Date: Mon, 4 Sep 2017 00:13:40 -0400
From: Shy Guy <shybottom69@gmail.com>
Subject: My fake ID Ch01 gay/beginnings

Standard disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any similarities with
any persons living or dead are wholly coincidental...

A note from the author: I've been spending some time in the spa
(hospital) again. I ask you to be kind. I write to entertain myself,
hospitals are boring. I share because Oz told me back in the day, I
should try.

Feedback is good and welcome, bitchy flame mail is not.

**Gentle readers Nifty needs donations to provide so many wonderful
stories. -- Please consider a gift today. If you send me a proof of
your donation, I will include you and your gift in a future story
(Like I did with Gary D today).**

-- Izzy

* * * *

The patrolman read my driver's license. "Magnus Oystein Haugen, the
Third...  of Williston, ND... Race: Other? Well, that's a new one...  Sex:
Male...  Height: five feet eight inches...  Hair: Blonde...  Eyes: Blue...
Age: TWENTY-ONE... well there we have our problem!" He droned on and I
zoned out.

I asked myself how the fuck did this happen. My fake DL is normally
getting me out of difficulty. Unfortunately there are times it
backfires. I don't know why I keep the damn thing. Oh that's right,
it's easier to buy booze with it. This time I'm sitting in the back of
a patrol car in handcuffs.

I learned a long time ago, back when I was just trying to get into the
adult bookstores, and dance clubs, when you're making a fake you keep
your date of birth the same, you just change the year. It's too easy
to fuck up and give the wrong month, or day. It is easier to train
yourself on the year.

The photo on both of my IDs don't quite match my current appearance.
The soft oval shape of my face and my large powder blue eyes haven't
changed. What has changed is the length of my hair. My blonde straight
hair now goes all the way down to the small of my back.

Most of the time people look at it, look at me, and take it at face
value. Then again, most of the time I'm careful about who I show it
to. That was not the case today. I've always been careful, FUCK why
not today. My mind reflected on my life and journey.

* * * *

My story began back in the North Dakota oil fields. Yep, I'm from the
Flickertail State. I had turned sixteen, three months prior. Granddad
got me my big work truck. My cousin, who worked the docks up in
Manitoba lined up a 40 foot shipping container and container trailer
to haul it home. Granddad was great and helped with the paperwork to
bring it home. It was part of my grand plan for my escape. It seemed
like a lifetime ago.

I had one man in my family I admired above all others, my grandfather.
It was the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving, and my life was
about to turn on a dime.

I walked in on Dad and Nels signing over the deed on the old cabin.
Dad said, "He's becoming a drain on the business assets. The funds
were getting from this old ass cabin, can be used to pay for the
nursing home for years." I will confess I was angry.

Back home I argued the cabin had been in the Haugen family for
generations. The company was founded and owned by senior still. Why
shouldn't its assets be used to care for him now. It didn't take much
to get junior pissed off. Uff-da, dontcha know, I pissed him off. He
commenced to punching me.

The man took issue with everything I did, and was. His major issue was
the fact he was a mean drunk. People around town knew about his booze
fueled temper. Many doubted my mother's suicide. Everyone knew she was
terrified of water. Yet somehow she committed suicide by driving her
car into the frozen river.

Then it broke, it was the last straw. The one holding my fury, and
apparently sanity in check. I clocked him with my welder's helmet
during his attack. Of all the things I was forbidden to do, fighting
back was the biggest no-no of all. I swore this was the very last day,
I was going to be his punching bag.

My family liked using the old Nordic tongue when angry. Junior was
very angry. He called me a, "jaevla fitte, kuksuger jukkegutt" (fucking
pussy, cocksucker gay boy). I turned calling him
kjonnsleppefitteharsuppe (a labia cunt hair soup. okay, it loses a bit
in translation). You betcha though, as soon as the words left my lips,
his fist made contact with my throat. With that the fight was over
before it began. I was standing there trying to gasp for air as his
punches landed, unable to defend myself.

Eventually the beating ended. Mostly because I'd become a bloody
puddle at his feet. Then junior grabbed me and threw me out of the
house. I crawled my way to my truck. I knew I was in trouble, there
was a sundog in the sky. Those rainbows around the sun only formed in
the extreme cold when the ice crystals would freeze in the air. It was
going to get colder as the sun went down.

