EF Writes

In the summer, my Saturday morning habit consisted of checking out yard sales. With the purpose of finding ideas for the articles I write or find that one specific item I could not live without.

This one Saturday, I found the former. Actually, more than an idea for an article, but the source for many articles and books.

It happened when I stood in front of a display table at my third yard sale of the day. On the table were several hunting knives, a couple of military knives, and an assortment of kitchen cutlery. One military knife caught my attention. I picked it up to closely examine it.

It appeared to be like an over-sized Kabar knife. The Kabar knives were carried by United States Marines. The design of the Kabar made it a useful tool as well as a weapon. This knife was definitely bigger than the regulation Kabar, but smaller than the one seen in the Rambo movies.

I picked up and examined the knife, then asked, “How much for the knife?”

The elderly gentleman on the other side of the table said, “I took it off a Viet Cong who was trying to use it on me. I’ll let it go for $80.”

Out of the corner of my right eye, a tall athletic figure wearing a colorful tie-dyed t-shirt approached. I could not help but notice his long hair pulled back into a braided ponytail and his muscular build.

Before I realized what was happening, this stranger took his index finger and tapped the butt of the knife, sending it into the air. His other hand reached out and grabbed the knife by the handle.

The seller and I both stepped back in amazement.

“Careful with that knife,” the seller said. “You can hurt someone,”

“You should be ashamed of yourself for selling such junk,” the stranger came back in a demeaning tone.

I asked myself, “Who is this guy? What is he going to do with that knife?”

“This is a knockoff made in Taiwan.”, said the stranger. “The blade is not real steel. It is nothing more than cheap aluminum. The whole thing is a piece of junk. It is definitely not worth $80.”

He then struck the knife blade against the corner of the table. The knife dented.

“You damage it, you buy it,” snapped the seller.

“I’ll give you a dollar for this piece of crap. I’m being generous.”

The stranger’s attitude caused the seller’s face to turn red. Sheepishly, the seller came back with a counteroffer. “I’ll let you have it for $5. That’s less than what I paid for it.”

“I’m not going to pay you for this piece of crap.”

In a burst of courage, the seller demanded, “Put the knife down! Get out of here. You are costing me money.”

The stranger flipped the knife in the air and grabbed the knife with the blade pointing down. In one motion, he plunged the point into the table. The tip of the knife bent from the hardness of the table and fell limp. “You can keep your junk.” The stranger said, then walked away.

Curiosity overtook me. I followed him toward several parked cars.

The stranger walked with purpose. I caught up to him as he opened the door of a black 1972 El Camino with a red racing stripe.

“Hey, mister!” I yelled. “Got a minute?”

He stopped and turned toward me. “I might. What do you want?”

“That was impressive; the way you dealt with that guy and handled the knife.”

“I spent some time in the Army. They taught me how to handle knives.”

I told him about my interest in people and their life stories. I told him how I had published a couple of pieces. All of them were about people I’ve met.

A smile came out of the corner of his mouth, then he said. “I have a story you just might be interested in hearing. I have a cabin up Idaho City way. Would you be interested in coming up for a visit?”

“It has been sometime since I been up that way.” I said. “Why don’t we meet somewhere in Boise?”

“I know it is quite a drive up to my place. Let me sweeten my offer. I have a hobby of brewing some smooth tasting beer. I’m sure you would enjoy sharing a glass or two.”

“That is an offer I cannot refuse.” I said.

“Can we plan on next Saturday?”

“Next Saturday it is?”

I told him my name and gave him one of my business cards. He pulled out a piece of paper from his car. He scribbled his phone number on it.

“I’ll call you on Friday to confirm you are coming up. I will give you directions to my place, then.”

As he climbed into his car, I asked. “Wait a minute. What is your name?”

“Roberts, my name is Jason Roberts”. He closed the car door and drove off.

***

Throughout the rest of the weekend, the image of Jason Roberts hounded me. A fit older man with almost perfect posture. He walked and talked like someone definitely educated and not afraid to call out what he saw as wrong.

