CHAPTER ONE: THE LAST CHANCE

Ithas been said that a man’s life is not measured by breaths taken but by the moments, his breath is taken away. If this is the case, then surely Horace Chance can be measured a great man.
 
 
 
 
Chapter One
A great secret of success is to go through life as a man who never gets used up.
Albert Schweitzer.
 
 
 
Early morning sunshine filtered through slits in the blinds and lazy dust motes danced in the air flirting with a glow of golden sunlight reflected on the floor.  Bundled in a quilt tucked in loosely at his waist, Horace Chance sat in his favorite rocking chair nearest the television set in the crowded room at Golden Memories Nursing Home. The latest thriller by his favorite author, Jim Butcher, lay unopened on his lap. His head was slumped and his glasses were propped on the top of his head as if to watch the fan go rotate. Loud snores emitted from the dozing man, a sound ignored by the residents as they went about their daily activities accustomed to serenading by the home’s sleeping elder statesman.                A voice blared over the intercom, “Jim, there is a gentleman here to see you.” Jim stretched his long gangly arms and placed a copy of People Magazine on the arm of the chair as he knuckled the kinks from his back and walked toward the foyer to greet his expected visitor.
             “I have an appointment with Mr. Chance.” The reporter offered his hand to the attendant.  “I’m here to interview him about the upcoming election.”
              Jim shook the man’s hand and then gestured toward the doorway.
              “I’m looking forward to meeting Mr. Chance.” The journalist picked up his briefcase and followed Jim.  “Is it true that Horace voted in every presidential election since 1916?”
            “I suppose he has. That’s what he keeps telling me. Horace has been here for the last seven years. He doesn’t talk much about his life, but when I look into his eyes there is richness in them I haven’t seen in my other patients. I believe he has a tale worth telling.”
             Jim held the door open for his guest. “Excuse me. I’ll go tell Horace you’re here.” Jim walked across the room to the sleeping man and touched Horace’s hand.
             The old man’s head remained slumped, no longer snoring. Jim’s face tightened. 
             Jim gingerly tapped the sleeping man again.
            The attendant smiled as Horace’s wrinkled hands twitched and his withered, craggy face began to move.  The old man jerked and opened his eyes, the color of a cloudless day in summer, showing no sign of his aging.
            Jim offered his hand to help Horace from the chair. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but the reporter is here.”
             Puzzled, still groggy, Horace swatted his attendant’s hand away. “What reporter?” Horace’s mind was as clear as his vivid blue eyes, unusual at his age. Age had robbed him of his mobility but left his keen eyesight and sharp mind intact.  He was as witty today as ever. The other residents loved Horace though most were twenty to thirty years his junior.
           “Remember the reporter? The one you promised an interview. They’re calling you a celebrity. It was so inspiring when President Bush took time out of his busy schedule four years ago to thank you for your patriotism when you voted for him.” Jim offered his help once again.
           Horace folded his arms, refusing any aid. “Well, Jim, I don’t feel like no damn celebrity. Although voting is my right and patriotic duty, hell I’m wrestling over which of the two candidates is worthy of my vote. Neither of them really interests me.” Horace reached for Jim’s hand, the wrinkles in his forehead furled. “Would it tarnish my celebrity status if my adoring fans were to discover my choice was totally dependent on the flip of a coin?”
           Jim slowly helped his friend to his feet, and held his shoulders as the old man wobbled. “Naw, you can vote for either and still be a celebrity. It’s not who you vote for, it’s the fact that you have voted that makes it newsworthy. There’s no one alive that can boast they voted for… what was his name again?”