I started driving towards the rez. Being drawn like a magnet, I needed
people, I needed help. I knew the people in town would side with
father and I would get no help there. I was slowly losing the battle
with consciousness and pulled over. I slumped forward, knowing unless
someone would find me soon, I would be joining my mother's spirits. I
lost consciousness just outside the shelter belt of someone else's
property.

I woke up next to the Barton oil field. Mr. Barton had hired our
company on numerous occasions. The cold of the winter was hell on oil
derricks. Chris Barton had opened the door to my truck. As I tumbled
out into his arms he exclaimed, "Lil Mag, What the fuck happened!"

Mr. Barton slid me back up into the truck. Then he drove back onto the
site telling a roughneck to drive his vehicle into town to get the
doctor, and the sheriff. I was out again.

I woke in a strange bedroom. I could hear them but could not reply.
Mr. Barton shook me. I winced in pain with every movement, "Magnus,
who did this to you? What the fuck happened? Your father keeps hanging
up on me. Is there someone else I can call?"

My cousin Shehek ('laughing' Coyote) was standing over his shoulder.
He was older than me at twenty-one, but he was one of the cooler
family members I had. As kids we would dance with the women of the
tribe. We were too young to understand the whispers between the older
people. Our mothers always smiled when we would dance. "Chris everyone
knows who did this. That's why the doctor won't come. No one wants to
cross Junior... Ooxa (OH oh ha - closest pronunciation in English),
Chris and I will care for you."

Junior was the name everyone used for my father, when he wasn't in
ear-shot. Ooxa was the tribal name given to me. "I'll call Dad on Fort
Berthold and he'll bring the tribal doctor. Ooxa is Mandan, they will
help him."

The Sheriff arrived and stayed long enough to say, "It looks like the
little queer boy got a beat down for propositioning the wrong visitor.
Now he is trying to throw it on his father. There is no evidence his
father actually struck him.

Mr. Barton, Maggie here is a troubled boy with an active imagination.
I don't think you wanna piss off the guy who owns the only fabrication
company in the region." My cousin Laughing Coyote wasn't laughing when
he showed the Sheriff out.

People think of North Dakota as the iceberg of the north. The coldest
static temperature in winter was - 60. Throw a 50 to 60 mile an hour
wind on top of that, I think the phrase "brrr" was invented in North
Dakota. Still, that only gives half the story. Growing up, I got to
see our temperature go from over 100 degrees in the summer, to under a
minus hundred degrees wind chill in the winter. That kind of a
temperature change is hard on equipment and people.

On the plains the most dangerous condition to find yourself in, is
alone. That was my current state. I fled from Dad's house without even
trying to pack a bag. All I had were the clothes on my back and dirty
workout clothes in my gym bag. I looked down at my shirt, I saw it was
shredded and blood was covering it.

Chris was surprised, like many, to find out about my Mandan heritage.
With my fare skin and hair, I don't exactly look like I fit in. Both
Grandma and Mama where Mandan. I was three quarters. Granddad's Nordic
blood still ran deep in me. The only thing I got from Mom's side of
the family was the lack of body and facial hair.

The next morning, the swelling on my larynx receded, and I was able to
croak out some answers to their questions. I was able to confirm what
my cousin Shehek had told Chris, that it was my father who beat me. I
was grateful for the Thanksgiving break, in spite of my bruises I
would be able to return to school.

Shehek's mother (Warawit) Mourning Dove, came to the site with a box
of clothes she thought would fit. Her eye was spot-on. She and my
mother were quite close, more sisters than sisters-in-law. The
roughnecks went through their footlockers and gear boxes and found
work clothes for me. I think a couple of them cheated and ran into
town.

Mourning Dove stayed by my side all weekend and made some ponytail
covers of leather, bone, and metal to keep my hair from getting
tangled in the equipment or burned while welding. She also fashioned a
leather ponytail sleeve and decorated it with beads, porcupine quills,
a silver fox charm, and an eagle feather. I knew eagle feathers were
sacred and would only be given by family for a great life success, or
a great survival.

