Inhumanity

1. Into Darkness-2

The day was gray with a slight smell of moisture. Most had already outfitted themselves with these coats to protect from the rain. I did not, however, bother with any such thing. I briskly strolled across the street to the bar. I burst through the door and with a quick look at the bartender said, “Good day, sir! I would like the best scotch that you can offer in an ornate glass, please!”

The bartender looked at me with excitement, as of a king arriving at a house of peasants. I do not hold myself in such reserve, however, but it was nice to see his enthusiasm at my request. The bartender yelled, “Yes, sir! I shall have it to you in the second!”

I quickly responded, “Thank you, sir! I shall not forget your pleasant haste!”

The bartender quickly grabbed the bottle of his finest scotch and poured it into a blue-tinted ornate glass. It seemed as if the man had found a new love of the day. He accented the glass with a slight flavor of vanilla, as of an elegant touch to a magnificent drink. The bartender rushed out from the bar and ran quickly up the small steps to my side. He placed the drink in my hand and proclaimed, “If you don’t mind my asking, what is your name, good sir?”

I stated that my name was Mr. Benjamin Price and that I was a master banker at the Northeast Bank across the street. To this, he replied, “Well, sir, it was nice to make your acquaintance. You are welcome here any time, and please let me know if you need anything else.”

I smiled slightly and said, “Yes, sir, I will. Thank you very much!” I sat in peace and sipped on my scotch. I thought about the day and the amazing turn of events that had brought me to the present moment. Each sip of scotch was more delicious than the last. It brought a fire in my stomach that burned like the excitement that I was currently experiencing. All the hard work that I had undertaken prior to this moment had finally paid off in full. I was to be one of the most successful bankers in all of the Americas.

I sat back in my seat, reveling in my success. I could finally relax in the face of all the previous day’s trials. My mind raced with all the wealth I was about to acquire, the scotch smoothing each thought into perfection. I could not think of anything but finally purchasing my own company. I had longed to be an entrepreneur since I was an early child. Nothing had given me greater satisfaction than to receive requests and to deliver packages neatly wrapped in silver bows and colorful paper to my clients, to assist my customers in purchasing the many items that I had to offer. This was my fondest dream. I had begun to act upon this dream when I found my interest in accounting and banking at the university. I had enrolled for a hefty sum of money paid on debt to my honor with the Northeast Bank. When I spoke with the banker at the time, Mr. Willows, he took a great interest in my aptitude for numbers. Mathematics, he had called it, was of interest to me. No successful businessman could ever hope to deal with large numbers without mathematics. I immediately seized upon the opportunity to be employed for a tidy sum so as to pay my debts while taking courses in business and accounting at the university. Nothing had made me more proud to see all my hard work pay off.

I sat there thinking of the merriment that I would engage in every day after the finalizing of this deal, drinking the expensive scotch, the taste of smoking the finest cigars; the true mark of a wealthy master banker was to show his wealth with expensive tastes. It all seemed so relaxing until the bartender quietly strode up to my side. “Would you like more, Mr. Price?”

I sat up in the chair. “Why, yes, I would, my good man!” He gave a pleasant smile as he poured the smooth liquid into my glass. I smiled at him, saying, “Thank you, sir, but what is your name? I am quite sorry that I was not polite enough to ask earlier.”

He said, “Oh, Banneker, sir. Alfred Banneker!”

“Well, Alfred,” I said, “thank you for your hospitality!”

“Oh, it was my pleasure, Mr. Price!” He finished pouring my drink and briskly walked behind the counter to attend to the other customers.

I drank a small sip of scotch, noticing a man with a somber look on his face entering the bar. He looked like a delivery man, carrying hundreds of letters in his bag. He walked with a gait that suggested he was in a hurry, but still somber. I saw him walk to my table. I started thinking, What could this man want? He approached my table and said, “Mr. Price?”

What could this man want?“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“I have a letter for you. It was addressed in the most urgent manner.”

“Oh! Thank you,” I replied.

He looked at me for a moment and then walked out the door that he had entered the bar through. I could not understand what had just happened. I did not know if I was to receive news of grave proportions or simply receive a notice from the bank itself. I looked at the front of the letter and read the sender’s location.

“North Carolina?” I whispered. “Who could have written me from North Carolina?” I quickly realized that it must be from my extended family. I immediately opened the letter.