        “The candidate’s name was Charles Evan Hughes, former Governor of New York; he damn near won too.” Horace grabbed Jim’s forearms to gain balance. “I might have voted for the devil himself, anyone but Woodrow Wilson. I never cared much for Wilson’s politics or the fact that he defeated Teddy Roosevelt four years earlier. I only wish I’d been old enough to vote in the 1912 elections; I missed the age requirement by two years.” Horace wiped his dry lips with his tongue. “All right, my vote wouldn’t have made a difference but it would’ve made me feel better. At least Teddy beat out his friend and incumbent President Taft. He thumped Taft by a good margin.” Horace stretched his withered body.
           Jim pushed a wheelchair behind Horace positioning it to just the right place, “I never knew Theodore Roosevelt ran for office again. Okay, let’s put it this way, there is no one left that can boast they voted against Woodrow Wilson.”
            “I like to keep my life private, Jim.” Horace looked back at the wheelchair, and waved it off.
            “I know you do but you did promise the magazine an interview.” Jim insisted Horace sit in the chair.
           “Maybe it is time. But you know Jim; I have lived a long life, not an extraordinary one.” Horace slowly lowered himself into the chair.
            “That is what you say Horace.” Jim lifted each foot onto the footplate.
            “Well, let’s get it over with. Where is he? You didn’t leave him waiting in the lobby did you Jim? Wheel me someplace a little more private.” Horace pointed his feeble finger. “That’s it, the game table, pull me up to there.”
              “Don’t just stand there Jim. Show my guest in. Wait Jim; have you seen my reading glasses? They make me look scholarly.” Horace smiled a wilted, toothless smile. Jim pointed to the top of Horace’s head. “Oh, so here they are, I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached.” Horace continued, “Well, what are you waiting for? I’m not getting any younger. Show our esteemed guest in. Oh and Jim, my friend, you had better brew a couple of pots of coffee, this might take a while.” Jim motioned to the newsperson to join them as he wheeled Horace over to the game table.
            Horace closed his eyes and reminisced, opening them only when he heard footsteps. Jim approached with a man carrying a briefcase. The reporter appeared to be in his late thirties, early forties at the most, was dressed in a very expensive gray suit, white shirt with a purple tie, and had a receding hairline. Horace was not expecting the gentleman to be a person of color. At another time in Horace’s life, he may have refused to speak with a person of color and would have been offended. Horace was a southerner. His father and mother were southerners. His own grandfather had owned slaves. Generations of Chances had owned slaves.
         Horace however had come to believe differently than his family many years earlier. He had learned that it was the soul of the man that mattered, not the color of his skin. This was an historic election coming up. A person of color could become President of the United States. Many people would be making their decision based on the color of the skin. Horace would not. He was basing his decision based on the soul of each man.
          “Horace, this is Mr. Jones of the Jeffersonian Magazine.” Jim pointed to the journalist and then pointing at Horace. “Mr. Jones, this is Horace Chance.”
           Horace reached out his feeble hand to the reporter. He smiled at the thought of how his father would disapprove. Reflecting, he wished his father had lived long enough to see how wrong he had been about his racist views.
          Mr. Jones took the outstretched hand and shook it lightly. “It is indeed an honor to meet you Mr. Chance. Thanks for granting me this interview. Our readers will be thrilled.”
         “We’ll let you be the judge on how thrilled they’ll be Mr. Jones.” Horace dropped his hands into his lap. “Jim, don’t you have some coffee to fetch? Have a seat Mr. Jones and please call me Horace.”
            Jim hesitated before blinking his eyes and shaking his head slightly. “Oh yes, two coffees coming up. Mr. Jones, how do you like your coffee?”
            “Black please, and call me Bill. Mr. Chance, uh, Horace, shall we begin?” Bill pulled a small tape recorder from inside his open briefcase.

