Charley Pyrum by Sam Wheeler

Charley Pyrum
by Sam Wheeler

    We would all gather around the break room window and watch him stroll down 6th Street every morning. Between sips of coffee and drags off morning cigarettes we'd make guesses about where Charley was walking from. Bill would say Charley walked twenty miles every morning from his house south of town. Karen used to say Charley never slept at all. She joked he walked around town all night, waiting for work to start. I would usually just keep quiet, staring at Charley as he made his way closer and closer to the end of his journey.
    At a quarter till nine, six times a week, the side door to the building would slowly slide open. Everyone, like trained animals, would scatter from the table and rush off to other parts of the building. Bill would take the back stairs to the second floor and Karen would hurry to the front of the building to start their morning routine. I admit to a habit too, I would take the coffee filter out of the coffee pot and run water into it, pretending to look busy, waiting for Charley to enter the room. Very carefully, Charley's head would peak around the corner. His thick eyebrows hid his eyes; small glasses clung to his large nose. Noticing only me in the room, Charley would lumber over to the table and pull out his favorite chair facing the door. I swear he wasn't even settled in his chair and he'd say, "Don't you have work to be doing Samuel?" Fully expecting his question, I would tell him I had just finished cleaning the back office. Sensing his cold stare, I would then turn around and set a cup of hot black coffee in front of him.
    I had only worked for him a little over a month, but I felt I knew him as well as anyone working there. I thought it was strange the way he dressed, but Bill had been working there for ten years and he still made comments about Charley's faded black three-piece suit. He even swore Charley's thick gray moustache was fake. But the thing I always wondered about, as I handed Charley his hot black coffee on those mornings, were his shoes. Charley, no matter what the weather had been, always had muddy shoes. I used to crack a smile when I walked out of the break room to my post at the visitor's center. That was Charley, muddy shoes no matter what the weather.
    At nine o'clock on the dot, Charley would unlock the front door to the law office. We'd wait for the first visitors of the morning. And it surprised me, a lot of people came to visit the Lincoln-Herndon Law Offices. After starting the day's first video for the visitors, Charley would stumble over to me and look me in the eye and say, "Was Bill late today?"
    "No," I'd reply.
    "Well, I know he was. There were only two cigarettes in the ashtray. When Bill arrives on time he smokes four cigarettes. Today there's only two, so you see, I know he was late. You shouldn't lie to me Samuel Douglas," Charley would say.
    And that was typical Charley, once he had his mind made up about something, there was no changing it. He would never believe it, for instance, if Bill said he only felt like having two cigarettes that particular morning. Nor would he have believed Bill if Bill had said he smoked two cigarettes, then emptied the ashtray, and then smoked two more. To Charley, two cigarettes in the ashtray meant Bill hadn't arrived early enough to smoke his usual four.
    Charley only believed one thing, himself. In his own mind, Charley was a genius a solver of mysteries, a seer of truths.

    As a result of Charley's strange behavior and constant questioning, he wore on people's patience. Charley made many enemies. He'd look in someone's direction and before they knew it, Charley would be interrogating them on anything under the sun. During my first week working for Charley, I had a conversation with Karen. I asked her several questions about Charley. She seemed to either know very little about him or she simply refused to answer my questions. Either way, she made no attempt to hide her true feelings for Charley. Our conversation went like this:
    "I don't know, he just kinda gives me the creeps," Karen said.
    "So where's he from anyway," I asked.
    "There's times he'll just sit and stare at you, its like he's looking right through you, like there's somebody he's tryin' to see behind you."
    "How long have you worked here?"
    "You know, the other day, I came in a little bit early, my sister was running late for work, so I just got a ride with her. God I hate riding that bus. Anyway, when I got here, I noticed his office door was opened. The old psycho musta fergot to lock it last night. I was sooo tempted to go in there and see what's in there, ya know?"
    "So, did you go in there?"
    "Ya know, whatever the old guy's got in there, it wouldn't shock me. I bet he's got a bunch of women's dresses stashed away in there. He probably closes the door and puts 'em on and drinks his coffee. Talking to himself. Probably pretends he's the Queen of England."
    "Jesus, you really think he's messed up, huh?"
    "I bet they're plaid dresses with low neck-lines. He's definitely a plaid type weirdo, don't ya think."
    "Uhmm, I'm not really sure," I said.
    "Yeah, so anyway, what were you talking about earlier? I wadn't really paying attention. That guy just makes me mad sometimes. Like I can't figure out where he's coming from. I swear he needs to just leave me alone, because if he wants to know what I think of him, well, it'll make his head spin."
    With that, I could hear the elevator door slowly open and footsteps made their way onto the old wooden floor. With each step, the creeking crept closer and closer towards us. Charley's head slowly peaked around the corner, his glasses dangling on the tip of his large nose.
    "I hope the both of you haven't been sitting up here for the last twenty minutes," Charley sneered.
    "No, we haven't, I haven't sat down all day long," Karen snapped.
    Charley adjusted his heavy glasses to the bridge of his nose, "Well, why is the back of your skirt wrinkled Karen?" Charley turned and jumped back onto the elevator.
    "I told you he was into women's clothes," Karen said softly.

    At 2:30 in the afternoon a fantastic summer storm brewed itself up. The sky grew so black; I had to turn the lights up in the visitor's center. I had to light a dozen candles in each of the two historic upstairs floors. The wind outside created a howling noise I heard throughout the entire building. I looked outside the window and saw two McDonald's bags trapped against the iron fence by the angry wind. Rain beat away any visitors on this unassuming Thursday afternoon. For more than an hour I sat at my post without seeing a single face.
    Between crashes of lightning and howls of wind I heard what sounded like footsteps from somewhere upstairs. It couldn't have been Karen; it was her day off. Bill was at lunch and Charley wasn't supposed to be in his office today. Had I lost track of a visitor, allowing him to roam alone upstairs? I put down the two-day-old newspaper I was trying to be slightly interested in and decided I better find the source of those footsteps. I quietly locked the door to the visitor's center so no one could get in while I was upstairs and put a sign in the window saying, "Next tour at 4 p.m."
    Knowing exactly the spots to step to avoid making the old steps creek, I crept up the old back stairs. The agony those steps creamed out in at times was enough to give you the creeps on a sunny day, let alone a black-storm candle-lit day like today. I again heard footsteps, but this time they were coming from the third floor. I realized the footsteps were coming from Charley's newly remodeled office. I know that I should have just turned around at that moment, but I was curious to see who was in Charley's office. Surely it was Charley, but what if it wasn't? So, you see, I was left with no choice but to investigate.
    The third floor was the strangest part of the old building. This floor was the spot where Abraham Lincoln had his law offices. The floorboards were completely original - 150 years old. On tours, we would tell people they could, "Walk where Lincoln walked." It was kind of the tour's catchphrase. Everybody needs a catchphrase, right? So anyway, when I would say those words, I couldn't help but get an eerie feeling, even when there were 50 people standing in the room with me. Just the thought of 150 years worth of people before me, people who are more than dead now, walking in the same footsteps I walk in everyday, strange feeling. So now I'm walking through the third floor, being careful not to step on creaking boards. Lightning crashes outside. I'm guided by candlelight, walking through Abraham Lincoln's law office to go investigate a noise that, in the best case scenario, is Charley. I feel the hair raise up slightly on the back of my neck. I imagine I feel a creepy wind brush past my shoulder.
