Santiago Holmes died of liver cancer at 60. He’d lived a hard life, never missing a day of work and missing even fewer nights at the Tortoise. He’d pushed and punished his body because of a slight he never quite understood.
Or maybe he knew just what he was doing. Maybe drinking himself to death was a long slow suicide right in the public eye, where they would be forced to feel it. It was him thumbing his nose at those who blamed him for their hardships, as he showed them he was no better off than they were. He wanted them to understand they were the ones who had driven him to this. He wanted them to feel guilt.
After the first night at the Tortoise, he never again contemplated being a favored son in Berwick. He told me, “Once people have made up their minds about you, they aren’t going to change.”
I tried to refute him, telling him I found it hard to believe people could not put aside grudges and move on. I was younger then, more optimistic. He said, “the only thing people dislike more than fear is change and that’s because they fear it. Those mills were dying long before my pop even thought about having a kid, but do you think any of these bastards saw it comin’?”
I started to answer, but he kept on.
“No, they didn’t, because they didn’t want to, because they would have to change. The name Holes represents the owner they were always fighting against for ‘more’ and it came to represent the people who they came to see as having taken their work away from them. It doesn’t matter for one second that it wasn’t me who was in charge of the company. I have the name, and they aren’t going to change their anger against the name.
“Not that it was our fault. They all should check the names on their mailboxes for more people to blame. It wasn’t one person. It was everyone.”
“What if you tried to explain that to them.”
“Kid you are somethin’. You think any of these old coots would listen? They just wanna hurry up and get to Mt. Hope. They don’t want to sit around thinking about philosophy or using logic.
“No, they want to knock off whatever work they can find and slide into the Tortoise for a beer and a shot and a chance to take their turn bitching about what could have been if they’d just had one break in life to a roomful of other ‘wouldabeens’ and ‘couldabeens’ too afraid to call them on their bullshit or see the truth.”
“But if that’s the case, and it isn’t your fault, why don’t you tell them?”
“You’re not hearing me. They don’t want to hear what I have to say. They’ve fallen on such hard times; they resent everything about me even though I don’t have much of anything. Pap did me the unfortunate favor of giving me a full-time job, which is more than a single one of these bastards has right now. You think they an to listen to a word from the person they think ruined their lives but has somehow managed to ‘land on his feet?’”
Using up a courage I did not know my teenage self to possess, I asked, “But you had to have tried to tell them it wasn’t your fault at least once?”
His eyes went elsewhere, remembering some event or time, and then a mask of black rage, darker than any I’d seen before covered his face, “I tried to make it right once, but it only made things worse.”
“How?”
“I’d been drinkin’ at the Tortoise for a couple of years. I’d even come to the point where they didn’t like having me there, and they let it be known in the awful glares, but they didn’t spit in my path anymore.
“Each night, once ol’ Pete Smallman had served me my first round, the place forgot about me. They’d rant about how bad things were in town; how they couldn’t believe the mill had closed, but the number of times they’d put emphasis on the name ‘Holmes’ had almost stopped.
‘Yeah, they’d say my name loud enough to where I couldn’t help but look up. When I did, I’d see a roomful of eyes staring back at me in the expectation of my saying something. I know I’m a drunk and a bum, but I’m no fool, I wasn’t then either.
“There were always five or more of them, I wasn’t going to start something and get my body broken. I think they might have respected me more if I’d fought back, but I’d just as soon have them think me a coward. I didn’t even stare hate back at them.
“Those nights, when they were particularly riled, I didn’t close the Tortoise. I’d leave early, slumping out soon after their comments, so they’d think they’d beat me. I’d go out to their trucks and let the air out of the tires. I didn’t stick around to see them rage, but I imagined it, and it always made me laugh.”
“Is that why everyone kept, or keeps, hating you so much?” I asked.
“I don’t think it helped, but it wasn’t what kept them fueled. No, it was the still the name no matter what else I did; it was always the name. At least it was then. Now, they hate me because it’s what their fathers and grandfathers did, and in this day and age, it’s a lot easier to just keep doing what ‘s been done than to have an original thought.
“It doesn’t help much that I’m mean and a drunk. I don’t like interacting with these folks, and that puts them off as well. When you look like me,” at this he gestured to his dirt stained, worn out t-shirt and jeans, “folks tend to give you a wide berth and form their own opinions of you from a distance. It’s that much easier if they already have an idea of who you are from the gossip of others, or family traditions.”
“But what happened when you tried to explain you hadn’t run them out of their jobs? How did it make things worse?”