I kept asking myself, “Why did he invite me, a stranger, up to his cabin for a beer? What am I to expect when I get there?”

Monday morning came, and I walked into my home office. Sitting at my desk, staring at the blank computer screen, and pondered the best method for me to get some background on this Jason Roberts.

To push back the morning brain fog, I continued with my morning ritual. I pressed the power button on my laptop, then I went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. When I got back, my laptop asked for a password.

I entered it, took a sip of coffee, and watched as the notifications popped up. Opening each email was a struggle, for I kept picturing Jason Roberts as if he was standing in front of me. I asked myself, why has this old man made such an impression?

He didn’t fit the type of person who I expected to attend yard sales. I could see meeting Jason Roberts at a Credence or a Willie Nelson concert.

The two things I knew for sure about this guy. He liked to brew his own beer. And he drove a tricked out El Camino. As for his name being Jason Roberts? That I will have to verify. Could this guy be a serial killer luring me to his remote mountain cabin?

Considering the way Mr. Roberts dressed and acted, he could be ex-military. If ex-military, I could do some searches on my computer.

After a basic Google search for Jason Roberts, I came up with a fiddler in Texas and a halfback football player for a college team. I tightened my search to Idaho and the US Army. All the photographs I got back from Google were too young or didn’t look like this guy.

I knew this investigative reporter. We’ve collaborated on several articles. He had resources to find out things hidden from Google. I had seen him pull information from public databases. He also had connections at the Pentagon.

The next morning, during breakfast, my cell phone started playing the theme to the original Star Trek. From the caller ID, I could tell it was my investigative reporter friend.

I pressed the talk button and raised the phone to my ear. My friend’s voice came blaring out over the phone. Finally, I could make out the words, “What the heck are you trying to do to me? I never in all my life got into so much hot water for asking about any one individual!”

***

“I have had some folks at the state house upset at me before but have never gotten this much heat. I don’t owe you any more favors. You are to never call me again for anything. I don’t want to know or care what you have gotten yourself into.”

“Slow down,” I said. “Take a deep breath and tell me exactly what happened.”

“This Ja…Ja…Jason Ro…berts guy you h…h…had me check out.” I could tell he had discovered something really big. I have seen my friend stay calm through life-threatening situations, but never this rattled.

“Take another breath and slowly tell me what happened.”

“This morning, I was getting in my car and go to work. A big black SUV stopped in my driveway. Three scary dudes in black business suits jumped out and started walking toward me. I thought I was going to be beaten up or killed.

The lead guy stopped six inches from me. His friends stood on each side. They shot questions while not giving me time to answer them. I think they intended to get me frustrated. It worked.

The head guy put up his hand. The other guys stopped. That guy asked in a slow, deliberate tone, ‘Why are you asking about Mr. Jason Roberts?’”

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“I told him I was doing some research on Vietnam vets who live in Idaho. I came across his name and wanted to find out if he was still alive. I wanted to see if he would be attending the upcoming Veteran’s Day event.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me to forget about Mr. Roberts. Any information about Mister Roberts is off-limits. He told me that if anyone else asked about him, I should immediately call him. And then he handed me his business card.

That card only had his name and a phone number. The phone number had a DC area code.”

“Give me the guy’s name and number? I want to call him.”

“No! Not on your life! Are you crazy! No way! I’m afraid if I do, they will throw me in jail and lose the key! You must have tapped into some crazy NSA, CIA, or black ops shit. I’m just a local reporter and don’t even want to get anywhere near anything like this.

Take my advice, forget about this Jason Roberts. If you must write about someone, I know a half dozen veterans who would be more than happy to share their story with you, and let you write about them.”

After I ended the call, I sat back in my chair and pictured this, Jason Roberts. He must be some real-life American version of James Bond. I pondered what I should do. Play it safe and forget about Jason Roberts or go up to his cabin and risk being thrown into prison just for asking about him.

I took a sip from my coffee mug. Yuk, cold coffee. I looked at the clock. Ten minutes to eleven. I had wasted the morning.