I tried to help with the beading unfortunately my arms felt like lead.
My fingers and hands still hurt, from fighting with father. I missed
doing the arts with mother as a child. I was proficient at beading,
weaving, quilling, and tanning. Mother's poppa said that made me
special, and someday I would know why.

As a kid with no perceptible support, Dad had expected me to crawl off
and die or just disappear. Apparently he forgot about making me get a
job freshman year. He thought it was about time I learned the family
business. He chose to put me to work in Uncle Nels' metal shop... I
had been a certified welder since I was twelve. Bonded at 15 (thank
you Grandpa), in two months I'll be a certified master welder.

Certified welders were rare as gold in western North Dakota. The oil
companies were always looking for good welders. Even if they were a
little on the scrawny side and could only work part-time.

Mr. Barton was willing to hire me `part-time,' damn child labor laws.
Thanks to the kit that Granddad had built into my long bed truck, I
was prepared to work. I was set up for Arc, Gas, Mig and Tig welding.
If it was metal, I could connect it or cut it apart. I only asked that
he occasionally throw me some money for diesel for the trip to Minot
until I could set up delivery of supplies.

In addition to working, and finishing high school, I was converting
the large cargo container into a tiny house as my junior year project
for my industrial arts class. The shop teacher hated me on sight
initially freshman year.

He was a rival of dad's in construction. My father ran him out of
business by consistently under bidding jobs. He lost his company and
ended up teaching. A few days into the semester he realized, I was not
my father's son in attitude, and how sorry and ashamed I felt.

Mr. Gregory loved the concept of building a tiny house out of the
shipping container. We cut holes for, then mounted, the expensive
doors and windows. He taught us about thermal breaks, "Tre, if we keep
it solid metal, you're going to bake inside or freeze. He taught us
how to hang light framing and spay foam insulation on the outside of
the cube. We built a heavily insulated roof assembly for it as well.

We decided to go for an expensive solution for exterior cladding. We
used shou shugi ban charred cedar. I couldn't believe the detail that
was added by charring the wood. It wasn't exactly cheap but the fact
that the materials would last for 80 years without having to be
resurfaced made it worthwhile.

A few teachers at the school and the tribal council lawyer helped me
become an emancipated minor. The council demanded my father be
punished for child abuse. The Sheriff dismissed the request.

I was the one member of the family who was constantly stopping over at
the nursing home paying attention to Grandpa Magnus. He was pissed
with Dad. I was able to temper his heat away from Nels. He had too
much to lose standing for me.

I had built a crude camper on the back of my pickup and moved out of
Mr. Barton's spare room. He and Shehek were lovers, I didn't want to
cramp them. Eventually the Airstream style riveted and welded aluminum
camper shell was going to be my storage unit for the tiny house. The
roughnecks were warned to stay away because of my age.

Though emancipated, the sheriff had an eye on the job site. My father
spred rumors that I was turning tricks. The Sheriff made several ugly
threats to the Barton's.

My cousin Pete, a deputy, had cornered me after school with a warning.
"Remember Tre, age of consent here is 18, don't hurt the guys who are
helping you. The Sheriff has us checking out your camper with a
thermal imager during patrol. If we see two bodies grinding, we are to
arrest the occupants. If that happens, during discovery ask for the
warrant for the imager. He doesn't have it.

I am so glad pop talked me out of the family business. If there is
anything you need Tami and I wanna help. I am walking a fine line with
the department. This sucks so much, I am even looking at leaving
Williams County."

I replied angrily, "Peter Haugen! If all you good cops leave, who will
be left to stand for the innocent? If courage was easy, we would be
surrounded by heroes. Have courage, stake your ground, and fight where
you can. If not you will have to run forever."

He hugged me and rubbed my head, "Thanks Tre. How did you become so
wise?" I could only smile. "My wife made this for you." He handed me a
paper bag. It had a tupperware dish filled with a ground beef hot dish
from his wife. She also added a few Ziplocs filled with puppy chow.

I suppose I should explain. Anywhere else in the country folks would
dismiss a hot dish as a simple casserole, hot dish is better. Puppy
Chow, how do I describe it. Comfort food, it's a mix of Chex, peanut
butter, chocolate, and powdered sugar. Pete hugged me and we parted.