“Dear Benjamin Price,

My name is Percy Merivel. I am writing you this letter on behalf of your aunt Caroline. I regret to say that your aunt has taken sick and is getting worse every day. She is being kept comfortable, but the doctor does not know if she will recover. Please, Benjamin. Come to visit your aunt with all haste. She has been asking for you by name. I am sorry that I am writing you now, but it took me a few days to find your address and get the letter in order. Please visit as soon as you can.

Sincerely, Percy.”

I could not understand. My aunt had been doing so well. She had never had a sickness that would warrant this kind of haste. In that moment I realized that my day had been shattered. I could not fathom that my aunt would have fallen ill without my knowledge until this time. How could this be? I had written her last month, and she had replied very quickly to me. I felt as though I had lost my joy. I sat there staring at the glass with my scotch. I put the glass to my lips and took a sip. What once had contained a spicy liquid of celebration now contained a sinister hint of misery. I drank little by little, remembering what it had been like to visit my aunt. She was sweet to me when I was a child. I would go to North Carolina to escape the harsh winters as a youth. My mother would take me in a carriage that my father had built. We would ride all the way from Massachusetts to Hillsborough, North Carolina. The trip would take many weeks, so we would start our journey at the end of the growing season. My mother would leave my sister to care for my father and tend to the preparation of his meals.

I seldom would go on this journey, however, because of the poverty of our family as farmers, and also because of my father needing every available member of my family to help with the harvest. At that time the years were harsh to our crops, causing them to yield far less than needed to survive the winter and make money for the things that we needed. The summers would be cool with a good amount of rainfall. The air was cold yet and would cause anything that grew to lose its crop. My father every summer would continuously curse the world, screaming on and on every afternoon that he would die a broken and poor man. He of course had been drinking when he would do this. My mother would stand at the door watching in amazement as my father acted like a child. And on the days when he would rest, she would bring him water from our well to quench his thirst, should he wake.

When the growing season would come to a close, my mother would ask, “Father, may I take Benjamin to visit his relatives?” To which he would reply, “Yes, Mother, the harvest will be small this year.” I would almost leap for joy. I absolutely loved my aunt and her manor home in North Carolina. That afternoon I would help my father and mother make preparations for our journey. My father would pack extra food for my mother, saying, “Don’t worry, I will hunt this winter. I won’t have enough to eat anyway.” She would always look at him with a slight disapproval, knowing that she could not tell him anything different. She would kiss him and then go into the house to prepare dinner.

Those were days that would shape my life. Our journey was long and treacherous. Often we would try to drive on as much as possible, pushing ourselves to the brink of fatigue. My mother was one of the best carriage drivers I had ever seen. She always knew the roads and how to go through wooded passes with ease. She always packed for safety as well. She had her own sense of style with a shotgun at her side, ready to defend us if she needed. The journey was always smooth, though. Never was there a time that I saw her shoot anyone or anything. When we arrived in North Carolina, we would always stay at my cousin’s cottage on the border with Virginia. It was a small cottage. The fire was always raging in the corner. Delicious meats were cooking with vegetables in a pot. Simmering sounds could be heard loudly as we sat there talking with my cousins. I would stay there talking with them until I could not take it, and I would ask, “Excuse me, ma’am, but may I have some food?” She would always smile at my adolescence and say, “Yes, you can, Benjamin. Here, let me get you something to eat. Here, take this cup and go outside and get a drink of water.” The water in that area was delicious. I always loved the earthy taste of it. It almost made me think of candy. I would always enter the cottage again seeing all the food in my bowl and say, “Thank you, ma’am.” She would nod and go back to talking to my mother with vibrant enthusiasm. I would sit for hours eating my stew and drinking my water. I never left anything on the plate or any water in the cup.

The cottage was so cozy that I would immediately go to bed, even if the sun was still shining. There was always a nip to the cool air, which made me sleep so well. My mother always told me it was because of the water in the area surrounding the cottage. The water would make the wind colder until it cut through you like a knife. The thick timber walls of the cottage would usually prevent the air from rushing through you, though it did allow a small amount of the wind to blow through the cracks between the timbers. I would sleep for hours until first light. Then I would be awoken by my mother, and she would tell me that we had to go.