James Groat: Student Fan Fiction

Joey Groat

They sat on a train, and as it slowly went along, the windows looked smudged and dirty, but the cushioned seats felt new, and the scratchy, dry fabric was a dim blue with darker blue shadows around neatly rowed buttons running through it. They sat elbow to elbow, sitting next to each other, but they couldn't have been farther apart. Joey was left mangled and tangled, from his monstrous facial features and the feelings that consumed his mind. And James just could not imagine going back to something so safe (the safest life is the life of a carpenter). Joe felt defeated; even though he hadn't a clear image of his face in his mind, he knew he looked like a monster that stalked ships at sea on stormy nights or crawled out of the frightening, black tomb’s to haunt the living. He could feel little girls and boys staring at him with absolutely no shame, and their parents staring in a horrified state, hurrying to cover their children’s faces, to protect their innocence. James felt paranoid and lonely; his sweaty back and buckled knees were not his biggest concerns. Was that man looking at him? What if he knew the man from early? Was that man following him home? The man's low, bushy brows covered his light, green eyes, and his mouth had a flat line that drew away from his buzzcut. But something in John’s mind told him, "That man is not right.” He looked around, searching for some clue or a hidden mission he was needed for. But Jame’s attention landed on his face: Oh God, his face was a horror to look at, with wrinkles deep to the bone, a chunk of flesh missing under his eye, and his lip partly gone and turned into a frown. 

"Oh god, Joey?" He said it like a question with a quiver in his voice. 

He was shocked. John had not fully taken in the new look of his cousin. It was a frightening realization to see what his baby cousin now looked like. 

"What? The first time you're seeing a monster from under the bed? Grow up, John," Joey said in defense as he rolled his head. 

He heard harsh cracks throughout his neck in the hope of loosening the tense muscles in his chest. John looked straight forward, not wanting to face Joey's cold eyes. 

"I'm sorry, I just... you know Mary is still going to love you and Pauline is still fairly young," John said, trying to salvage a warm moment between the two. 

Joe completely ignored what John said and moved on. "What are you going to do once we get home?" Joe said he was trying to move past the big chunk missing from his face. 

"At the moment, I'm going to kiss my wife and see my family, but in the long run, I'll continue my job with the family," John said as he tried to look at Joe’s face. 

It slowly became something they just accepted, but deep down, they both felt horrible. 

"I'll probably stay home while Mary works at the school; maybe start a garden," Joe said, trying to think of a future where he didn’t hide away in his small little room around the corner. 

An older man with a cart, with slow-turning wheels, passed through the aisles with a cart full of fancy gin and pretzels. 

“Would you like some?” the man said in a sweetly old voice. “I think you need it” he said with a chuckle as he poured some random liquor into a small crystal glass shot. 

Joey looked at it for a while, holding it in his hand but even though Joey hadn’t said anything about it the old man kept on going through the aisles, with his sweet attitude and his slow little cart. 

“Joey?” John said in a deep confident tone but he was also unsure of what he was going to say “I'm sorry… but I'm just happy you're coming home with me.” 

John took a deep breath. After that Joey and John sat there, on the brightly lit train and the darkest outside felt somewhat comforting, waiting for the train to arrive at their destination, home. Joe’s war-wrinkled hand curled into John’s hand. 

“I am too happy, we’re both alive.”

—B.A.

How I Met the Magnificent Groat

This is the story of how I met the magnificent James Groat. 