* * * *

The last bit of drama for junior year was when I moved the now
dried-in an insulated shipping container out to the site. It was ready
for final fittings on the inside. It turned out dad got audited by the
IRS because he tried to claim me as a dependent.

As a result of losing his tax deduction (me) he sent the law after me.
The sheriff showed up out at the site demanding I hand over the keys
to my truck and future home. "Your father wants HIS vehicles back."  I
pointed to the registrations and titles.

"With respect Sheriff, both documents say that this vehicle is owned
by myself and or my grandfather. My dad has no claim. If you attempt
to take custody of it I will have YOU personally arrested for grand
theft auto.  Run the tags through NCIC, you'll see I am telling the
truth." He was about to make a claim of resisting law enforcement, in
the performance of his duty, when the state trooper rolled onto the
job site. Chris had had enough, and called the regional office.

Over the summer, several of the guys from the job site were trading
labor and materials for side jobs. Everybody likes to have custom
welding and repairs on their trucks. Too many big things run around
the range. They can do a wallop of hurt on your vehicle.

Between installing custom skid plates, grill guards, and push bars for
the guys. The tiny house started to take shape. By the start of senior
year it was complete. I was able to move into my tiny house. It was
well insulated. Even the coldest winter night was comfortable to ride
out.

I designed the tiny house along the lines of a shotgun shack. The
entry area that contained two triangular storage units for towels
coats boots and whatnot. An entry hall was flanked by the powder room
to the right. I had a separate shower room to the left of the door.
The two rooms created a small entry and changing room.

I had solar panels hard mounted to the roof. Large LP tanks mounted on
the tongue, for cooking and backup heat. In the house was a super
efficient Scandinavian compact wood heater. I had an extended battery
system stored on the truck's now unused camper, and tiny house. My
generator for welding was highly efficient and quiet. It was a backup,
in case I was unable to use my panels.

The middle of the trailer formed a great room and second entry. The
kitchen and dining made up the middle section. The tongue side was the
bedroom. It contained a king size adjustable air bed which filled a
lot of the space. Night stands were built into the forward wall.

I removed and relocated the heavy shipping doors from over the tongue
to the side. This move would give me the ability to lock out both of
the entry doors during shipment. I had storage hidden everywhere. All
of the interior doors were pocket doors made out of lightweight
aluminum and lexan frosted panels. I chose to do a minimalist build to
cut down on the weight. Instead of drywall I chose to use bead board
painted white to bounce the light around And make the narrow eight
foot wide container appear bigger. The large windows all over helped.

With the build now complete I could focus on saving money for the big
trip. I'd have to work, but I could keep going forward. The first
night in my new home I found myself at the desk doodling. I had just
completed my first container home build, and I was already designing
its replacement. How warped is that.

Senior year I started helping a couple of the roughnecks to get their
welding certifications. Mr. Barton was impressed. He assigned the two
men as my assistants. Charlie obeyed my instructions as if they were
written in stone. My other assistant Mike embraced the status. I think
he genuinely liked being under me.

The two of them would do tasks while I was at school. When I'd get to
the site, I'd look over, and test their work. Most of the time I would
check it off. On occasion I'd have to tell them to do it again. After
a year working on the job site I was made the welding supervisor and a
full time employee.

I got a definite gay vibe off Mike but with him being twenty-one, I
couldn't act on it. Damn, North Dakota's stupid age of consent law!
Everyone on site was over twenty-one, making me forbidden fruit. If we
snuck across the border into Montana, I knew the Sheriff would be
waiting for our return. The guy's my age were afraid of my family's
shadow, and to be honest they didn't interest me.

Mr. Barton asked for me to design a welding truck for the site. There
was bad blood between he and my father now. Dad told him, "So long as
I run the company, Haugen Fabricating and Repair will not work for
your company." Over the winter Charlie, Mike, and I got it ready to
roll. The guys could replace me. It was almost time to go.

