winner, huh?” His voice was full of brash optimism. It dropped as he looked at the price for entering “five hundred dollars to enter though. If I had the money I’d enter.” He looked at Mr. Conner. “And I’d beat them all.”
Moving slowly towards the door, as if he got to close the cold would suck him in; Mr. Conner scratched some frost away from the window and looked out at the team of dogs panting in the snow. But his mind wasn’t fully on the dogs, it was on the gear the dogs wore, and the sled they pulled. “You know,” Mr. Conner turned and walked to the far end of the counter. Zipping around the counter, he curved towards his normal writing spot. “I think maybe I should invest some money into some sled gear. You can’t keep running on that old stuff forever.”
Mr. Simpson followed Mr. Conner to his writing spot closest to the door. “What do you mean?”
The books that had all the checks, receipts, and other things that went with finances for the mail, hit the counter with a thud. Mr. Conner grinned slightly at how heavy the book was. “I mean that maybe I should invest some money into your team.” He locked eyes with Mr. Simpson who now stood in front of him. “You have been working for me for five years.”
Mr. Simpson grinned. “Yeah, and I think it’s the same gear that I started out with.”
Mr. Conner chuckled lightly and opened the book and began scratching things down on paper. He moved quickly, write here, write there, turn page, do math there, subtracts last number from number on fourth page sub-paragraph six.
Silence held the room and Mr. Simpson felt he needed to speak out just to have voice. “So, I see you’re over your cold.”
“Yeah.” Mr. Conner brushed it off. “Just some bug.” He paused in the middle of writing a number down, and looked at Mr. Simpson. “How much would a new sled and harness set for all your dogs cost?”
Mr. Simpson leaned back from the counter and looked at the ceiling. “Uh, maybe two hundred for a sled, and new lines, say, another fifty, and harnesses, I’d say … hundred and fifty dollars. So four hundred total – but that’s all brand new.” He threw in suddenly. “I don’t quite need brand new for running the mail. For some used stuff it might be-”
“Oh nonsense,” Mr. Conner said sliding a checkbook under his hand. “I’m also going to add in your pay for today on this.”
“No problem.”
Mr. Conner wrote the check in seconds, and handed it with a long sly grin to Mr. Simpson’s waiting hand. “Now don’t spend it all in one place.”
Mr. Simpson turned with a smile and headed towards the door with a casual gait. Then he noticed the numbers on the check, and stopped. He turned with a befuddled frown and held the check out to hand it back.
“Is something wrong?” Mr. Conner said glancing at the outstretched check, but never threatening to take it back.
“Uh, yeah,” Mr. Simpson looked at the check again. “I think you must’ve miswrote this, because, this is too much.”
“Oh,” Mr. Conner looked at his book where he had written the amount of the check down. “No nine hundred and twenty five, that’s counting your pay and new gear.”
“Yeah, but, you gave me … five … hundred … extra” Mr. Simpson stopped and his face went blank with wonder. He looked at Mr. Conner who had the same idea on his mind, and a very satisfied grin. They both stared at each other, stock still.
“So tell me,” Mr. Conner said surreptitiously, laying his arms flat against the counter. “Do you really think that you can beat them all?”
“Yeah!” Yelled Mr. Simpson. “Well, maybe not all of them, but I’ll for sure be in the top three finishers.” Mr. Simpson looked at the check in his hands again and felt a pit in his stomach. “Wait, you can’t just give me five hundred for entering a race.”
Mr. Conner stepped back from the counter and threw his arms up as if he was shocked he couldn’t’ do such a thing. “Why Not?”
“Because.”
“Well, it is my own money.” Mr. Conner said casually.
“Your own money, but, why?”
Mr. Conner heaved a sigh and spread his hands out across the counter. “Well, it’s probably because I remember a young man who wanted nothing more than to have a chance at running the Alaska five hundred, but never had the money. And then when the race suddenly comes up, he doesn’t have the money to do it. I just wanted to help you with a dream.”