    As I get closer to Charley's office, I hear papers shuffle and the squeak of a chair. With each step I take, my suspicion eases. It must be Charley in his office, albeit unexpected. I turn the corner to Charley's office, the scene suddenly changes. Around this corner is new hardwood floor, new blue paint covers the wall and a large modern gray file cabinet in the hall. I notice Charley's door is slightly cracked, the light from his office lights half the hall. I hold up my hand, make a lose fist, ready to knock o n his door. Just then his phone rings, someone picks it up before the first ring dies.
    "Hellow," says a voice. I recognize the voice as Charley's most professional nasal pitch.
    I peak through the crack on the door-hinge side of the door. I can make out the back of Charley's half-bald gray head dancing from side to side. Phone up to his ear, muddy shoe tapping on the floor beneath his desk. I hear another tapping noise, like he's tapping a pencil on his desk as he listens to the caller. The door-hinge crack is not wide enough for me to make out his hands.
    "Ooh, yes. Ms. Rompel, how nice. What? Oh. Ms. Woppel, yes of course. Well, you see I spoke with him on Monday. Yes, that's right. Yes, exactly," Charley was being phony as he spoke. The rhythm of his tapping pencil sped up. His head moved out of view through the door-hinge crack.
    "Well, you see, the problem here is.What was that? Hello? Hello!!! Hello??" Charley slammed the receiver down on his desk then he pounded the receiver onto the phone base.
    I leaned closer towards the crack between the door in the wall and even shut one eye so I could get a better look into Charley's office. I couldn't knock on his door now, I didn't want to tell him I heard his conversation, and he sounded so mad. But, I didn't want to go back downstairs to my boring two-day old newspaper either. I wondered what made the old man so mad, I wondered why he got hung up on, too. I'm not proud of spyin' on the old guy, but what else was I to do?
    Charley immediately quit tapping his pencil and took a folded up sheet of paper out of his back left pocket. He unfolded the paper and I could see he jotted something down on the page. He folded it back up and returned the paper to his pocket. He rolled his chair slightly to the right - out of my door-hinge crack view. I saw his desk - coffee stained coffee mug. I saw a black and white picture hanging over his head. A yellow-stained newspaper article was taped six inches on the wall above his uncluttered desk and.!!!SLAM!!!.. The door swung shut in my face, nearly slicing my nose off in the door-hinge crack.

    I hurried back down the stairs and continued to sit at my post at the visitor's center. I sat and I worried. Did Charley know I was spying on him? Did Charley slam the door in my face on purpose? Or was it all just a strange coincidence?
    I flipped through the pages of the out of date newspaper on my desk. My eyes scanned pictures and editorials. My mind could not focus. My foot was nervously tapping the ground. My eyes left the newspaper and stared at the falling rain on concrete steps.
    I remember reading a biography on Lincoln a few weeks ago. Written by some Harvard professor - "The most definitive biography on the Great Emancipator" the back cover said. Anyway, in 1860, Lincoln was running for the presidency. In keeping with tradition of the era, Lincoln ran a very limited campaign. He remained in Springfield throughout the campaign. Reporters from all over the country flocked to Springfield in hopes to get an interview with the largely unknown, almost mysterious Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln complained he could not go anywhere without being harassed by reporters. They would ask him if he feared the South would break away from the Union if he were elected president. They asked him, "Was Civil War inevitable?"
    After answering their questions for months, Lincoln went into hiding. He no longer spent his time walking the streets of Springfield. Lawyers stopped seeing him at the courthouse. Reporters began wondering where this mysterious presidential candidate was hiding himself.
    Apparently on the night of the election, Lincoln's trusted law partner, William Herndon, went to the telegraph office. Sometime after midnight, the men in the office received word that Lincoln had just been elected the 16th President of the United States. The men and the reporters wondered where Lincoln was hiding himself. Herndon told the men he did not know where to find him.
    Herndon left the telegraph office and walked around town for quite some time. Making sure no reporters were following him, he went to tell Lincoln the news. Legend has it, Lincoln was in the upstairs of his old law office. He had moved out of it some eight years prior, but remained friendly with its current occupants. Herndon walked through the side door and up the now creaky stairs to the third floor. Lincoln was still awake and writing by candlelight.
    Herndon told him, "Mr. Lincoln, I've just come from the telegraph office and Washington says you've been elected president."
    Lincoln turned towards Herndon, with the candlelight at his back, and said, "is that so?"
    Herndon left and went down the creaky stairs and pulled the door shut behind him. One reporter from the local Illinois Register watched from across 6th Street. He thought it was strange Herndon was leaving his former office at such a late hour. Then, his eyes scanned up the eastside of the building to Lincoln's old law office. He saw a figure lean across a table and blow out a candle. The reporter stood in amazement because something told him he was witnessing something very special.
    Years after the assassination, that reporter recalled what he saw next. He said the front door to the law office opened wide and out stepped Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln stepped out onto the opposite side of 6th Street and looked at the State Capitol. He took his fashionable stovepipe hat off his head with his right hand and did a complete cartwheel. Lincoln got up, brushed himself off and walked home in the dark Springfield night. The reporter recalled it was such a surreal scene. Imagine a 6 foot 4 inch man in his best three-piece suit who had just been elected president doing a cartwheel. It had to be surreal.
    And as I stare out the window and watch the raindrops fall on the concrete steps, I realize that is the exact spot where 140 years ago a man did a cartwheel in silent celebration.

    On Friday I arrived at work early. The sun was shinning, the grass was green. The air had that great smell in it, even better that the smell of fresh laundry.
    I walked in the side door and into the break room. Bill was sitting at the table, smoking his third cigarette of the morning.
    "Hey Sammy, I was watchin' ya walk up the street. You're certainly in a fine mood today," Bill said.
    He took a long drag off his cigarette, he squinted his eyes and his cheeks sunk in as he was inhaling. Then he coughed. A hard, painful cough. The cough was familiar. After such deep drags he would always bark that way. It actually sounded like he was dying. Like his lungs were on fire. Like he was underwater gasping for air. Bill liked to take such deep drags off his Winstons.
    Ignoring his coughing fit, as usual, I answered, "Well, it's a nice day out. And I have the weekend off."
    Bill looked over at me as he was stirring his coffee. His eyes were a bit bloodshot, his gray moustache was stained around his lips from years of coffee and smoke.
    He said, "Come over here and sit down. You never sit at the break room table. You're one of us now. Take a seat, Sammy."
    I sat down across from Bill. The large window was on my left-hand side. I saw ladies in dresses and men in suits walk into the bakery across the street. I saw a squirrel climb a tree.
    "So what'ya think of old Charley, Sammy?" Bill asked. I fumbled with a package of sugar and poured it into my Styrofoam cup of coffee. I mixed the sugar in with the coffee with a disposable stirring stick. I looked over at Bill's ceramic coffee mug. It was stained from years of morning coffee and conversation at the break room window.
    "Well, I guess Charley seems like a good guy. I mean he seems to know a lot of history, that's for sure," I replied.
    Bill took his fourth cigarette out of his pack and lit it. He took a small drag and exhaled quickly.
    "You don't think he's just a little bit strange?" Bill asked.