After almost a year and a half on my own, I had graduated and was
itching to move on. I decided to spend one last summer on the site. I
would then take a massive road trip to "discover" myself. I know it's
a sixties concept, but granddad inspired me. I would start my great
journey in August, when I turn eighteen. First stop, Burning Man. I
had secured a job on the site. Someone is always looking for a
welder/fabricator.

Granddad always laughed at my carefully thought out plans. He thought
I should just drop what I'm doing and get on the road. When he was
transferred from the nursing home to the hospice, it tore my heart
out. Those confident eyes that always exuded strength, now looked upon
me weakly. "Tre, I have always loved you. You have been my favorite
grandchild. You remind me of the strong handsome boy, who I used to
be.

There's one difference between you and I. You have a stick up your ass
about doin what is 'right and proper.' By the time I was your age I
had sex with dozens of girls, and more than a few guys."

"Ewwwww, Grandpa." I think I would prefer having the sex talk with a
nun than my grandfather.

"It's cold in winter, sex boils the blood. Tre, are you still a
virgin?" I pulled my bottom lip into my mouth and blushed. "There is
that rod again. Tre, do you know how I made it to Woodstock?"

"Yeah Granddad, you told me you hitched rides. Then you took two years
to just cruise around to find yourself."

"Yeah and a lot of drivers insisted on 'compensation' for the gas. A
lot of them were lonely long-haul truckers. I remember the one who got
me from Moorehead, MN all the way to Chicago. I only had to let him
fuck me twice, and blow him three times. He was so happy with me, he
returned the oral favor."

Granddad got a dreamy look on his face, and then continued. "He also
passed the word to the other truckers on the road. Telling them on the
CB about a fresh faced boy out of North Dakota looking for a ride to
Bethel, New York. I always had a ride after that. Tre, I know you like
guys. There's no shame in that. The shame these days is in hiding it.

Tell me, with all of your shop classes, when you got into printing did
you make a fake ID?" I nodded and handed it to him. He compared it to
my North Dakota driver's license. It was an almost exact copy.
"According to this it says you're nineteen why didn't you go for
twenty-one?"

I laughed and said "Who would believe that I was twenty-one?" Shaking
my baby face and wiggling my eyes.

He followed up, "Then why bother to make the ID at all Tre?"

I told him, "I wanted to get into the over eighteen dance clubs, buy
porn..." my voice dropped to a hush, "or maybe sneak into the adult
bookstore in Minot."

"So, why haven't you used it?" I dropped my eyes and blushed again.
"There's that rod again. Tre, you have to start living your life. Not
the life that your father wants you to live. You have to find out who
YOU are. Your life can be a series of great adventures, if you just
reach out and grab them."

Four days later Granddad, my hero, died. Mr. Barton, Shehek, and my
trainees, accompanied me to the funeral. They were there to protect me
from my father. I learned family is not just made by blood. Sometimes
it's made of stronger stuff, sometimes it's made of steel.

After Granddad's funeral the guys walked me back to my truck. Mike
asked if I needed someone to drive, if I'd be okay. For the first time
in my life, I knew I was going to be fine. I climbed into my truck. I
was on a quest. I had to drive to Minot... 100 miles away.

I parked in the lot and walked straight up to the closest adult
bookstore. I presented my fake ID, bought my tokens, and at seventeen
years and fifty weeks, I watched my very first gay porno. As the image
flooded the screen, I smiled thinking of Granddad and the truckers. I
felt fearless and ten feet tall.

When I came out I saw Michael leaning against my truck. "Mike, why did
you follow me all the way out here?"

"Tre, we promised to keep you safe. I was about ready to go in and see
how you were doing. What say we go get something to eat?" I nodded
yes. "So did you have fun?" I dropped my head, blushed and drew my
bottom lip between my teeth.

"I just watched the movie Mike. A couple of skeezy old guys
propositioned me on my way to the booth." Mike laughed. "Mike, what
does it mean when a guy sticks his finger through a hole in the booth
wall?" Oh the education I received on the way to the diner.

We walked up the road to a 50s style Diner. That sounds more cool than
it actually is. Just about every single town in North Dakota has a 50s
Style Diner and a Dairy Queen. We sat and ordered. Our waiter was
quite the cute stud. He was from the UK touring the United States and
some great journey of his own. "And you came to North Dakota?" I
shouted. We chatted a bit while we waited for our food, he was great.

