Page 28 of Baby, It’s You (Clairesville #1)

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A s soon as Mr. Purngast started talking about growing up in the trailer park, I felt an instant connection to him.

There is something about knowing what upbringing someone had that makes you feel safe around them.

I spent over half my childhood living in Sunny Brights and as far as I know, my mom still lives there.

The hurt of knowing she is so close to where I live and work, but couldn’t care less about maintaining a relationship with me, makes me feel sick every time I drive by.

Her boyfriend of the month has always been her only priority.

Hunter holds up the camera and sits next to me and I feel comfort in his warmth, as Mr. Purngast begins to tell us his story.

I glance at Hunter and his dark eyes meet mine, holding the same expression. Interest.

“I had been living on the streets for a while. Bumming money and cigarettes off anyone who would throw them my way. I had no purpose or direction. I wanted to be a writer when I was a kid, but I didn’t even finish high school, and I had no family that gave a shit.

My parents were both alcoholics—my mom met an early grave from liver failure, and my dad was an angry drunk.

“I was thirty-two the first time I walked into Whiskey Jane’s.

Obviously, I knew the bar was there—alcoholics can always find a drink, but it was cheaper to get beer at the gas station.

Also, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was in a bad place.

” He points to his head and chuckles. “Mentally…and physically. I had not had a shower in weeks, usually just rinsing my clothes in the sink of a public bathroom. My hair was long and red, and my beard almost touched my chest. I looked like a warlock; that’s actually the nickname Jane gave me.

“One day I decided to go in; I’m not sure why. When I first went in, I remember seeing Jane behind the bar. She was beautiful and vivacious. Her voice was so commanding and strong. She was everything I wasn’t ready for.

“I stumbled up to the bar and asked for a beer. She took one look at me and said, ‘No.’ I was about to get belligerent, ready to tell her off for her instant judgment of me based on my appearance, when she continued, ‘How about some coffee and a meal instead? On me.’

“My stomach was eating itself; I was starving. I hadn’t had a real meal in a long time, but I wanted one thing and that was booze, so I told her, ‘No, I want a drink.’ But still she refused and tried to reason with me to have some food. I got angry and started to get nasty.

“As we were going back and forth, I didn’t notice a man walk up next to me.

Then, I heard my name. ‘Ted? Is that you, bud?’ Whipping my head around I saw Johnny standing there, in his dirty work clothes—he worked in construction at the time.

Yes, he still had on his iconic top hat; he would wear it over his hard hat.

“I was so embarrassed to have someone from my past recognize me in that condition. When we were young, everyone in the trailer park used to call us brothers because we looked so much alike. I pushed past him and tried to make it out to the street when Johnny grabbed my arm. He was stronger than I was. I looked at him in the face and snarled, ‘Get your fucking hand off me,’ and shoved him. Johnny let go of me.” Mr. Purngast runs his hand over his face, in obvious shame.

“I deeply regret the way I acted back then; my brain was warped.”

I lean in, encouraging him to continue. “It’s okay. Then what happened?”

“I walked out the front door and sat on the sidewalk near the entrance. Johnny came out and sat next to me. ‘You see that lady in there?’ he asked me. ‘She’s one of the nicest people in the world and now that she has met you, she won’t stop trying to help you.

So, you’re going to go inside, have a meal, and then tell her thank you and apologize to her for raising your voice.

’ He stood back up and walked inside then.

I felt like a child that had just been scolded.

“I heard the door open a few minutes later and Jane sat a plate next to me, said nothing, and walked back inside. I looked at a triple stacked club sandwich, with a pickle and chips on the side. My mouth watered at the food, so I dug in.

“After I was done, I grabbed the napkin from under the plate to wipe off my hands when I noticed something was written on it: Please come inside, I have some clothes you can have.

Jane. I looked down at my shirt, the red now faded to a dull pink from the sun, holes in multiple spots, and thought, why not, sure .

“I stood up, plate in hand, and pulled the door open. Jane acted like she didn’t notice me walking in, not wanting to spook the metaphorical bear. I sat the empty plate, crumbs and all completely gone, on the counter and gruffly said, ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

“At that, I heard Johnny release his breath next to me in relief. ‘Call me Jane, sugar,’ she said. She smiled at me and then reached underneath the bar. ‘These are some of my husband’s clothes he keeps here in case he gets dirty fixing up stuff. You take them.’ She slid the box towards me, and I started to decline when I saw how many items it was, but she cut me off.

‘Now, you take them. I don’t want to hear any fuss.

’ I thanked her again and started walking back towards the door when she called out from behind me.

‘Come see me here once a day, Warlock. I will feed you.’

“I was so confused.” Mr. Purngast laughs, recalling, “I had no idea what a warlock was.

I thought she was calling me some mean name for homeless people.

I nodded my head, though, and left the bar again, starting to walk towards the main street, when Johnny drove up next to me in his car.

He told me to get in and he would take me to his place to have a shower.

I said no, but he insisted, so I went with him.

“He took me to his place and helped fix me up.

Cut my hair, trimmed my beard, gave me a deodorant stick and toothbrush.

He told me I could even stay at his house if I wanted, he just had to get back to work.

I told him thanks for the help, but I left at the same time as him.

Johnny said he hoped I would take Mrs. Jane up on her offer and I said I would.

