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The ‘For Sale” sign on the old wooden fence was still there, it had been for weeks. Every weekday Stede drove past the sign on his commute to and from his soul-draining, yet well-paying, job at his father’s architecture firm. He had been eyeing the sign with the hand-written number for weeks, fantasizing about one day actually pulling over and calling it. He drove this backroad as a teen, his time for solitude, away from his always disapproving father and relentless classmates that took every opportunity to bully and tease him. It was about an hour drive away from his childhood home, no one could hurt him here. Stede used to take the bridge across the bay to his job, cutting his commute down to only a 20 minute drive. However, as the years wore on he felt drawn more and more to this familiar backroad, with its comforting twists and turns, beautiful rolling hills, fluffy white sheep peacefully grazing in paddocks and picturesque farmhouses and barns sprinkled amongst the fields. Sure, the route more than doubled his drive time but he didn’t really mind, and he didn’t think Mary, his wife of ten years, minded the extra time without him either.
He couldn’t remember making the conscious decision to pull the car over to the side of the road but there he was, standing at the gate of the property, his arms, still covered in the blue suit jacket from work, crossed on top of the gate, his head resting on them as he stared up the drive to the property. How many times had he fantasized about running away to a place like this? Away from the hustle of the city where he worked, away from the cookie cutter suburbs where he lived. Wake up, drive to the family business, feel inadequate as he was verbally abused by his father on the phone, telling him how he was doing a shit job running his branch of the company, drive home, eat dinner in silence with his family who acted like they wanted nothing to do with him, finally escape into his books where he could at least pretend to be anywhere but his current situation until he fell asleep…and then wake up and start all over again. He just wanted something to break the monotony, he wanted space to breathe, he wanted the freedom to be himself.
“Can I help you?” The gravelly voice abruptly broke into Stede’s thoughts, sharply yanking him out of his daydream. Stede quickly turned to find an angry man with his arms crossed standing just a couple meters away. He was shorter than Stede with a salt and pepper goatee that matched his slicked back hair. The man was wearing all black, a black flannel button-down, black jeans, black work boots, and black work gloves, which Stede thought was an interesting choice given the sun beating down on them that day.
“Are you the gentleman selling this land?” Stede tried to be polite even with the other man’s obvious look of disgust.
“No.” He quickly walked up next to Stede and ripped the For Sale sign down, grumbling to himself, “don’t know why he’s even selling this.” The angry man turned as if about to storm off when Stede stopped him.
“Is it not for sale? The farm?”
The man slowly turned and breathed out quietly, refusing to look Stede in the eyes, “It is.”
“Well,” Stede said sharply as he took a step forward and snatched the sign back out of the other man’s hand, “I guess you won’t mind if I give this number a call then.” Stede reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone, as if to demonstrate.
“Don’t look like a farmer.” The man crossed his arms again, looking him up and down and huffing.
“Well, I…” Stede looked down, suddenly embarrassed at his navy blue Brooks Brothers suit and brown Oxford shoes, “I’m a farmer but I am also a businessman.” He smiled weakly. “I’m a man with a wide variety of talents and interests.” His smile grew broader as he held out his hand, “Stede Bonnet.”
The other man did not extend his hand, “Izzy Hands.” He turned away and walked down the gravel road, grumbling to himself, “Farmer my ass.”
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