    Bill's eyes were squinting, but he wasn't taking a drag off his cigarette. He was squinting at me. His fingers twisted the ends of his stained moustache.
    "Well, I'm sure he seems a bit out of the ordinary to every new guy who works for him," I answer.
    Bill's squint eases and his attention turns away from me. He looks out the window, he looks disappointed. He takes a sip out of his coffee and gets up from the table with his cigarette still in hand.
    "I'm gonna go to the bathroom," Bill says.
    I sit at the table and think how strange Bill's questions were. What did he want me to say? Was I supposed to tell him I thought Charley was a nut? Was I supposed to say, "Yeah, Bill, the old man's always got muddy shoes, that's weird! The old guy's always saying crazy stuff. Yeah, Bill, I think Charley should be put out to pasture, maybe locked up in a psycho ward!" Is that what Bill wanted me to say? Is that what Bill wanted to hear? Is that what Bill thinks himself?
    From the front of the building, I heard a door open. I turned around in my seat and in walked Karen. She had a red shirt on, she always looked best in red.
    "Hey Sam, are you nervous for the big day?" She asked.
    "Nervous? Why would I be nervous?"
    "Oh, Charley never told you, huh. Well, he said you have the first tour today. It's a BYU tour group," Karen said with a grin.
    "Well what's that mean?"
    "Oh, you're in for a treat this morning. And they're going to be here in less than ten minutes," she said. "Well, c'mon, what's the story on them?" I asked.
    "BYU - Brigham Young University. There's gonna be fifty BYU alumni on your tour."     "So what's the big deal? I can handle a group that size."
    "They're all senior citizen Mormons and they don't give a shit about Lincoln. All they want to know about is Joseph Smith," Karen laughed. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. I remember Joseph Smith. He had a connection with this building. I hurry over to a small file folder on a shelf in the corner of the break room. I brush up on Joseph Smith and the Mormons.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I see Karen hurry out of the break room and move into the front of the building. I hear the side door open. My eyes are still fixed on an old paper telling me about the trial of Joseph Smith.
    "Samuel, I need to talk with you!"
    My head swung to my right and my eyes saw Charley standing in the break room doorway. His glasses rested on his large nose. He tugged at this faded black suit.
    "Your tour group is waiting at the front door, Samuel. After that, come up to my office," Charley snarled.
    I nodded and walked past him and down the hall into the front of the building. Karen sat at a desk and laughed to herself as I walked by. I opened the door and fifty smiling old faces wished me good morning. I stood on the front step, where Lincoln did his cartwheel, and said, "All right everybody, good to see you. Thanks for coming today. Follow me in and we'll go up the stairs to begin our tour."
    Again, I walked past Karen. She winked at me. Fifty friendly faces followed me up the first flight of creaky stairs and into the first room. It took almost five minutes for the BUY alumni to make it into the room. Some took the elevator, but most trudged up the stairs after me. And when they were all inside, there was hardly room for another.
    "Well, everyone, my name is Sam Douglas and I'll show you around today. Welcome to the Lincoln-Herndon Law Offices. This is the sight where Abraham Lincoln had his law office until 1852. His law offices were on the third floor, that's one floor above us. This floor, the second floor, was used as a court room for many years."
    The smiling faces were slowly turning to blank stares. It's one thing to bore a crowd of eighth graders, but when you can't hold the attention of retired, educated people, you begin to loose confidence fast.
    "Well this room was used by the court clerks. They filed all the court documents in crates along the walls. But by the 1850's, all those court records were taken to Chicago to be stored in new buildings. Unfortunately, the Great Chicago Fire burnt all the records in 1871. Today, historians face a challenge when trying to figure out what happened in the court room right next door. Follow me into the next room."
    Ugh! The blank faces are turning into tired faces quickly. They are just not interested in the history of the building. They don't catch my jokes. They don't even look me in the eye when I'm speaking. We all move into the courtroom and they take seats on the old benches. They look at the old, worn floor. They see the judge's bench in the front of the room. They look at the long table where the lawyers argued their cases. And they look at all these treasures with a yawn and a blank face. They are not impressed. I begin to wonder if Charley set me up to fail. Was this my punishment for spying on him?
    "Ok everybody, I see you've found a seat. Now this courtroom was used throughout the 1840's and into the 1850's. Some very interesting cases were heard here. Of course, we don't know all the details because our records, you'll remember, were lost in the Great Fire of 1871. But we have gotten some good details of some of the trials by looking through old newspapers." Their faces are not even looking at me. One lady is filing her nails. I didn't even know old ladies filed their nails. An old guy in the back is counting the spare change from his pocket. I can't even count how many old faces are staring out the window. I decide to go for a long shot, it can't hurt.
    "All right, so who's heard of Joseph Smith?"
    The lady filing her nails looks up at me. The guy counting his change drops a penny. The faces looking out the window turn towards me. The tired looks I saw just seconds ago are gone. Now this is what they wanted to hear.
    "So, you've all heard of him?"
    All their heads nod up and down. The guy that was counting his change gives me a big smile.
    "Well, I am no authority on the subject," I say, "but I read a newspaper account of a very important trial involving Joseph Smith that took place in this court room in 1842."
    Everyone's eyes get very big. I see a lady in front of me with dyed black hair nudge a white haired lady sitting next to her. I hear her say, "This is it, this is the room!" Smiles decorate everyone's faces.
    "Well, the article I read told me the trial was a huge event for the town of Springfield. It was front-page news in the papers. The entire town turned up at the front of the building that day to get a look at Joseph Smith. Imagine the whole town at the doorsteps you were waiting at this morning." They all shook their heads in disbelief. Their eyes were still wide. The guy that was counting his change began nodding his head as if to say, "I knew it all along!"
    "Hundreds of people showed up that day hoping to get a seat inside this courtroom. Only a few people actually were allowed inside. As you can see, there is only seating for less than seventy people. Well, the only ones allowed to witness the trial were people who had connections into the building. One of those people was Mary Todd Lincoln. After all, her husband was a lawyer in town. He probably arranged for her to have a seat in the courtroom for the trial. It was a very social event, Mary Todd must have felt important as she sat in the courtroom during the trial of Joseph Smith."
    I pointed to an elderly lady who walked with a cane. I said, "If I'm not mistaken, I think you're sitting in the exact spot where Mary Todd sat during the trial."
    The lady put her hands over her mouth and I heard her say, "Oh my Goodness!" She smiled a big smile, worthy of a Friday. She didn't know I had no idea where Mary Todd really sat.
    "Well, I know the trial was based on a request to extradite Mr. Smith to Missouri. I know the state of Missouri wanted to put him to death. But, I'm sorry I don't really know the details."
    And then a great idea popped into my head. I could tell the BYU alumni were familiar with the story by the way they nodded their heads when I told them the few facts I did know. I said, "Does anybody know the particulars of the case?"
    Heads began to nod and in the back of the room, near the doorway, a gray-haired man with a blue short-sleeved button-up shirt began to speak in a deep baritone voice. He said, "Joseph Smith was the father of the Mormon Church. He and his followers lived in Navuoo, on the border of Missouri and Illinois. Missouri persecuted the Mormons because of their religious beliefs."
