Below is the first few chapters for Jason Roberts Begins. I originally posted it on here back in January of 2021. Recently up dated it. They were corrections to mistakes and other parts I wanted to add.
The complete novel is coming.
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Yard Sale Meeting
There are a lot of places where you can meet new people: churches, bars, networking events. I would never thought a chance meeting at a yard sale would be the beginning of a friendship that changed my life.
It was a midsummer morning in Boise Idaho. Outdoor activities had to be completed by midday. Hundred-degree plus temperatures and twelve percent humidity does not lend well to many outdoor activities. The smart people are driven indoors. At the same time thanking God for air conditioning.
This one summer Saturday morning I took a drive around Boise. I was in search of a yard sale, selling a particular mystery item. An item I had no idea what it was until I saw it.
I arrived at the fourth yard sale I attended that morning. I found myself standing in front of a table of neatly laid out knives. On display were several hunting and military-type knives. On in particular caught my interest. I picked up. I held it in my right hand, while I gave it an close examination.
It was larger than a regulation Kabar knife. The Kabar knives were carried by US Marines. The Marines used the Kabar as a tool and weapon. This knife was definitely bigger than the regulation Kabar, but smaller than the one seen in the Rambo movies.
“How much for the knife?” I asked the older gentleman on the other side of the yard sale table.
“$100, 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 fit gentleman wearing a tie-dye t-shirt approached us. He had a neatly trimed goatee and hair braided into a ponytail.
Before I realized what was happening this gentleman hit the butt of the knife with two fingers sending the knife out of my hand. While in midflight his other hand reached out and grabbed the handle.
The seller and I both turned and stared at him.
“Careful with that knife. You can hurt someone,” demanded the seller.
“You should be ashamed of yourself selling such junk,” came the condescending words from the stranger.
I just stood there frozen wondering who was this guy standing next to me and what was he going to do next.
The stranger took a closer look at the knife. “This is a knockoff made in Taiwan.”, said he with authority. “The blade is not real steel. It is nothing more than cheap aluminum, a piece of junk. It is definitely not worth $80.”
He then tapped the sharp side of the knife blade against the corner of the table. It left a dent in the blade.
“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 seller took a step back from the table. I could see his face had turned red. Sheepishly, the seller replied, “I’ll let you have it for the deal of five dollars. That is less than what I paid for it.”
The stranger moved his head from side to side.
In a burst of courage and anger the seller demanded, “Get out of here you are costing me money.”
The stranger changed the position of the knife blade. Instead of the knife pointing out, it now pointed toward him. In two powerful quick motions, the knife raised above his head. He then plunged it downward into the table. The blade succumbed to the hardness of the table. Knife fell limp with a bent blade. The stranger turned and walked away.
This stranger so impressed me. I had gotten overtaken with curiosity. I had to find out more about this stranger. I followed him back to his car.
He definitely was no old pot smoking out hippie from the 60’s. Neither was he some hermit that came down to Boise to harass city dwellers. His tricked out black 1972 El Camino, told me he paid a lot of attention to detail. I had for find out more about this stranger.
“Hey, mister! Do you got a minute?” I yelled at him as I walked up to him.
“I might what do you want?”
I started out commenting how I was impress how he handled himself at the yard sale. I asked him how he knew so much about knives.
He told me he was a retired photographer. He had served in the military as a combat photographer.
I told him about my interest in people and their life stories. I had got published a couple pieces about some of the about people I have met. We stood beside his car for at least thirty minutes talking about different things.
At the end of our conversation, he invited me to visit him at his place. He said he lived in the mountains between Boise and Idaho City.
“I know it is quite a drive up to my place. I’ll sweetened the offer. I have a hobby of brewing my own beer. I am sure you will enjoy a glass or two.”
“That kind of an offer I cannot refuse. Next Saturday it is?”
We exchanged phone numbers. He said, if I was still interested call him on Thursday, and he would give me directions to his place.
As he started to climb into his car. I reached out my hand to shake it. It was then I told him my name. He shook mine. He said. “I am looking forward to seeing you next Saturday.”
He turned back around to opened the door to his El Camino, I asked, “What is your name?”
“Roberts, my name is Jason Roberts”.
Who Is Jason Roberts
The rest of Saturday on into Monday, I was haunted by a stranger I met at a yard sale. The way he acted and spoke was like someone who had live through quite a range of experiences. From the words he used he was not east coast educated. His level of confidence was only seen in some high ranking military officer. Still he wanted to take time and have a beer with me a stranger?
Monday morning came. I walked into my home office. I sat at my desk staring at a blank computer screen. I pondered what would be the best way for me get some background on this Jason Roberts.
