’s going to be a real mess.”

“Yes ma’m.” Manuel replied.  “I’ll take care of it.”

Within a week’s time, paperwork approached critical mass on top of Francis’ desk at work.  Avalanche!  The stacks of papers fell to the floor taking with them a framed picture of Plato and a small dish of butterscotch candies that Francis set out for coworkers.   “What the hell is all this mess?” Mr. Grossman screeched as he stumbled upon the chaos.  Ben Grossman was the fanatical floor supervisor for Francis’ department and there were two things he would not stand for:  tardiness and disorder.  “Hey you.” Mr. Grossman directed to the girl sitting at a desk adjacent to the muddle, “Whose desk is this?”

Hey-you responded by gently shrugging her shoulders, “I don’t know Mr. Grossman, Sir.  The guy that usually sits there hasn’t been ‘round for about a week, maybe he’s on vacation or somethin’.”  The girl lowered her eyes back down to the file she held in her hand hoping her suggestion would satisfy Mr. Grossman’s curiosity.

“I didn’t sign any vacation request forms.  Don’t you think that I’d remember signing a vacation request form?  People don’t become floor supervisor by forgetting shit Honey!  Now get over here and get this cleaned up while I get to the bottom line!”  Mr. Grossman stormed away.

The girl walked over to the clutter, confiscated a candy casualty, and began sorting papers when a tiny sliver of glass from the broken picture of Plato embedded itself into her forefinger.  She removed the shard and up flowed a crimson bead that she dabbed onto the tip of her tongue; blood and butterscotch seasoned the hushed curses she uttered for Mr. Grossman and the guy who sat at that desk.

            Mr. Grossman collected the timecards, methodically scrutinizing each one as if it were a heart and he, Osiris.  The timecards did not have employee names, but rather an employee number on the top corner, which identified an individual by department, position, and section:  Francis was known as L-23-41.  When Mr. Grossman arrived at Francis’ timecard and saw that it was blank, he realized that one of his troop had indeed been AWOL for a week. The manic manager immediately ordered employee file L-23-41 from the personnel department.

“That jackass had better have a damn good excuse,” he muttered to himself.  Within the hour, the file was in Mr. Grossman’s hand and he learned who the ungrateful insubordinate was.  “Francis Liberty huh. Well, Mr. Liberty, you’re about to be liberated—from a job,” Mr. Grossman thought out loud.  He proceeded further into the thin file.  “No disciplinary actions against him, never tardy, no sick-time taken in ten years, man, this guy is as close to fucking perfect as…wait a minute, I knew I’d find something.”  In the back of the file was a pink duplicate of a citation issued by one of the company’s security officers, from nearly ten years ago, for an expired parking permit, and scarcely behind that was an admonitory by a timekeeper who wrote that Francis clocked in late on one occasion, but it did not mention that the late punch was the result of dealing with the expired parking permit.

Mr. Grossman considered the two past infractions, along with the current unexcused absence, “a brazen misuse of company time.”  Satisfied that he exposed Francis as being a degenerate, Mr. Grossman unlocked the top draw of his desk and withdrew a slip of paper—a permanent vacation form.  “Well, Mr. Liberty, waywardness such as yours can’t go unpunished.  I hope it was worth it.”  Then Mr. Grossman stapled timecard L-23-41 to the dismissal and sent it to the personnel department who processed it and mailed Francis his last check.  He walked back to Francis’ desk.  “Hey you, get these files up to date.  And call a temp agency.”  Then Mr. Grossman went back to his office, closed the door and dimmed the lights—“it’s nap time.”

First Notice, Second Notice, Final Notice, all went unnoticed and stacked in the pile of mail unclaimed by its recipient.  Nearly two months had passed and Francis’ credit report would have it’s first ever blemish.  The only thing that he did not own out right was his car.  Francis tucked away twenty dollars from each paycheck and had saved nearly $2000 that he put down on a not-so-new banged-up-and-blue sedan, which came with over 190,000 miles and a faded bumper sticker declaring something about abortion.  Francis only drove the car to work, and to Church on the days that the Lord had blessed him with rain.

It was on one of those rainy days that Francis found Plato running the wrong way down a flooding one-way street.  He pulled over and coaxed the little banged-up-and-brown canine to him using his dinner—a hotdog purchased from a convenience store.  Plato had no identification and had obviously been out on the run for a while, evident from the twisted, matted knots of fur that barely covered his skeletal frame.  The wet dog smell lingered in the car for over a week, but other than that, Francis kept the vehicle in tip-top shape.