     Then the guy who was counting his change raised his hand. I thanked the baritone-voiced man for his information and motioned towards the former change counter. He said, "Missouri's governor was shot one day. Missouri said Joseph Smith, the father of the Mormon Church, shot him. He didn't shoot him, Missouri just wanted to hang 'em 'cause Mormon men had more 'en one wife at a time."
    I nodded my head up and down as he spoke. That was the way people would look at me when they were really listening. I like it when people show you they're interested while you're talking.
    He continued, "Well, Joseph Smith, the father of the Mormon Church, fled with some of his followers into Illinois. When they caught him, they couldn't take him back to Missouri because 'a state borders and laws."
    I interrupted him, "Yeah that's why Joseph Smith appeared in this very courtroom in 1842. The trial was held to decide whether or not Joseph Smith would be extradited to Missouri. As you all know, the court ruled in his favor. He wasn't sent to Missouri."
    Smiles were all around the room. The dyed black hair lady nudged the white haired lady next to her and said, "Oh isn't this interesting!" The lady sitting in Mary Todd's seat said to nobody in particular, "Isn't that something!" The guy who was counting his change and the man with the baritone voice smiled and looked proud because they contributed to the group.
    "All right everyone, let's go upstairs and enter into Abraham Lincoln's law office. Just follow me," I said. I turned and walked up the creaky stairs and onto the third floor. Nobody followed me. I could hear the Mormons talking and laughing in the courtroom . I heard cameras clicking. But after a few minutes, I heard the man with the baritone voice announce, "Well, I bet that fella's waitin' for us up those stairs!"
    I waited in Lincoln's law office. I stared out the window he stared out of. I stared into a three-story high tree, rainwater dripped from its leaves. Soon, I heard stomping of elderly feet up 160-year-old stairs and soon Lincoln's office was filled with smiling faces.
    "Well, this is Mr. Lincoln's law office. You can see what a great location for a law office this was. Across the street, you can look out the window, was the statehouse. In that building, the legislature met and the Illinois Supreme Court was held. Across 6th Street, to your right, was the Federal Courthouse. And out the window behind you was the American House Hotel, on the corner of 6th Street. The American House Hotel was important because all the visiting politicians to Springfield stayed there. I can imagine Lincoln spent quite a bit of time in the hotel, visiting with important people. That is, when he wasn't in one of the three courtrooms that surround this very office."
    And then it happened. All the smiling faces began to chuckle. They were looking out the windows, they were interested in the important buildings I was pointing out. They began to really picture, maybe for the first time, a man named Abraham Lincoln. They came to hear about Joseph Smith, but now they cared about the big picture. A hand went up.
    "So this office was Lincoln's office, right?" A man asked.
     I replied, "Yes, that's right. It was the most expensive law office in town because of its strategic location, as you can see."
    Another hand went up, "Well, Lincoln musta been a pretty good lawyer to be rentin' the most expensive office in town, huh?"
    "You're right. He practiced law in Springfield for 25 years. For a long time he even held the distinction of earning the most money in a single case. He earned $5,000 in 1851 for winning a case for the railroads."
    All the faces smiled wide. The man who was counting his change snapped his fingers together and shook his head. He shouted out, "How much was that in his day? Was it like a hundred thousand dollars today?"
    I smiled and said, "I'm not sure if it was that much. But I do know the railroad refused to pay Lincoln his money. Lincoln, being a good lawyer, took them to court and eventually got the money he earned."
    They all smiled again. The lady who was in Mary Todd's seat said, "Isn't that something!"
    "Well everyone, that concludes our tour. Thank you for coming today and I hope you all have a good day. If you'll follow me down the stairs, I'll show you the way back to your bus."
    Everyone turned towards me and clapped. Not just a couple of claps, it was applause. The white and black haired ladies clapped the loudest. The change counter smiled as he clapped and even winked at me. I told them I appreciated their kindness and turned to walk down the stairs.
    The man with the baritone voice said, "Do ya mind if we get some pictures up here in Lincoln's office?"
    "Of course not, take your time."
    I stood at the opposite end of the room and watched group after group of BYU alumni get their pictures taken in front of Lincoln's desk. As they got their pictures taken, they walked past me, shook my hand, told me it was such a great time and vowed to return with their grandchildren before the summer ended. I stood in Lincoln's office until the last person shook my hand and told me what a fine job I had done.
    As I turned to follow the last person down the stairs, I heard a voice from the opposite end of the third floor.
    "Samuel? Samuel, please come into my office."
    It was Charley. I walked across the old floor and turned the corner into his hall. The walls are draped in new blue paint, my feet walk on the new hardwood floor. I enter Charley's office for the first time and take a seat on an old wooden chair. Charley has his back to me, digging in his filing cabinet.
    Is Charley going to yell at me for spying on him yesterday? Will I be fired? What does he want? My mind begins to race through every possible scenario. My heart pounds, my mouth is dry. My foot begins tapping on his hardwood floor.
    Charley turns towards me and says, "Applause, huh?"
    "Yeah, they were nice," I say.
    Charley sits at this desk. He has his usual faded black three-piece suit on. His shoes are muddy - dried mud. His foot is tapping on his hardwood floor. I see the mud begin to crumble from his shoe and some falls to the floor.
    He pushes his glasses up from the tip of his nose to the bridge and says, "You like how things are going so far?"
    "Whatd'ya mean?" I ask.
   "The job Samuel. Do you like the job, Samuel?" Charley snarls back in a quiet voice.
    "Yeah, oh yeah. The job's great. I like meeting all the different people," I answer.
    My eyes can't stare directly at him, but I feel him staring at me. I can feel him searching for answers in my every movement. My foot taps faster on his hardwood floor, and so does his.
    Charley sniffs loudly, I can see his big nose move to one side when he does. He says, "Well, you're doing a fine job. Applause and everything? I was listening to you earlier and you did a good job. You are knowledgeable about some things."
    My foot begins to slow down. A big smile comes across my face. Charley's not so bad, I think. He might just be misunderstood. He paid me a compliment and everything. Bill and Karen have him all wrong.
    Almost blushing, I said, "Well, I do read a lot about the era and Lincoln is a pretty interesting subject."
    "Really? That is great you read a lot. I like to read myself. Have you read much about Lincoln's "House Divided Speech," Samuel?"
    "Oh yeah, 1858, right across the street at the Old State Capitol's where he delivered it. Very interesting," I replied.
    "Well, I can tell you have read about it Samuel. That's good. That's real good. Reading will always help you with jobs like this and I do like my guides to have a good knowledge of such events, do you understand the importance, Samuel?" Charley said.
    "Sure, of course," I answered.
    Charley shifted himself in his seat. His foot stopped tapping. His glasses were slipped down near the tip of his large nose.
    While looking me in the eye, he said, "Well good, I'm glad we're in agreement. And while you were reading about the "House Divided," do you recall the author stating on which side of the face Lincoln's mole was on?"
    I paused and scratched my head and said, "What?"
    Charley shouted, "The mole Samuel!! Which side was Lincoln's mole on!!?"
    "I don't know."
    Charley pounded his fist on the desk again and shouted, "The right or the left, Samuel!!"
    Charley's eyes were wide. His large nose was red. A vein on the left side of his skinny neck bulged. His fist pounded the desk yet again.
    "The right or the left side!!?" He shouted.
    I shook my head no, I shrugged my shoulders and said quietly, "The left."