Another hour passed, and I reviewed for one last time what I should do. I could take a pleasant Saturday drive into the mountains. After what I had learned so far, I don’t think he is a serial killer. Still, I am warned away by a friend. He had set off some kind of security alert. I like the idea of tasting some home brewed beer. Why do men in a black SUV and business suits want to protect an old hippie?

Well, if curiosity killed the cat. I hope I have a few more lives left. I am going to spend next Saturday with Jason Roberts.

***

That July Saturday morning came. The weatherman confirmed later in the day it would reach a hundred degrees plus and humidity below ten percent. A perfect day for a mountain drive to visit Jason Roberts.

Jason called me the day before to confirm I would be going to his place. He provided me with his address and detailed directions. He included a warning about once I got off Highway 21, street signs and house numbers would be nonexistent.

A twenty-five-minute drive from east Boise to a certain mile marker, then turn left. From there I had to make a series of left and right turns over pavement turning to dirt. Finally, I entered a clearing. At the far end stood an old rustic-looking log cabin, with a large front porch.

Along the right side, I spotted the black El Camino from the week before.

Jason stepped onto the edge of the porch wearing Army cargo shorts and a Boise State tank top. On his head was a raggy straw hat and leather sandals on his feet. He directed me to park my car behind his El Camino like General Patton directing his troops.

“I see you followed my instruction.” He said as I approached the porch. “Did you have any troubles?”

“Nah,” I said. “Nice place you have here.”

Jason nods. “Thank you. Come on up, have a seat, and I will get you a cold one.” Jason walks inside while I take a seat in one of the two wooden chairs.

A short time later, Jason came out with two Mason jars. He hands me one and sits in the unoccupied chair. He watches me as I take a slow drink. “What do you think?”

“I like it. You brew this yourself?”

“I do. Over the years, I have gotten particular about my taste in beer. I have found it best for me to brew it the way I like it.”

“You have done a great job keeping this place very well maintained. Do you do all the work yourself?”

“When I bought the property, the cabin was pretty rundown. I have been fixing it up little by little. I have it just the way I want it.” Jason stood up. “Before we get down to why I have asked you here, let me show you around.”

Jason spent the next several minutes showing me around the inside of the cabin. I had to ask him, “All your furniture looks handmade. Did you make them yourself?”

“There’s a guy on the next hill over who built most of it. The cabinets and counter, I did myself. The windows and front door are custom. I had this carpenter in Boise build them, and I helped him install them.”

Jason explained he paid for the property with the money he got from selling his parents’ place in Boise. The upgrades and customizations were paid for when he sold his photography business.

“Where did you have your business?” I asked.

“I had a little photography studio in Oakland, California. Since 9/11, everything changed. I sold the business and moved up here.”

We walked out the back door and back around to the front porch. As we were sitting back down, I said. “I feel honored you would invite me up here to show it to me.” Still, what he told me and what little I had learned about him didn’t match.

“Jason pointed to the chair. “Have a seat. Can I refresh your drink?”

“I’m fine for now.” I said.

Jason smiled. “I have something I want to share with you. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared in the cabin.

As I sat in that wooden chair, I took in the fresh mountain air and the occasional sound of wildlife.

Moments later, Jason walked out carrying a thick, worn photo album. The cover had faded from age. I could almost make out the logo on the cover. It appeared to be of some Army unit insignia. I could only make out the letter C and the number 4.

He sat back in his chair and surveyed the wooded area in front of us. He looked as if he wanted to make sure no one was watching us.

Jason put his right hand on top of the photo album. In almost a whisper, he said, “I want to show you something. I have done my research on you, too. You may not believe me, but I planned our meeting at the yard sale. From my research about you, I became convinced you would be the perfect person to help me tell my story. What I am about to tell you, I have told no one before.”

With his right-hand Jason turned the cover, revealing the first page. In the center of that page was an old five by seven black-and-white photo. It looked like an airfield, with buildings in the background.

“That’s Tan Son Nhut Air Force base. I took that picture the day I arrived there in 1968.”

 

Read what Jason told me through that photo album in Shuttered Reality.