Abraham “Lucky” Deal parked his S.U.V. across the street from Francis’ car.  Lucky checked the address and description of the vehicle to be sure he had the right one, then he left the vanilla scented air conditioned comfort of the S.U.V. and walked over to the blue sedan.  He looked around to see if anyone was watching, however, no one stirred on the sleepy little street so early on a Sunday, not even the homeless people in the park were aroused by the clatter from the large ring of keys that dangled from Lucky’s side. 

Francis only owed one more payment of $250, but to Lucky, a delinquent debt entitled him to collect by whatever means necessary, and in this case, it was repossession.  The key that worked for Francis’ car was marked with a piece or red tape along with two others that Lucky would confiscate before the day was over.  Lucky opened the trunk, but it was empty of personal items; next, he opened driver’s side door, which gave him access to Francis’ coffee cup and rosary that hung from the rear view mirror.  He dropped the rosary into the cup and took out his cell phone.   “Come an’ get ‘er, and be quick about it.”

“Oh, okay Mr. Deal.” an obtuse voice responded.

A low bellowing noise bounced off the buildings as a mammoth tow truck roared down the street and into position to take the sedan.  Lucky moved to the curb, lit a cigarette, and kept watch while the tow truck driver handled his business.  Once the car was ready to go, Lucky dropped the cigarette and smothered it beneath his ostrich skin boot; consequently, he tossed the cup behind him into the shrubbery—he did not want to be accused of stealing.  The coffee cup shattered where it landed, spilling the black, shackled prayer beads and crucifix near the wan figure that lay beside the steps.  The tow truck driver departed with the banged-up-and-blue sedan, leaving a cloud of black smoke in his wake.

Before he left, Lucky walked over to the foyer of the apartment building and dropped the notice of repossession onto the steps—for legal purposes.  He squatted down beside Francis bloated body and picked up a broken piece of coffee cup to weigh down the paper, and in doing so, Lucky observed the grimace on the man that faced him.             Although he did not know the man personally, Lucky thought it would be in bad taste to leave him lying in the dirt among the weeds, so he picked up the crucifix and placed it on top of the notice, replacing the fraction of coffee cup.  Francis received no such reprieve, but Lucky did offer a spot of advice, “Ya know, life’s like that beat-up sedan I sold ya.  Ya make the best out of what ya got, or just keep tradin’ an old one for a new one, but you’ll never be satisfied and you’ll always owe somebody somthin’.”

Francis might not agree with the phrase “never be satisfied,” because he was contented with his life, and he owed no one anything when he paid off his debt to life.   Lucky stood up straight, took one last look at the notice, and then retreated to his S.U.V.

The following day, Lucky returned to the car lot and placed a sign on Francis’ car: 

Dead Man’s Special

Low Miles, Like New

Cheap!

Dead Man Specials reek with profit and were Lucky’s favorite type of repossession.  Within hours of placing the sign, Lucky was inundated with deal seekers wanting the cheap special.  Not a soul seemed to care about the car’s condition—it was cheap.  Shouts of, “I was here first!”  “I saw it first!” “I have CASH!” volleyed around Lucky’s office.  There was no such panic when Francis purchased the vehicle.  Mr. I have Cash became Lucky’s first deal of the day.

“She’s a real beauty.  You got yourself a great little deal here.” Lucky said.

“It’s for my son—his first car.”

“Well I’m sure he’ll just love it.”

The little car that carried Francis from home to work and back again met its new owner, the son of I have Cash.  It was to be the high school boy’s first vehicle; he took one look at it and said, “I’m not drivin’ that piece of shit!”  And the car was parked on the side of the garage among the weeds.

Francis died in late summer, whose sun kept him warm and whose rains kept him clean; fall blanketed him in colorful leaves and cool early evenings.  In winter, Francis’ decomposed body dispelled the rime, and tiny flower blossomed around him mimicking the twinkling Christmas lights that ornamented the apartments.  The New Year began cold and wet, but the ever-present hope of spring lingered in the minds of man and beast—and Francis.

April rolled around and Manuel’s assignment was to prepare the apartment grounds. “Manuel, I budgeted a little extra for a landscaping overhaul.  I want you to buy the cheapest plants you can find, but get ones that’ll last for a while,” Mr. Christian said.

“Yes sir.”

“And Manuel,”

“Yes sir.”

“Do something about that damn mess by the stairs!  The whole complex has been complaining for a year now about the smell.  Take care of it!”

“Yes, sir.”

 Bags of pine bark mulch along with pots of azaleas, camellias, and heather shrubs loitered in the back of Manuel’s truck while he toiled with removing all the old and dead vegetation.  Manuel cleared the most noticeable gardens first—those along the street.

Without harming the healthy plants that had already come into bud, he indiscriminately uprooted declining flora and flanking weeds, piling them collectively to be burned.  Manuel eventually worked his way over to the site where Francis was, and with rake in hand he vigilantly scraped at the ground around Francis, removing rusty bottle caps, wads of gum, and cigarette butts.