    Charley's head fell limp. He wiped his forehead with his hand and removed his glasses. He put his head up and stared at me in the eyes, I was staring right back at him.
    Quietly he said, "The right side. Abraham Lincoln had a mole on the right side of his face. How can you read books about a man and not even know what he looks like?"
    I just sat in silence. Charley wiped his glasses with a paper napkin from his coat pocket. He motioned towards the door and I walked down the creaky stairs and sat at my post at the visitor's center.

    Mondays are usually slow days. I don't really know what the reason is. I don't know if it's a travel day for tourists, or if it is just a popular day to go to other sites. But for whatever the reason, Monday is a lazy day. And that's just fine with me. I mean on Mondays, I walk in tired from the weekend and the first cup of coffee usually doesn't even take the edge off. So, whatever the reason is, Monday is a slow day and only two people are scheduled to work.
    I've been careful around Bill lately. I get the feeling he's up to something, but I don't know what. I mean, he seems nice enough, but sometimes he'll try to get me to say things about Charley, and I've got a sneaking suspicion he'll tell Charley any negative thing I say about him. I don't know, maybe I'm just in a bad mood, but I can't quit thinking about what Charley said to me in his office. I mean, I thought the old guy was going to have an aneurysm because I didn't know Lincoln's mole was on the right side of his face. Who cares about things like that? Maybe I just don't get it.
    Bill walks up to my desk in the visitor's center. He smells like smoke, of course. Whenever there aren't any tourists around, he'll sneak outside and sneak a cigarette. Charley hates it when he catches Bill smoking when he's not on break. But Bill just tells him, "There's nobody inside anyway!" It makes sense to me, but Charley just doesn't get it. I don't know what Charley gets.
    "So Sammy, how was your weekend?" Bill asks me.
    "Pretty good and you?"
    Bill stares out the window. He watches the traffic move north along 6th Street. He raises his right hand and with his index finger and thumb, he traces his lips. His tongue wets his lips.
    Still staring out the window he says, "I hear Charley laid into ya pretty good last Friday, huh?"
    I look down at my shoes; scuffed-up brown leather dress shoes, and say, "Sort of."
    Bill's eyes snap into focus and he looks at me. He leans his elbows on my desk and bends at the waist and asks, "So what'd he say to you?"
    "Well, I don't know, it was just kinda.weird, that's all," I reply.
    Bill says, "C'mon tell me, I'm curious. What'd the old guy say to you?"
    "It was just some crazy stuff about a mole, that's all. He just sort of freaked out about it, that was the weird part," I said.
    Bill stood straight up. He twisted the ends of his stained moustache with his thumb and index finger. He turned his attention off me and stared out the window. He got a serious look in his eye.
    He said, "Ya know Sammy, it's really nothing to worry about. Charley is just in his own world. He's created a world that only he can relate with. He's past retirement age, Sammy. Before too long, they'll get him outta here. You wait and see. Who do you think'll take his spot?"
    I looked at Bill. He was twisting the ends of his moustache into a sharp point. He stared out the window hard. I could see a look come in his eyes. "I mean look at it Sammy, enough of us say somethin' and they'll have to do something about him. This is a state-run historic site. The public owns this property. Think about it, Sammy. The Lincoln's don't own it. Old Bill Clinton don't own it. I don't own it - Everybody owns it!!" Bill exclaimed.
    As Bill talked, his hands became animated. His arms rose above his head. His head moved from side to side. But his eyes - his eyes stayed staring outside onto 6th Street.
     "The way I figure it, Sammy, if the staff complains about the old guy, nobody's gonna listen. I mean, they'll listen but they're not gonna do a thing about it. But, if the public complains about him, now that will really get people to take a look at the old guy. And maybe, just maybe, we'll get somebody who actually has a foot in reality to run this show," Bill said.
    Bill stopped talking. His hands were in his pockets. I could hear him jingling his spare change and keys. He lightly hopped from his right foot to his left. As he shifted his weight, his eyes broke out of their stare. He looked around the room. He looked over his shoulder. He opened the door to make sure nobody was coming. He bounced over to my desk and leaned in close. I could smell cigarette smoke and coffee smells.
    In a quiet voice he said, "Now just between you and me, I know why the old guy yelled at ya on Friday. You pissed him off real good," Bill smiled.
    "Why, what'd I do?"
    "You didn't fail, that's what. He gave you that tour group because he wanted you to fall flat on your face. The old guy's full of head games," Bill said.
    "Yeah, I had a feeling something was up," I said.
    Bill leaned in closer, "Charley knew those Mormons were only interested in Joseph Smith, not Lincoln. Man, Mormons don't give a shit about Lincoln. Charley thought you'd try to force some Lincoln knowledge down their throat, you know a typical tour. But you didn't. You told them what they wanted to hear. I don't know how you did it."
    "Yeah, well Karen tipped me off right before I went on tour with 'em," I said.
    "Karen?" Bill looked surprised.
    "Yeah. She told me the same thing you said. You know, Mormons don't give a shit about Lincoln, right?" I explained.
    Bill grinned, "I get it. Karen gave you the clue. And here I thought you just figured it out somehow. Now it makes sense."
    I just shook my head up and down to show Bill I was listening. I could tell he was up to something and Monday is really no day to be up to something. I didn't want any part of his schemes. I didn't even want to hear about them.
    Bill said, "Well those old ladies were really impressed with you. It's just a shame."
    "What's a shame?" I asked.
    "Well, they were down here afterwards raving about how nice and polite you were. But then, they heard Charley yelling at you. It's just a shame that was the last memory the old ladies will have of you. You know, being screamed at. And what did you do wrong? Nothing! You did everything right and look, you get screamed at and some old ladies have to listen to it."
    I just shook my head again. Bill was making a lot of sense, but I knew he was up to something. I just wanted to be left alone. I had today's newspaper at my desk and I just wanted to read it. But Bill wouldn't stop. He stood up straight and began to run his fingers through his thinning gray hair. He said, "If I were you, I'd complain. I've got the Director of the agency's phone number in my wallet. I wouldn't take that kinda stuff from him, or anybody."
    "No, Bill. I don't want any trouble. This is just a temporary job for me, I don't want to get anybody in trouble," I explained.
    He smirked, "Well I'll tell ya what, if you complain I guarantee we can get those nice BYU ladies to back your story up and that'll be that. Charley's gotta be on his last leg anyway. He'll get a nice little retirement and then it'll be, 'See ya Charley!'"
    Bill was waving goodbye to an imaginary Charley. His face was red. I look up at the ceiling and think about how strange Bill is.
    "And here ya go, Sammy, how's this for a replacement?"
    Bill put his arms out to his side. A big smile lit up his face. I saw a twinkle in his eye. His moustache was still pointed at the ends.
    "I mean I'd be a good boss, don't you think? And I'm qualified. I've got a military background. Yep, served in Vietnam, signed up for the Air Force 'cause they wadn't gonna draft me, no sir. There's shame in getting' drafted 'cause ya should volunteer fer it first! Photographer in the Air Force, yep that was me. Never went to 'Nam, stationed in Seattle the duration of the conflict, yep."