To kick my brain into gear, I had to take care of my morning ritual. I pressed the power button on my laptop, then I went into my kitchen. My body was over due for my morning cup of coffee. When I got back my laptop was fully booted and asking for a password.
I entered my password, took a sip of my coffee, and went back staring at the blank computer screen. I struggled to open my email client. My idle thoughts kept going back to Jason Roberts.
In my mind’s eye I pictured him as if he was standing in front of me. Six feet tall, with long, salt-pepper hair in a braided ponytail down to the middle of his back. A short well-trimmed beard matched the color of his ponytail hair. Golden brown tan on his face highlighted the wrinkles in his face. I judged his age to be in late sixties or early seventies.
His clothes were a contradiction. His worn jeans had a sharp ironed crease down the front of each leg. The Boise State t-shirt looked faded, yet stiff like it had been given way to much starch and then ironed. On his feet were Birkenstock sandals with no stocks.
He didn’t fit the stereotypical person who would be going to yard sales on a Saturday morning. I would of have expected to meet him at a Credence Clearwater concert. Maybe at a Willey Nelson concert.
The three things I knew for sure about this guy. He said his name was Jason Roberts. He liked to brew his own beer. And he drove a tricked out El Camino. There was the possibility I was going to the remote mountain cabin of a serial killer.
Considering the way Mr. Roberts dressed and acted, I figured he likely was ex-military. If he was ex-military that meant he would go to the the local VA hospital for medical treatment. I just happened have a friend who worked an administrative office of our local VA hospital. I called him.
I would call my friend from time to time to verify what someone would tell me about their military experience. I wanted to know if they were was telling me the truth or feeding a bunch of bullshit. I had come across plenty of guys who would feed me a line of bullshit just to impress me.
He said it would take a few days before he could get back to me.
The next morning, during breakfast my cell phone started playing the theme to the original Star Trek. I usually didn’t phone calls until after I finished my breakfast. I looked at the caller ID on my phone’s screen. It was my friend at the Veterans Administration.
I press the talk button and raised the phone to my ear. My friends voice came blaring out of the phone’s speaker. It was so loud, I had to pull it away. My friend was screaming. “What the fuck are you trying to do to me? I never in all my life got into so much hot water for asking about one fucking inquiry!”
More Mystery
“Slow down,” I said. “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”
“This Ja…Ja…Jason Ro…berts you h…h…had me check out.” I could tell he had discovered something really big. My friend was not the type to get rattled easily.
“Take another breath, and slowly tell me what happened.”
“This morning, I was getting ready to get in my car and come to work. A big black SUV pulled up behind my car. Four scary looking dudes in black business suits jumped out and started walking toward me. I thought I was going to be beat up or killed.
The guy who was in the lead walked up to me. He got in my face while his friends surrounded me. They started asking me all sorts of questions. They didn’t giving enough time to answer them. They must of seen I was getting frustrated. They stopped.
The guy standing in front of me looked at me in the eye and asked me, ‘Why was I asking about Mr. Jason Roberts.’”
“What did you tell them?” I tried to ask in a calm voice.
“I told him I was doing some research on Vietnam vets who live in Idaho. I found his name and wanted to find out if he is still alive and what benefits he is getting.”
“What did they say?”
“I was told to forget about Mr. Roberts. Mr. Roberts is off-limits to all inquiries. Only his personal physician is allowed to make inquiries and then only for life and death reasons. If anyone else asks me, I was to call this dude right away. He handed me his business card. On it was just a name and a phone number with a DC area code.”
“Can you give the guys name and number?” I asked.
“No! Not on your life! Are you crazy! No fuck-in way! They’ll throw me in jail, and throw away the key! You are messing with high-level shit. It is way above my pay grade.
This Jason Roberts must be some real life American version of James Bond. If I was you I would stay as far away from him. You could get both of us thrown into prison just for asking about him.”
After my scared friend hung up, I went to my home office. I just sat there. I didn’t take a one sip of my coffee. All I could bring myself to do was just stare at the blank computer screen. I just sat there trying to decide what I should do. Should I go up to Jason Roberts’ place on Saturday or blow him off. I could always go to a few more yard sales.
It was almost noon when I made my decision. I was more than determined now. I was going to go up to Jason Roberts’ place. Besides, I was curious what his home brewed beer tasted like.
If just a simple inquiry about Jason Roberts brings out scary men in business suits and a black SUV, I need to know more. What kind of man living up in the mountains bring about this kind of protection from the FBI?