We were waiting for our food and sipping our drinks when Mike started
asking questions. "So what's the story between you and Shehek? Why
does he call you Ooxa (Mike of course butchered the pronunciation) or
Fox? Some of the guys are getting confused by the pet name `Fox'
thinking maybe you guys are fuck buddies."

I first responded with a loud, "Oh, iiiick!" Then I laughed, "Both my
father's mother and my mother were Mandan. Shehek is my first cousin.
My uncle Nels and I would often come out to the reservation to help
out on special construction projects. It would piss my father off but
he and I didn't care, it was always for a good cause or family.

During one build a small child was playing on the site. He got pinned
under a pile of rebar. Nels was too heavy to climb the pile, I was
not. I belted myself to a staked safety line so Nels could pull me off
the pile, if needed. I climbed the pile before anyone could stop me. I
used Nels' equipment and cut away the bundles.

Each bundle that was cut, I was thrown up into the air a couple feet,
only to regain my footing and continue the work. Each time the pile
would pop, debris would fly from the pile. A molten rebar fragment
even flew through the inside of my shirt, missing my skin and
embedding itself in the wood awning above.

I was urged off the pile by the men, only to waive them away. I wasn't
going to give up, even if I was injured. I could see with each bundle
I cut, the grip on the boy would loosen, until at last he could be
pulled free.

After the rescue my face was black with soot. The elders spoke of my
use of the torch to save the boy, and the fact that I did not have a
tribal name. There was some debate on what to call me. No name or
legend seemed to fit. One of the children pointed to the red fox that
had been following me all day, watching me.

The mother of the trapped child was Lakota. She and her son hugged me
thanking me for my courage and help. Then she told us the Lakota tale
of the To-ka-la.

The Kit Fox warriors (Tokala), were the bravest warriors. Before
battle they made themselves sacred, and painted their faces black.
Then they would say to one another, that it would be a good day for a
man to give his life. They wore sashes and during battle, they would
stake the sashes to the ground as a sign that they would fight on that
spot until victory or death.

In the culture of several other nations it's the fox who brought fire
down to the people. My Uncle and Mandan family agreed it fit, but
thought the name should be Mandan. From then on, my tribal name was
Ooxa, red fox."

Among other Indian nations the fox and coyote are considered
tricksters. Among the Mandan, they are sought for their wisdom and
cunning. Have you ever seen a fox or coyote hunt? If their prey
somehow eludes them, they will think about how to capture it. They
rarely give up."

Mike told me of his upbringing in New Orleans, and the spirit and
color of the city. He told me of its dual nature. Fun and danger all
wrapped up in a vibrant multicultural package. Mike picked up the tab.
I made sure to palm the waiter a $25 tip and a note "Gary D, Thank you
so very much for taking care of us and sharing your story."

Mike followed me all the way back to the site and we said goodbye. He
hugged me for a long time, then kissed my forehead wishing he could
wave away the pain of my grandfather's passing. That was an impossible
dream, but a nice gesture. I could see the deputy out on the highway.
Two more weeks and they couldn't touch me.

* * * *

A couple days later Uncle Nels came out to the drill site. He asked me
to stay away from town. "The lawyers told your Dad that Senior's will
had been sealed. All company expenditures had to be approved by the
executor. Accounts were frozen until the reading of the will, and
would not be opened until August 10th.

The fact was not lost on dad that it was my birthday. The estate paid
all of the bills to the nursing home, hospital, and covered the
funeral expenses... and of course the taxes. Tre, Junior is pissed, I
don't want him taking it out on you. If you have to come to town bring
a couple guys with you."

The next day, the man I had always known as Uncle Bert, Granddad's
oldest friend, now the executor of his will, came out to the site and
invited me to the reading. I told him, "I am afraid of being in the
same room as my father. Maybe I should just keep my distance."

He held my cheek and asked "Lil Mag, why are you afraid of him?" I
showed him the pictures of my bruises. The bruises the sheriff didn't
want to investigate for fear of irritating the powerful man. "You
bring whoever you need to feel safe, but you need to be there." I
promised I would try.