    And for the next hour, I listened to Bill's life story. He told me everything. He told me about the first time he'd ever been with a girl. He told me about his first wife and how she had a miscarriage. He told me what it was like when his dad died. He told me he had strange emotions when he looked at his dad lying in the casket. He didn't know if he felt like crying or just saying, "The hell with it." Because, he said, "The old man'ed get to drinkin' and then he'd be fightnin' and when he'd be fightin' I had to be duckin'."
    Bill told me all these more than personal stories, one right after the other. And what shocked me most is he didn't even smoke a cigarette for the entire time. It was the longest I'd ever seen him go without one. And while he was telling me all these things, I began to get the impression I wasn't the first person to hear these stories. I mean, he had his whole routine down perfectly. He had the jokes crafted just right. He knew where to stop and pause and look out the window for effect. He knew how I'd react to each anecdote. It was like he was giving me a tour of himself. He had his prepared speech down perfectly and I had to serve as his audience. I was so thankful when the door finally opened and a visitor popped his head inside. I was saved.
    Bill took the visitor upstairs and started his tour of the building. I sat at my desk, at the visitor's center, and tried to sort out what all he said. The last hour and a half I watched Bill lay himself out before me. An open book. A road map with the route highlighted. He showed me his hidden motives. He told me his stories. Nothing about Bill was left to figure out.

In the years following Lincoln's death, Herndon fell into financial trouble. He sold items belonging to the former president for cash, he quarreled with local politicians and her drank heavily. By 1880, Herndon was nearly bankrupt. He decided to write an unauthorized biography of Lincoln to raise money.
    Herndon described Lincoln as a very troubled person. He blamed Lincoln's bouts of depression on a lost love. He explained how Lincoln fell in love with Anne Rutledge in New Salem when they were very young. Anne died suddenly and left Lincoln alone in a harsh world. Herndon said he felt sorry for Lincoln because he could see the grief his law partner still carried for his "first and only true love." Herndon claimed Lincoln never got over Anne.
    Sometimes when I am in the third floor office Lincoln occupied, I remember passages of Herndon's book. I can almost picture Lincoln sitting at his desk, staring blankly out his window onto 6th Street. Herndon said during times such as those, he would leave Lincoln alone with his thoughts. Herndon would leave the office, making sure to shut the door behind him so no one could look into the room and see, "The most unhappy, miserable man alive."
    Herndon's book angered many people. But when I think about it, maybe it made so many people mad because it was too real. It painted Lincoln not as a hero, not as emancipator, but simply as a man. Herndon worked side by side him everyday. He stood by him during his triumphs and sat beside him after he failed. And Herndon knew when to leave him alone when he got a far away look in his eye.

    It was late July. The days were those hot, dry, tired summer sort. Tourist numbers began to shrink and the days seemed to drag on. I would sit at my desk for an hour, sometimes two, and my only entertainment was a newspaper or a passing insect. The only break in the non-action was a visitor. The only way to make the time pass was to talk. For instance, the door would open and a family of four would hesitantly step in. Being so relieved, I would rush up to them and start a fifteen-minute conversation. Such conversation included, "Where are you from? Oh really? I've never been there. Oh really? Yes, well Springfield is a nice town. Yes, of course. Well would you like to take a tour?"
     On those sort of days, if the family was interested, I would make the tour last over an hour. I would tell the family every little detail about the building, the town, politics in general, the weather, Edgar Allan Poe and any other thing, real or imagined that happened to wander in my head. I wanted such a family to stay on tour as long as possible because as long as I was talking and someone was listening, the day seemed to go by just a little bit faster.
    One such day, I was sitting at my desk, as usual, reading an article about the French occupation of Illinois during the 17th Century. The article was long, the article was dry. I could feel sweat on my forehead. I felt my eyes growing heavy. I heard nothing in the building, complete silence. I gave in and closed my eyes.
    I don't know how long I was asleep. But I know I opened my eyes the second I heard the front door open. I had to have been an actor in a former life because the second I heard that door open, my hands started shuffling papers. My eyes were opened wide and not a trace of sleep hovered over me. A man walked through the door. Black hair, middle-aged, big out of style plastic framed glasses rested atop his head. He wore a whit T-shirt, shorts and sandals; a camera hung around his neck. He was alone.
    He looked over at me and said, "Hey there, how's it goin'? Can I get a tour a this place taday?"
    I, of course, jumped at the opportunity to make time speed up. I put a sign in the door welcoming anyone to join a "tour in progress." The man and I climbed the stairs to the second floor. "So, where are you from?" I asked.
    The man looked down at the worn hardwood floor. He smiled and said, "Well, I'm from Pennsylvania."
    Trying to start a prolonged conversation, I said, "Oh, Pennsylvania, that's great. Are you from Pittsburgh, or..."
    My experience told me people loved to tell you about where they were from. If you showed any interest in learning about them or where they were from, they were more than willing to teach you. On a tired day like this one, I was more than willing to learn about the finer points of Pennsylvania.
    "Well yes, I am from Pittsburgh," he said with a smile, "I've lived there my entire life. In fact, I've never been more than an hour's drive outside of Pittsburgh my entire life."
    "Is that so? Wow," I said.
    "Yeah, never more than 45, maybe 50 miles outside of my hometown, do you believe it? I never really even thought about it until a couple years ago," he explained.
     I knew I could work this into a long discussion, so I observed, "Well, you're a long way from Pittsburgh today."
    The man laughed. I saw some gray on the sides of his head. He had a few wrinkles under his eyes. But he looked alert, he looked happy and he looked alive.
    "Yeah, I am a far way from home. Would you believe I retired two weeks ago?" He proudly asked.
    "No kidding," I said.
    "Yeah, the day I retired I went home, packed my suitcase and jumped in the car. I filled the car up with a full tank and I been driving ever since," he laughed as he talked.
    "Wow, that's pretty neat. Where ya headed?" I was interested; I wasn't just humoring him.
    "Arizona. My daughter livers out there now. I called her up the day I retired and told her I'd be at her house the end of August. I been driving for two weeks now, just stopping every so often to see things I've never seen before. I figure I'll have seen a lot by the time I get to my daughter's house. We'll have a lot to talk about when I get there," he said.
    I thought about it as he talked. I imagined him seeing a billboard along the interstate. His curiosity would force him to pull off on the right exit and he'd explore a new town full of new things. Towns like Springfield. Towns you might never think to stop at and just wander around. Towns you may never go to again, but only because you've already been there.
    He said, "I've stopped at so many places along the way. I spent two nights in Cincinnati, I saw a reds game on e night. I dipped down south a ways and saw an old Model-T automobile some guy had sittin' out in front of his house. I talked to him a while and he told me his father bought it in 1929 for $250, do you believe that? I couldn't believe it," he said as he snapped his fingers.
    "So where are ya headed after this?" I asked.
    He looked out the window. He watched cars speed along 6th Street. It was lunchtime. Those cars were full of downtown employees speeding to get a bite to eat and speeding to get back to their desks on time.
    "I'm not sure," he said with a smile.
    I showed the man around the building. I shared my new stories about the Joseph Smith trial in the 2nd floor courtroom. I took him up the creaky stairs and showed him Lincoln and Herndon's office. I even made up a fantastic story about Lincoln looking out the window, "This very window," and seeing a beautiful woman walk down 6th Street. "Of course," I said, "that was the first time he saw his future wife, Mary Todd."