On that day I was just a coal miner, I was busy in the dusty mines, when something caught my attention. More people ran in, crowding me and the mine, so many people bumped me, tripped over me, I could not even breathe. I knew I had to get out of there, so I did, I left and I never looked back. I ran back home to my parents saying I needed to go north, but they didn't agree with me, or my beliefs. You see, my parents weren't exactly like me, they didn’t think like me or even act like me. They believed the wrong things and didn't trust me especially with the massive still living issue with racism.  And they didnt come with me, they even forbade me from leaving. But I was an adult, they couldn't stop me, so I left and I went north and eventually landed myself in Minnesota. And I have never regretted doing this, because it changed everything about my future. I originally mined coal but now living in Minnesota?! There were more opportunities, such as exploring more caves that either nature built or caves that were man-made. I explored them, happily looking for more coal or just things I could sell in general–and I made more than I had ever made back in Tennessee. It was like my life flipped and I was on top. But not everything can be good forever. On February 5th 1861, I got the newspaper like I would any other day. But something was different that day, there was a disaster, a horrible mining disaster. I rushed over recognising multiple people that the photos included, and that's when I met him, James Groat. But he wasn't famous, or even well known Groat was just Groat, He wore a long pair of trousers with a jacket type vest over his shirt. He was scrambling around trying his best to help in any way possible whether that was carrying people out of the debris or even just helping with moving the debris to make room for people to be saved or just seen, he was rummaging around, moving the smaller pieces of debris when I first saw him. We didn't exactly have a nice or even a calm encounter, probably because we were surrounded in debris. Oliver felt frantic. He tried his best to help but he kept feeling like he wasn't doing enough, he thought that he wasn't helping with anything and just making things worse. He chased Groat terrified not knowing exactly what to do, he helped with moving debris for Groat. But that wasn't the point, we were both here for the same reason and we helped as much as we could with everything occurring. We didn't really have time to talk or even really befriend each other but there was something about him and the way he acted, Groat really was there to help, he wasn't there for fame or for recognition he was just passing through, heard of the accident, and went to help. I never saw Groat after that but he gave me a handkerchief to help me but I use it more as a remembrance for him so I never forgot this amazing man. He saved so many miners or just people that had gotten injured in this fatal accident, over 41 miners were not able to be saved and sadly died. But this story is not about them, and this story is not even about the accident, it's about how I, Oliver, met Groat. One of the most well known journalist groat, who talked all about his life and who he met, of course I didn't make it into his journal but that is what I am doing today, I am telling everyone who will listen, anyone who will read this, my story, and my point of view, for again how I met the magnificent Groat. 

—L.E.

CHERRY ROSE 

Most of what I remember back then was the fanfare of the day. The soldiers were excited to go, to see the country. Going that far south wasn’t common at all–only a select few of our town's more “rich” people got to see the “Dixie Land”, as the traitors called it.

Watching through the newly installed window in our kitchen, there was almost a parade of men like my dad marching forward to go enlist. A great patriotic fervor took upon the population of Anoka, pushing them to fight the Confederate scourge. Quite a few of them were immigrants at that time, if it meant anything. I wonder if they were trying to prove themselves? Give their worth to their new country? 

My father wasn’t an immigrant, and yet, he volunteered. Dad was a great man, he shouldn’t have gone. I can still remember his smile, soft eyes that could never invoke fear; even if he tried. He had this pair of glasses, too. This rough cut of…some metal he had found that he made into these clean cut frames. Two round ovals for his eyes, with a swoop for his ears. It made him look like a scholar, something which he didn’t get to flex often enough!

He was a doctor by trade, which is no doubt why he enlisted. Dad always tried to make the best of terrible situations, and made himself useful too. Maybe that’s why mom likes him so much? He was a sweet guy, no doubt about it. They would hug all the time, messing with me. It was nasty! At least, that’s what I thought when I was young. Now, I really miss it. 

There were dozens of faces missing after the war. It hurt my mothers heart–mine too, I guess. There was this one man–an immigrant from Germany (I think) that I didn’t see around. His brother was a regular on the baseball field, an up-and-comer! 

He had a funny name, which is the only reason why I still remember it. Groat. He left his family alone when he left, like my dad. I would say he’s a bastard if he hadn’t gotten me out of jam. 

Before I tell you more, promise you won’t tell? Of course you won’t, you’re a journal! 

So, I had a habit of having sticky hands! Wasn’t my fault, it was just too easy. Another reason was my father; he was just too kind. I felt so…guilty taking any money from him. He didn’t make too much, our town was pretty small. Especially since he traveled so far down the Mississippi (I spelt it right! Asked Abby how to spell it) for his medical work. 