Mr. Simpson felt speechless. His mouth moved, but nothing came out. The air in the room grew stale as Mr. Conner waited for him to speak again. Finally, Mr. Simpson felt some words forming. “So you just gave me … five hundred dollars … just so I can try an old dream.”
Looking at the ceiling, Mr. Conner answered slowly. “Hmmm, yup.”
Words left Mr. Simpson again, and time stood still.
“Take your time.” Mr. Conner teased.
Meanwhile outside the little post office filled with befuddlement, the mail team had regained some energy and composure. They all sat up and looked around them without haste, like children trying to figure out what had changed in their room.
Blood flowed from their muscles back to the outer reaches of their bodies. Nerves that had previously been dulled by the constant motion, lit on fire and had begun the stages of flaring out against themselves. In another hour or so the pain would have them all complaining and slipping into a comfortable spot so they could sleep the pain away.
“You know, Mr. Simpson’s appropriating a lengthy allotment of time for ceding the mail.” Fell said breaking the silence that had beset the team for the past day. He moved his back legs slightly as a nerve suddenly flared in his back right ankle.
“Uh, yeah. Me to.” Ralph grinned sharply, trying to sound like he knew everything Fell said.
Fell’s face scrunched up in amusement and a light chuckle escaped him. Ralph bared his teeth slightly; he had been dooped again and he didn’t like it one bit. “You know, I’m going to get you back someday.”
“I vastly distrust that my comrade.” Fell grinned as Ralph stared bitterly at him.
Even though normally Kodi would have jumped into any conversation, he didn’t feel a friend enough to talk at all. His ears rested down and back away from his face shamefully. His eyes hid away from everyone; daring not to even grace his friends for fear that they might take it- in some way- wrong.
Kirby looked at Kodi with a heartfelt sidelong glance. He could see how Kodi was hurting and in need of a friend, or at least some kind words. Besides, maybe if he got Kodi by himself he could tell him what they had talked about most of the previous night. “Hey Kodi, why don’t you and me go chase some cats after this? You know, just us two guys.”
Kodi shook his head slowly. “No, I’m to tired.” He said without enthusiasm or even life. His eyes locked square ahead. “I just want to go to bed; maybe I can get my head on right.”
There was a sense of distance in Kodi’s voice. A far off loneliness that Kirby could feel rising off of him. Kirby looked away; he really wanted to speak to Kodi alone about Dusty.
After a moment Kirby’s eyes came back to Kodi, he hadn’t changed a bit. Behind Kodi Dusty looked full of sorrow for the young husky in front of her, but her eyes were filled with anger and rage. She looked ready to kill Kodi in a moments notice, then weep over his grave the next.
The door of the post office flew open and Mr. Simpson came running off the porch in a cloud of steam. His feet hardly touched the steps, yet as he came down towards the snow his legs pumped like they were making full contact with each step. His feet squeaked across the snow as he rushed to the back of the sled and gripped the handlebar full on, barely ready for the dogs to pull. “Hike!” He yelled all of the sudden.
Energy flowed from his voice and the dogs fed on this. At once they all stood on their feet; the traces suddenly found tension, and the sled pulled forward down the street.
Kodi felt a new energy flowing through him. No longer was he tired, no longer did his feet hurt, no longer was he thinking about Dusty or how his friends had been whispering to each other the previous night. His mind ran with questions on what was happening. Where are we going? What are we doing? Why does Mr. Simpson have so much energy?
“Haw. Haw!” Mr. Simpson yelled and threw his weight into a left turn.
The command came so sudden that Kodi tripped over his own feet to make the turn into the six foot wide alley. His shoulder scrapped against the far corner of the building, throwing him sideways and almost to the snow; correcting himself, he then flew into an immediate boost of speed down the alley, making a note to slow before the possibility of another turn.
“Gee! Gee!” Mr. Simpson screamed near the end of the alley. He threw his weight hard right and the rickety sled threw out a wave of snow as it burst into the street.
Kodi flew right and down the center of the street where he began his meditative run. Breath, step, breath, step, breath, step, breath, step, breath, step. Just as Kodi’s body began to get accustomed to running the command came to stop.
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