    The man laughed when I told him the story. He even looked out the window, "This very window," when I finished telling it. Maybe he was hoping to catch a glimpse of his own Mary Todd.
    When the tour was over, I shook hands with the man. He told me to take care of myself and wished me luck in the future. I wished him the same. When he shut the door behind him, I looked out the window and watched him stroll, almost skip, down 6th Street with no place in particular he had to be.
    For the next few hours, I flipped through twice-read newspaper articles, historical magazines and even the phone book. My eyes eventually got tired of words. I opened the curtains wide in the front of the building. I stared out onto the scenery 6th Street had to offer.
    "What are you looking at, Samuel?" I turned around fast, it was Charley. He had his usual faded black suit on, but he was missing his suit jacket. He had the same faded black pants, white shirt buttoned to the top, faded black vest and muddy shoes, but no faded black suit jacket. He had the usual thin neck, the same glasses on the tip of his big red nose and the same bushy gray moustache, but no faded black suit jacket. I had never seen him without the faded black suit jacket. He was out of uniform.
    He had his pasty white right hand in his vest pocket and his left hand was holding a large yellow envelope.
    "Uhm...I was just watching people walk down the street," I said.
    "Why?"
    "I don't know."
    "Have you been doing it all day?" Charley asked.
    "No," I said softly.
    Charley didn't have his usual look in his eye. Usually he looked at you with a masterful look of suspicion. Usually his eyes scanned your entire body, searching for your truth. Usually his eyes told you he was thinking. But today was different. His eyes were sad. His eyes were lonely. His eyes weren't even looking directly at me. They sort of just looked right through me as though I wasn't even in the room.
    Charley took his right hand out of his vest pocket. With his right, he grabbed the yellow envelope out of his left hand. He walked towards me.
    "Do you know where the agency's main office is, Samuel?" Charley asked.
    "Yeah, just a block over on Adams, right?"
    "Yes. Go to the 4th floor and give Mrs. Patricia Woppel this envelope. Her office is room 423. I've written the number on the outside of the envelope, see?" Charley pointed to the front cover.
    "Sure. No problem." I said.
    "It's 4:30 now. I'm sure you'll be back just in time to close up tonight, won't you?" Charley asked.
    "Of course," I replied.
    Charley nodded in my direction. Just as I was opening the door he said, "On second thought, just go ahead and lock the door behind you. We'll close early tonight. I'm going home now. After you drop the envelope off, you're free to leave for the night, Samuel."
    I pulled the door tight behind me and made sure it was locked. I hurried along 6th Street, made a right onto Adams, waited for a walk signal, and walked one block to 7th Street. On my left hand side was the agency building and I walked up six steps. I looked at my watch and it was two minutes shy of twenty till five. I opened the heavy black door and felt cool air conditioning hit my July hot self.
    Inside the building, I smelled paint. It smelled fresh. My eyes scanned the lobby as I waited for an elevator. New tile lined the lobby floor. Black and white checkered pattern. Pictures hung on the lobby wall. Three Indians in a canoe, paddling a winding river. Tree branches formed a tunnel over the canoe. One Indian stood in the canoe, pointing off in the distance. The painting was called, "Old Sangamo."
    The elevator stopped at the 4th floor. As I stepped out, two men in their early 30's in white dress shirts and silk ties came towards me and jumped into the waiting elevator. I looked down at the yellow envelope in my hand. It said:
Charley Pyrum: Lincoln-Herndon Law Offices
Mrs. Patricia Woppel: Room 423
    The door was open to room 423 and a young woman with blond hair and big eyes looked at me. She said, "Can I help you?"
    "Are you Mrs. Woppel?" I asked.
    She laughed and said, "No. I'm her secretary. Mrs. Woppel is in her office, you can go in, if you want. She pointed at an open door adjacent to the room we stood in. I walked in and saw a middle-aged woman with a black blazer on. She had some sort of a pendant attached to her jacket. It looked like a butterfly and a green shiny gem was in the middle of its body. Sparkling stones decorated the butterfly. They weren't diamonds, of course, but they were shiny and it looked nice. She had red lipstick on, but she didn't smile at me when I walked in. She just looked towards me. No expression.
    "Mrs. Woppel?" I asked.
    She nodded towards me and her eyes moved down to the front of her desk. I saw her name plate staring back at me. It said:
Patricia Woppel
Director of the Agency of Historic Preservation.
    "Uhm..Charley Pyrum wanted me to run this over to you," I said.
    Her eyes got bigger. Her head jerked back just a little bit as she said, "Well, I see...tell him I'll take a look at it."
    I handed her the envelope. She didn't say thanks. She didn't give any further expression. I walked out of her office and checked my watch. I smiled when I realized if I hurried back to my car, I could be home by 5 o'clock.

    I didn't have to be at work until one the next afternoon, it was a special day.
    Once a month, a special program is held at the agency building. On these days, Karen and I are excused from our duties at the Law Office to help out at the agency. On this particular day, I work at the agency, setting up the stage for the nighttime performance. Tonight, the people of Springfield will be treated to a one-man play.
    All afternoon, six maintenance workers, Karen and I convert the agency lobby into a first-rate stage. We run fans all day to chase away the fresh paint smell, we carry chairs to all parts of the lobby for the expected audience. One of the maintenance workers sets up two stage lights. He says they're so bright the could, "Light up a monkey's ass."
    Karen laughs when he says that. I like it when she laughs. When she laughs, her eyes squint and her nose crinkles up. On anyone else, it just wouldn't work, but when Karen laughs, I can't help but smile.
    By four o'clock we are finished setting up. We've successfully turned the lobby into Springfield's version of the Carnegie Hall. We're free to take a dinner break until 6:30, that's when the audience starts to arrive.
    A lot of people usually show up for these performances, tonight is no exception. All week we've been telling tourists to be sure to go to the special performance. The plays are always free and they're always somehow related to historical events.
    My job is to welcome the guests into the building. I remember some of the faces of past tourists and some even remember me. At 7:15, I notice Karen is sitting in the back row of seats. As the overhead lights dim and the stage lights glow, I take a seat next to her.
    An old man steps onto the stage, he's got white, long hair. He's wearing a black frock coat with a 19th Century ascot tied around his neck. His spectacles dangle on his plump nose. He doesn't have a beard, but he's got week-old old-man stubble on his cheeks and chin. He places a dusty ledger on a wooden table in front of him. He looks out into the crowd and we stare back at him.
    In a loud, performance quality voice he says, "So everybody's lookin' for Lincoln? Everybody's been comin' by my store askin' me if I knew him. Well I knew him. I knew 'em real good. He used to come by my store before any of ya a heard of 'em."
    The crowd is silent. Old crowd faces stare at the old man giving his performance. White haired audience members don't move a muscle. Young grandchildren squirm in their seats.
    The old man under the spotlights puts his arm in the air and tilts his head as he reminisces, "Yeah, me and Lincoln were friends, you could say. Now I didn't agree with all the things he said when he talked his Whiggery. But, you know, there was just something about him. Something about the way he explained himself. Well, I always said, he could talk a no-legged man into buying a new pair of shoes."
    The crowd laughed at his joke. He even giggled a little bit. His weight shifted as he spoke. He hopped delicately from one foot to the next, his arms were animated as he told his stories about Lincoln. And I thought it was interesting how, for the next hour, he went on and on, mixing fact with fiction. And before long, he had everyone's attention. His performance demanded your attention. The crowd was left with no choice but to listen to his words. And his words made us believe he really knew this remote, historical figure, Lincoln.