Retirement Cabin
Saturday arrived. The heat from the mornings sun of July confirmed the day would be best spent in a cool place. The weatherman on the radio warned of a hundred degree plus along with low humidity. In other words that Saturday was going to be perfect for sipping cold beer under a shade tree.
Jason called me the day before to confirm I was coming. He gave me his address along with detailed directions. I needed them, because once off Highway 21 the road was partially paved. Street signs and house numbers were handmade. In some places arrows with two letter initials indicated the direction to some isolated cabin.
I was thankful for the directions Jason gave me. It took me a twenty-five-minute drive from the east side of Boise to reached a certain mile marker. I turned left on a dirt road for approximately a hundred yards. Another left turn up a hill to until I reached another dirt road. After fifty feet, I reach a clearing. At the far end of the clearing set an old rustic looking cabin, with a large front porch. On the front porch set wooden end table flanked by two wooden rocking chairs.
When I entered the clearing, I instantly saw the cabin. Off to the right of the cabin was the familiar-looking black El Camino. The sight of it confirmed I was in the right place.
I looked around for where to park my car. Jason step to the edge of his porch. He motioned for me to park behind his El Camino.
That day Jason was dressed more casually than the previous Saturday. He was wearing Army green cargo shorts and a worn tie-dyed tank top. His ponytail protruded from underneath a well worn straw hat. He still wore leather sandals.
In his right hand he held a Mason jar. I presumed it contained some of his home brewed beer. My mouth got dry from the drive to his place.
I walked up to the bottom of the steps to his porch. Looking around, “Nice place you have here.”
Jason nods and says, “Thank you, When I bought the property the cabin was in bad shape. I been fixing it up a little at a time. Got it looking just about the way I want it. Let me show you around.”
As Jason was showing me around he went on to explain he paid for it with the money he got when he sold his parents place in Boise. He has been making small improvements on it when he gets a chance.”
“I feel honored you would invite me up here to show it to me.” I said.
“Glad to see you could make it. Come on up and have a seat.” Jason pointed to one of the chairs on the porch. “Can I offer you a cold brew?”
I nodded with a smile on my face.
“I must warn you,” he said raising his glass to look at the liquid inside. “This is my home brew. It has a fifteen percent plus alcohol content.”
“I think. I can handle it. Do I get mine in a mason jar too?”
Jason smiled. He then turned and walked into the cabin.
I set in the spare wooden chair Jason had point to and waited for him to come back out.
Why Me Why Now
Jason handed me a Mason jar. I cautiously took it. I had tasted some good and bad home brewed beers in the past.
“Remember the alcohol content is much higher than you store bought beer.” He said.
I slowly raised the jaw to my lips. Then I had the liquid come touch my lips. I was amazed at the smoothness and the taste. My second sip was even bigger. I was starting to feel a bit of buzz.
To get conversation flowing, I shared how I was one of those who had moved up from California. I was in search of a cheaper simpler lifestyle. I repeated my interest was in telling stories of people and the lives they live. In hopes my sharing would get Jason to start talking about himself.
He just set there looking out to something. I know not what. He took another sip from his jar.
After a couple moments of awkward silence, Jason started to shared. “I grew up in Boise. My dad would commute six days a week from Boise to work in Horseshoebend. Dad worked there most all his life. When they closed the saw mill my dad died a month later.”
I was half expecting to see tears emerge from his eyes. I didn’t.
“My mother died a couple months after his dad. I had a brother. He was killed by a drunk driver when he brother was only ten.”
There was more silence. I didn’t know what to say. I was getting ready to form some words. Jason abruptly put his hand up.
“Stop, stay, I will be right back.” He said.
Jason stood up from his chair. He walked back into the cabin. A minute later he came back. In his hand was a large picture album. I was expecting Jason was going to show me his baby pictures and pictures of his parents.
Jason sat back in his chair. Placing the picture album in his lap. His Mason jar set on the porch next to his chair.
The album cover was well worn. Jason put his right hand on the album then looked me squarely in the eye. The way he place his hand on the album, I thought he was going to swear on it like they swear on the Bible in a court room.
The silence was starting to get to me. So I asked. “Why are you showing me the album?”
“What I am about to tell you, I have not told to anyone. I have kept quite for long enough. It is time someone knows. I need to get out this story before I die, I need to tell someone. What you do with my story is up to you.
Meeting you at the yard sale, last week. The conversation we had afterwards. I felt you would be the one I could tell my story too. If you decide to put it into print, you would not blow it into some big Hollywood lie.
I am using this photo album to to keep me on track as I tell you the story. I don’t want to get side track with unimportant facts.”
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