Usually, it was only small things. I made a habit of only taking from businesses that everybody hated, my own spin on justice. Across from our pharmacy, on third street, there’s this small store that sells a bit of everything. 

The owner there is this cantankerous joke of a man, racist to boot. Often when I felt particularly angry I would wear my fathers large leather jacket and enter his shop.

Stealing itself was a rather easy ordeal alone, all you need is a distraction! We have “characters” in our town, some of them willing to help a young boy out; for a cut, of course. 

So I would have them simply talk to the man! Sometimes, they made a scene. Other times, all they had to do was talk to him–hard task as it is.

It was July one year, business wasn't as heavy in those months, so we were tighter on money. Rarely during that time I would see my father in a state someone would call ‘rested’, always slung over the arm-chair next to the fire, coat hung loosely over him as per my mother often did. 

She was as, or possibly sweeter than, dad. Sometimes they say opposites attract, not them though. The two of them were uncomfortably sweet– God forbid you enter their home as a guest. 

That’s what broke my heart every time I did something bad, that’s why I appreciate Mr. Groat so much.

One of the tireless July months I was caught. The distraction didn’t draw enough attention, I was too conspicuous, the rain was too hard…I really couldn’t tell you what I did wrong or what caused it. But I do remember the face of the shopkeeper, the vitriol spread across his face like the honey we collect during the summer months–I knew he hated me. Something raw within that man, something often adults never showed, another face of their lying they’re great at hiding. 

“Boy, You’ve made your last damn mistake–what’s your mother gonna’ say about this? She gonna’ be happy?” He spoke in a slow drawl, one side of his face was aloof! (Another word Abby taught me!) Apparently he had a stroke? Not sure. 

The shop-keeper seemed happy enough to beat me down. Hell, make an example of me for the other thieves. The light of the oil lamp he kept on his small desk in the back, with the moons gaze, shone against his skin as he raised his hand. 

Of all of that, I remember Mr. Groat protecting me. 

His eyes were a soft blue, with his jaw-line being kept at bay by a thicket of hair, pretty similar to Mr. Lincoln! Groat was as kind as him, too. He stood between me and the gruffy shop-keeper, acting like Mr. Grant! 

I can remember what he said, it’s hard to forget. Burned into my brain, locked in forever and ever. 

“Don’t. The kid doesn’t deserve it, I’ll handle the little shit on my own terms–as his father.” 

The two adults didn’t exchange more words than that, the small sack of sugary snacks I had hid in my shirt being handed over to the shop-keeper, and Mr. Groat guiding me out of the shop by the scruff of my shirt. By that time the weather had subdued, the deafening battering turned to a soft pitter of the clouds. We sat on the wooden deck of the shop for a time, quiet. The silence itself had spoken volumes. Was he ashamed? On my behalf? I look back on this time and I never really could understand why he did what he did, nor could I understand what the man thought. 

As I said before, Groat was someone I had seen before. Anoka itself wasn’t incredibly big at that time, before the big fire. But he always kept to himself, he lived a secluded life, though he had a wife. As I sat on the wooden bench of the Merchant’s shop, I wondered all about Mr. Groat. It was he who broke the sturdy silence between us. 

“I won’t be there next time you’re caught.” 

The way he spoke was different. In fact, now that I think back, he spoke to me with more respect than others had ever. 

“You’re the doctors’ son, right?” 

I nodded. Groat didn’t meet my eyes that night, one might suspect he was a terribly misanthropic man if he didn’t have such a heart. I couldn’t bear a response for him, perhaps that would have entailed me admitting my faults. Man is nothing more than a facade, no? 

Groat returned to town in 1864, according to others I still talked to in town. A lot of people from the First Minnesota did. My mother summed it up to “a luck of the draw,”. Lucky odds, I guess. 

War takes a lot of nice guys like my dad, like Groat too. Silly men in silly hats sending kind men like them to their deaths. The world works in silly ways. 

—J.B.