I asked Chris if he could go with me. He smiled and rub the back of my
neck. "Of course buddy." I had given him my notice after my last visit
with Senior. Granddad was right, I needed to start living my life. It
was time to stop dreaming and start doing.

I had enough money for gas and food that I could spend a good six
months on the road. I thought about driving South for the winter. It'd
be kind of cool to be warm in December.

* * * *

We gathered to hear my grandfather's will and final words. Nels was
between father and I. Chris, Shehek, Mike and Charlie, were told to
stay quiet, that they had no standing.

"To my youngest son Nels Haugen: I leave controlling interest in the
company I started. Son it is my hope that you disband the monstrosity,
only keep what you're capable of running, do what makes you happy.
Sell off the rest, and start your own life. You need to stop living in
your older brother shadow. If you choose to keep my company, remake it
in your image.

To my son Junior: I leave my abject disappointment. I tried to show
you love. What you learned was nothing but a profit sheet. You failed
maintaining the heart of the business. Just as you failed at
maintaining your family. You failed at being a son, a husband, and a
father.

It is sad that I knew and loved your son deeper than you ever will.  I
hope that changes someday. The law says I must leave you something. So
I leave you the first dollar that I earned. It's hanging in a frame
above the register. In addition you may keep the company house and
vehicle that I have allowed you to use.

To my grandson Magnus the Third: I have set up a trust fund for you. I
also leave to you the Indian motorcycle, that brought me home. The
executor of my will has control of the trust, until the time of your
twenty first birthday. Under no circumstances is Magnus Haugen Junior
to have any access to, or control over this fund.

Tre, take some time and discover yourself. Try not to be so uptight.
Find your passion. Stop being a doormat. It is my hope that you use it
to learn who you are. Live your life with courage. Make some mistakes
for once.

It would please my heart no end for you to just blow the entire fund.
I know that's not you, that's me. Tre, live your life fearlessly, like
the Viking and Mandan warriors from which you come. When you find
yourself, stake your ground and fight for what is yours. Know this,
you are worthy to bear my name, and that I am so proud of you."

Dad started to cross the room with his clenched fists in my direction.
Chris, Shehek, Mike, and Charlie swept in and blocked his path. Dad
blanched and backed down, Nels smiled saying, "Junior, you are fired.
I'll have one of the guys clear out your office." The executor went on
at some length to the other absent grandchildren. Mostly they got the
little trinkets that hadn't been sold.

When the reading was done Dad claimed he was going to vacate the will.
Based on his father's diminished mental capacity. Both the attorney
and the executor said good luck. He gestured menacingly at me. Then I
said what would be the last words I would say to Dad, "Junior, Faen ta
deg!" (May the devil take you!) He shook his fist in my direction and
stomped out of the office.

Nels crossed the room hugged me, "What are your plans Tre?"

"I owe Mr. Barton and the guys another week on my two week notice.
Then I am going to hit the road for a while. Maybe for a long while. I
want to see some of the things that Granddad saw. I need to find
something more than just occasional visits to Minnie and Paul
(Minneapolis and St. Paul a common family vacation spot). Granddad
thought I needed to find me, I think I need to find something bigger."

He hugged me and wished me the best, "I'll bring Pop's Indian to you.
That way you don't have to cross paths with your father. Just promise
to send me a postcard every so often. I should have been a better
uncle. I'll try to be a better man, the man I should have been." I
promised to send him the postcards.

Uncle Bert pulled me aside saying, "Tre, more than anything Senior and
I wanted to make sure your dreams came true. I want you to remember
this, when Senior came back from his two-year road trip he had a cool
hippie chick traveling with him named Night Wind. You knew her as
Grandma."

"Thanks Uncle Bert." The lawyer presented me with Granddad's diary.

He said, "There's a note to you on the inside of the front cover."
When I read the diary I found out uncle Bert was not just Granddad's
friend. They had been lovers for many years.

The rest of the guys headed back to the site. Mike, requested
permission to stay with me, just in case anything happened. Burt took
me over to the bank. I was presented a debit card from which I could
access a certain amount of money a month. I looked at my allowance in
shock, I was free...

--Continued.