“From that day on, I would go up to the bar once a day, and Jane would feed me. She wouldn't bring up that I was drunk. I always was. She just gave me food and listened to me talk. Judgment free.

“Her husband, Seymour, met me after my first few meals there. His presence was instantly friendly and welcoming. He was just as great as Jane.

“After months of free meals there, I started drinking less. I had something to look forward to. I got excited every day to go visit them, not about the thought of drinking, which was a new feeling for me. One day I asked Jane what a warlock was, and she laughed while explaining that it was a man that could perform magic, a wizard. I felt dumb for not knowing. ‘But I guess you don’t look like a warlock anymore,’ she told me, looking over my appearance, which had improved significantly in the past few months.

I told her I wanted to keep the nickname anyway.

“Johnny and I bonded again, too, from the times I would see him at the bar; he’s the person that told me I should write again.

He said he remembered all the stories I would scribble down as a child and that he always loved to read them.

Seymour overheard the conversation and walked to the office and came back with two pens and a notebook for me.

So I started to write, probably absolute gibberish, but the bar inspired me with the art and quotes all over its walls.

“Over the next six months, I wrote a whole book about a kid that becomes a baseball player. Every time I came to the bar, Jane would take the notebook out from under the counter and hand it to me—our routine. I kept the notebook at the bar so it didn’t get messed up, since I was still homeless.

Johnny offered for me to come stay with him multiple times, but I was too proud for that.

I refused to take more help than I was already getting.

“I was almost done writing the novel when I went into the bar one day and saw Jane in tears behind the counter. She couldn’t even look at me.

Seymour had his hand on her shoulder, consoling her.

He met my eyes and solemnly told me that a pipe had burst under the bar counter, and it ruined my notebook.

My months of work, gone, just like that.

I was so upset when they told me that I just backed out of the bar and ran.

I heard Jane crying out from behind me apologizing, saying it was her fault for putting the notebook there, but I didn’t stop.

I thought that book was my ticket out of my current situation.

“I did the only thing I knew that would comfort me and got hammered. I got so drunk that the next part of the story is patchy in parts,” Mr. Purngast explains.

“But somehow in my angry stupor, I ended up at the bar and smashed one of the back windows with a rock. This event is what fills me with the most shame so buckle up.” He looks down at his hands.

“I robbed them. I went into the bar and stole all the money out of their office.

I blamed what had happened to my book on them and I wanted them to pay for it.

I took at least fifteen thousand dollars, which back then in the early eighties was a ton of money.

“I ran out of there as fast as I could and bought more alcohol, continuing my bender. I don’t know what happened to most of the money. I probably dropped it somewhere, honestly. It was all gone within a few hours.

“The next morning, I was still very drunk. I walked into the bar expecting to get my free meal, feeling no shame whatsoever. What I didn’t expect was for Johnny to be standing there with Seymour, talking with a police officer.

They all turned towards me, and I tried to run but was stopped at once by the officer.

I was in no condition to fight off the police.

I could barely stand up straight. I was arrested and spent the next few years in jail.

“I was filled with so much anger at first but then I realized that they actually saved my life. I was forced to rehabilitate myself in jail, where I sat in a cell all day, which caused me to start writing again out of boredom. I scrapped the horrible baseball story and ended up writing the story that changed my life. The Winter Warlock series.”

Hunter and I both interrupt him at once.

“You wrote that series?” I ask in absolute shock.

“Those are your books?” Hunter questions at the same time.

Mr. Purngast laughs. “Yes, that was me. I use a pen name, Freddie Finnely, just so I can stay in the shadows. I never wanted the fame, I just wanted to write, and once I was finally sober, I could.”

I am physically shaking; the Winter Warlock series is the biggest young adult book series to have ever been written. I have read every single book and I’m sure Hunter has, too. It was a childhood staple, no matter who you were.

“So, the name of the book,” Hunter continues, “is from Jane?”

“Yes.” Mr. Purngast smiles vibrantly, his mustache tickling his nose. He almost looks like a human version of the Lorax. “It was from Jane, her nickname for me. The series was almost like my tribute to her and Seymour.”

Tears fill my eyes as I whisper, “Wow.” This has turned out to be one of the most incredible stories I have ever heard, and I had no idea. Jane did so many impactful things for people before I ever met her. She has never been one to boast but I can’t believe she never told me this story.

I swipe away a tear as Mr. Purngast chuckles and hands me a tissue. “Don’t cry, honey, my story has a happy ending.”

“I just can’t believe that I’m sitting here with you and had no idea. I have all of your books on my shelf at home. We live in the same town as a legend,” I exclaim to Hunter.

He smiles next to me and agrees. “Your books really are incredible, sir.”

Mr. Purngast nods his thanks. “So as you can see, the bar and Jane mean a lot to me. I was so sad when I heard Seymour passed. I was traveling for the release of my sixth book, so I was unable to attend the funeral, but I sent my condolences to her. I want to help Jane any way I can now.”

He points to the camera. “Can you put that down for a second, son?”

Hunter complies and once he sets it down on the coffee table, Mr. Purngast continues talking. “I want to donate five hundred thousand dollars to the fund for saving the bar.”

At that I don't remember anything else, I just attack him with a hug, crying profusely.