The anorexic shrubs that barely concealed the litter, much less Francis, were the next to go and were easily unearthed by the slightest tug of Manuel’s mighty arms.  But no matter how much work Manuel did to prepare and plant the new beds, there was one big eyesore that he was finally going to do something about; so, he left Francis and walked to the supply shed in search of a rope that was long enough and strong enough to do the job.  Manuel tied one end of the rope to the bumper of his truck and secured the other end to the lower appendages of the unsightly mass.   

Francis opened his eyes and swiftly sat up straight to behold the sinister force tearing at his leg—it was Plato tugging at his pant leg, and it was time for a walk. 

“Whoa, where am I?” Francis patted Plato on the head, “Hey little buddy.”  Plato reciprocated the affection by jumping into Francis’ lap and licking his face.  The sound of Manuel revving his truck’s engine caught their attention and the two simultaneously turned towards the man and his machine.  Their eyes followed the line of rope from the truck to where it cuffed the exposed roots of an old decrepit red bud tree that shaded Francis during his down time.

The truck moved forward with the force of a juggernaut, but the tree remained resilient.  Again and again the truck heaved with all its might, barely budging the behemoth, but Manuel’s determination was eternal, and eventually the tree let go of the earth.  Francis sat silent trying to make sense of what he just witnessed, but Plato began barking—it was time for a walk!

“What is that smell?” Francis asked Plato.  And as he looked around, “Oh my God!  That’s me!” he said pointing to the badly rotten body.  “And if that’s me, then I’m dead.”   

Revision Account:  Francis Liberty

            Francis’ story began with a strange thought that I had when returning to my apartment from walking the dog.  I walk him around 5 a.m. and it’s usually dark and too early for others to be out except for a few homeless people who roam around the park.  What would happen if I were to have a heart attack and die while walking my dog?  The only reason it occurred to me was because my chest was pounding, maybe from the walk.  The idea was bothersome enough that on the way to work I began mentally outlining Francis, though at that time he was nameless.  Listening to the depressing morning news along the way to work influenced the supporting character’s cold images.

            When I decided that there may be a story worth working on, I wrote.  Thirty-five pages later, I had the first rough draft.  I based Francis on Franz Kafka’s character Gregor in The Metamorphosis, a meek and honest, but somewhat lost soul.  Kafka isolated Gregor by making him into a beetle, but I isolated Francis by killing him and using the supporting characters’ viewpoints to show what Francis’ life is like (in Part 1).  Unlike Gregor, though, Francis realizes that work is not the most important thing in life and this idea is expanded in Part 2.  I decided to fashion the story on Dante’s Inferno, substituting Virgil with Plato, Francis’ philosophical dog who helps Francis understand his predicament by using reason to sort out events that happen to the duo on their journey to a heavenly (or hell) afterlife.

            In Part 1, the story is told through a homeless man and neighbor (we did not cover these two in class due to time restraint), the landlord Mr. Christian, the supervisor at work Mr. Grossman, and the lien holder on Francis’ car Lucky Deal.  I tend to create names that reflect the character himself.  Mr. Grossman for instance is named for his gross misuse of power and because he cares only about the bottom line, gross profit. 

The way I tend to write is to get the idea down as naturally as possible, i.e., type whatever comes into my head.  I tend to consider each paragraph a story on its own, so a rough draft for me becomes a multitude of stories that have a common theme. After finishing Francis, I put him away (until this class) so that when I re-read it details that are missing from the skeletal rough draft are noticeable.  By skeletal I mean that the paragraphs are condensed ideas that need to be expanded.

            What I presented to the class was the skeletal draft and I was hoping to get some meaty ideas, but I was a little upset to find that most responses that were returned to me dealt with errors in grammar, rather than criticism of the work; the workshop itself had some promising words of advice, though.  One thing I tried to do in the revision was to expand the role of the supporting characters through more dialogue.  Another suggestion was to show more through the characters actions rather than be an omniscient narrator, and by doing so, I also improved the pacing.  The hardest part that should have been the most obvious change needed, was having Francis rot and smell.  I did not want the focus to be on a decomposing corpse, but rather, the fact that Francis is dead and no one cares because he no longer serves a purpose to the antagonists.  The focus I wanted to make out of Francis’ death was, as Immanuel Kant put it, treat people as ends and not means.  I did, however, concede and made Francis decay, but in doing so, I had to make him realize that he is actually dead by seeing his own corpse, which does help with the logos.  Overall, sharing a work is not easy, but is not only necessary, it’s essential for seeing your work from outside the box.