Miner

Miner

by Jean-Claude Morow

Jacob Crawley's thoughts always seemed to wander thousands of miles back home after hours. He couldn't help noticing, too, that his fantasies had become increasingly vivid and shockingly visceral.

He had been recently employed by a tech start up in Silicon Valley, and had moved there from Belleville, Kentucky. Feeling lonely, and overworked, the thirty something year old man longed to slip in through the back door of his trailer, and be home again with his family.

Even if it was only for a few moments...

The smell of Stouffer's Salisbury steak in the oven (family size), and instant mashed potatoes on the stove top made his imaginary stomach growl like the MGM lion. The secret was a little bit of Miracle Whip for the silkiest potatoes.

This was a scene he frequently walked in on as a coal miner a few years back. Back when there were jobs for that sort of thing. He'd take off his dirty, sunflower yellow hard hat, and kick off his rugged Timberland boots by the door. Marge wouldn't let him hear the end of it if he didn't.

Then, Crockett would come barreling out of the living room to investigate the break in. He was a scruffy, four year old Yorkie. The small dog would lick his master's hand, give paw, and start his world famous begging routine as if it was a Las Vegas side show act. The boys had taught him to do it as a puppy back when they got him for Christmas a few years back. Jacob, however, would push him off like a drunk date, and open the refrigerator.

Beer, Crawley thought. God, there would be beer there. Ice cold beer. At least, a six pack of Icehouse. Wow...

No alcohol was one of the perimeters of his new job. Drugs went with out saying, but if you needed to know, the answer was no. It was no wonder he fantasized about cracking open an ice cold one. With a plate of food, a beer, and man's best friend, Jacob thought about heading to the den next for the end of Letterman.

The flipper would be frigid to the touch. He'd press the button's quickly, he imagined. Of course, his wife, and sons would be upstairs for the evening, and the room wouldn't be warm. That's partly what Crockett was for. After all, what's a lap dog for if he's not going to be warming your lap? Because his master had a plate of hot, "not-for-Crockett-food" though that meant feet detail. He cuddled up right on top of the size twelve and half hooves that Crawley called his feet.

Jacob watched himself walk over to his favorite blue recliner, Old Bessy, with his mind's eye. The feeling of relaxation put the man at ease. He'd take a deep breath. Comfort was something he hadn't felt in a long time, and he technically wasn't evening feeling it.

This was all in his head.

In his fantasy, Jacob didn't cut his meat into manageable, bite-size pieces. He stabbed it with the end of his fork, tearing bits off with his semi-mouth. The way meat was suppose to be eaten by man, Jacob thought.

Some non-descript, starlet celebrity would appear on the Late Show as a guest. Dave would ask them how it was making that new movie they were starring in. They'd run a clip. The audience would laugh, and applaud. He'd ask them what it was like making all that money. He'd ask them if it was worth it. Worth leaving their family. Worth leaving everything they'd ever known growing up. worth giving up alcohol over. He'd ask if they could do it all over again, go to Silicon Valley, and take the job, would they do it again.

Enough of that, Jacob thought turning off television.

He put the plate down on the floor for Crockett after he finished eating. That was the accepted currency for foot warming dogs. As the Yorkie went to town on the dirty dish, Jacob headed for the back of his trailer.