    He paused for almost a minute. Silence surrounded us. A sad look came on his face. The powerful spotlight showed us a tear welling up in his right eye. He wiped it away with a shaky lower lip. Quietly he said, "I remember the day I heard he died. It was over 20 years ago, but I still remember it. I closed my shop and walked over to his house. Inside there was Senators and Governors and Washington types. I looked at 'em and I yelled, 'You didn't even know him! Get outta his house! He wadn't one a yer kind!" I don't regret sayin' it, either, because it was true. My friend, Lincoln, wadn't their kind. He wadn't a gentleman who'd stab ya in the back. And I left his house feelin' bad, 'casuse those were the only kinda people in his house that day. Everybody's tryin' ta find Lincoln, but they never knew him. I knew him good."
    There was silence in the audience. The old man on the stage folded up his dusty ledger and walked off the stage. The audience rose to their feet and gave him the loudest applause I've ever heard seventy-five people put together. I looked around the room and I saw a white-haired lady wiping tears from her eyes while she clapped. The old man put on a pretty good show, I thought to myself.
    "Hey Sam, go on over to the Law Office and put this in the break room cabinet," Karen said as she handed me a box filled with donation money.
    "It goes in the far-right hand cabinet, right?" I asked.
    "Yeah, just where you put it last time. And when you're done, you can just go ahead and go home, I'll lock up here when everyone clears out," Karen said.
    "Alright, thanks," I smiled as I turned and walked out the doors with a box of money in hand.
    When I turned the corner onto 6th Street, I looked up towards the Law Office. I thought about the play tonight. I wondered about the fictional storekeeper and tried to remember what he said. "Nobody knew him, but I knew him." How'd he know he knew the real Lincoln? Maybe the person he thought he knew was only an act. Politicians are actors, they're all things to all people, aren't they?
    As I walk up 6th Street, I look closer at the Law Office. Charley's office light is still on. Did he forget to turn it off? Is he still up there working? I walk into the break room and place the money box into the far-right cabinet and decide I have to go upstairs and see if Charley's still up in his office, all alone.
    The back stairs are so loud. Every step moans, some steps sound like you're crushing peanut shells as you climb. And it's dark. There is no electricity in the historic area of the building. No, that wouldn't be authentic. There is only electricity on the first floor and in Charley's office on the third floor. The rest of the building is dark. Scary dark. Peanut shells cracking on the floor dark.
    As I climb the stairs, I bring a maintenance flashlight with me. I shine it a few feet in front of each step I take, making sure not to step on something I shouldn't. Every few feet I think I hear a strange noise in the distance. I shine my light towards such noises and only find perfectly silent 160-year-old tables and books.
    When I reach the third floor, I really start to get shaky. This is the section of the building Lincoln spent the most time in. These are the floors he walked across. These are the windows he stared out of, dying to see his first love Anne Rutledge one last time. I've heard the stories about Lincoln's ghost in the White House. It wouldn't be so strange for him to take time away from Washington to visit his old office once in a while, would it?
    My flashlight pans the room once more and I quickly walk towards Charley's office. Once around the corner, I turn my flashlight off. Charley's door is open wide and the light from his office fills the hall. I hear him inside his office, shuffling papers.
    I peak my head through the doorway. Charley is standing at his desk. He just has his white shirt on, no faded black vest, no faded black suit jacket. He's piling papers into a box on his desk.
    "Hey Charley," I say.
    His head flips up towards me. His right hand reaches towards his chest, "you nearly scared me to my grave, Samuel," Charley says.
    "I'm sorry. I just saw your light on and I thought I'd come see what you were up to," I say.
    "Take a seat, Samuel," Charley offers.
    I sit down on the little wooden chair. I'm not nervous. My foot doesn't tap the ground. I look Charley in the eye. He doesn't look me in the eye, he looks at the bare walls in his office. His eyes move from the walls to a box next to his desk. I see the box is filled with pictures that used to decorate his walls. I see the faded yellow newspaper clipping against the side of the box. The black and white picture that used to hang above his desk now lies in the box. Charley's foot isn't tapping on the ground. "Who's in that picture, Charley?" I ask.
    "What picture?" He says.
    "The black and white one," I point towards the box.
    Charley leans down and picks up the picture. For the first time, I notice it is a picture of a young woman. It's black and white, but she has long dark hair. She must have been beautiful a long time ago, I think.
    Charley's eyes stay focused on the picture as he says quietly, "Do you ever keep things, Samuel, just because they remind you of something?"
    "Yeah. Everyone does," I say.
    "This picture reminds me of what things were like a long time ago," Charley says as his eyes stay fixed on the picture.
    I looked closely at him. His eyes were moving up and down the picture. He was looking at it like he was speed-reading it. His eyes scanned each line, each detail. After he was satisfied, he put the photo back in the box next to his desk.
    His eyes stayed on the photo for only a second longer and then he looked back to the bare walls that were surrounding him. I looked down at his desk, it was cleared of everything. I looked at his once full bookshelves, they were empty. All that was left in his office were three boxes and he and I.
    "Help me with these boxes, Samuel." Charley said.
    I grabbed the box on top Charley's desk filled with paper and a small box next to his new gray filing cabinet. Charley carefully lifted the box next to his desk, with the black and white photo on top. We walked through Lincoln's third floor office with a flashlight guiding our way. This time the trip was hardly scary. We descended the creaky stairs and went into the break room.
    "That box, in your left hand, Samuel, please throw it in the trash, won't you?" Charley asked.
    Without hesitation I tossed it in the trash. Charley flipped the first floor lights off and we stepped out onto 6th street. Charley pulled the door shut behind him. He pulled a large key ring from his right pants pocket and locked the door. His eyes turned up towards his office window on the third floor. He studied it for several seconds and turned towards me.
    "I want you to take these to Mrs. Woppel first thing in the morning tomorrow, do you understand?" Charley said as he handed me his large ring of keys.
    "I will," I said while nodding my head.
    Charley nodded back to me. He turned his back to me and started to walk.
    "Wait, Charley," I called out. He turned around. I still had his box of papers in my hands.
    "You don't want to forget your box," I said.
    Charley nodded back at me. He looked at the box in my arms and then he looked at the box he was holding. I could still see the black and white photo at the top.
    Charley looked back at me and said, "Keep the box. There's something in there for you, Samuel."
    Charley's eyes turned away from me and he looked to the ground. He turned his back and began to walk south on 6th Street. I watched him walk for several blocks and I remembered all those mornings we watched him take the same route to work. I watched him until he took a left turn and disappeared behind the buildings and trees of Springfield.
    I turned towards the law office, I looked up at Charley's office, now dark. I took a seat on the step where Lincoln did his cartwheel in silent celebration. I bent my knees and put the box on my lap. I flipped through the papers on top, one after the other, tourist statistics and budget numbers. After scanning all the papers, I came to an object at the bottom of the box wrapped in newspapers. I tore the newspaper off and saw what Charley had packed away. A black and white photo in a gray wooden frame. A photo of Abraham Lincoln staring to his left, a big mole on his right cheek staring me in the face.

The Greenwich Village Gazette