“Hold on there, Bill, I’m not ready to start flapping my jaw. Maybe we should get acquainted first?” Horace glanced at the tape recorder, a bit nervous.             “Sorry, Horace.” Bill pushed the recorder aside.
            “Maybe we could start chatting about what is current before I start to bore you with my past.” Horace rubbed below his nose with his knuckles.
             “Sure, to start with I’m sure everyone would like to know who you are going to vote for.” Bill crossed his legs and held them with his hands clasped together.
            “Well Bill, I could tell you but then I would have to kill you,” Horace said with a half grin. The reporter became very quiet not sure what to think.  Horace roared with laughter. Bill joined in just as Jim walked in with the coffee.
             Horace took a sip from the cup with a sour look on his face. “Decaf, Jim?”
            “You know the doctor’s orders. You are only allowed decaf coffee from now on.” Jim placed Bill’s coffee next to him, pulled out a chair, and sat backwards, his arms resting on the back of the chair.
            Horace, eyes narrowed, pushed his cup away. “The doctor is a quack, after all I am 115 years old, and I have been drinking coffee regularly for over a century. A few good cups of coffee will not shorten my life span.” Jim pushed the coffee towards Horace.
            Jim shook his head, “If you want regular coffee then drink it on my replacement’s shift. I would feel terrible if it was my cup of coffee that killed you.”
            “It’s OK Jim, the coffee is… fine.” Horace’s lips pursed as he took another sip. “May I ask a question Bill?”
             Bill rubbed the rim of his coffee cup. “Of course.”
             Horace placed his cup onto the table and wiped his hands on his pant legs. “You don’t use a computer when you interview people?”
            Bill tapped the table next to his recorder. “I tape the interview first and use a computer to type it up and submit it to the office.”
             Horace stared at the recorder, “I really don’t care for the computer. It is one of the modern technologies for which I have no tolerance.”
             “Really? Why is that Horace? It is a great time-saver.” Bill uncrossed his legs as he reached for his coffee.
             Horace’s bright blue eyes flickered as he reflected on his response. “Sonny, I want to make this clear, but my answer can’t be a part of the interview, understood?” Bill nodded. “Your all mighty computer is to blame for the moral decay of the fabric of humanity. The computer and modern television shows have been slowly turning people’s minds to mush.”
              “I don’t follow you.” Bill confused. “The computer does so much good for mankind.”
              “The computer is the work of the devil. Pornography is available for anyone wanting a good peek, pornography suited to every type of depravity a man is capable of.” Horace’s folded his arms and he turned to Jim with an unquestionable look. “There’s no need to expound on the lack of morals lost on such vile actions. Infidelity runs rampant. Husbands and wives log into chat rooms designed for cheating. What kind of lessons are we teaching the young? As for the shit they push down our throats on the boob tube, it’s just not right. There are shows where teenagers actively engage in behavior that should be sanctified only between husbands and wives. It shocks me the amount of immorality that passes for entertainment these days. Sex and drugs are so prevalent today. The heads of the studios should be ashamed of themselves.” Horace sipped his coffee, made a sour face, and continued. “I know it sells, but at what cost? Has money become more important than the morality of the nation? Don’t get me wrong, there are a few shows I enjoy. I never miss an episode of Jeopardy, not because I’m smart and know all the answers. I watch it because I lived through most of the answers. All in all, I kind of miss the days of three stations and black and white TV. Those were good times. You could watch TV and still use your imagination. These days…” Horace closed his eyes and paused a moment.
             Horace massaged his temples. “Sorry, you didn’t come to hear me preach all day. Let’s get started on this confounded interview, turn that recorder on. I’m eager to start.  Where do you want me to start?  My life was boring. My life has been long…”
            “But not extraordinary,” said a woman standing about four feet behind Horace.
            “Come on in you cantankerous old woman. You might as well have a seat and listen too. Then maybe we can play a quiet game of pinochle some time without you jabbering with questions all the time.  Bill, this is Ethel Carson. How do you want me to start, Bill?”
            “It’s nice to meet you, Ethel.” Bill stood and pulled out a chair for Ethel. “Well I think if you can remember any of your childhood that would be a good place to start.” Bill pulled his recorder before him.
             Horace shifted in his wheelchair for some semblance of comfort. “I’m not some old fart that has lost all his memories, Bill. I remember everything, just like it was yesterday. I was born on June 28th, 1893 in Charleston, South Carolina, born on the plantation where my father was born, like generation after generation was born. Chance Plantation had been in the family for over two hundred years.” A look of pain appeared on his face as Horace shifted in his wheel chair. “When I was born only my father, mother, granddaddy, were the only ones left on the plantation. It had fallen into disrepair. My father told me later in my life how grand the plantation had been before the War of Northern Aggression, that’s how my pa referred to the Civil War. He maintained the wrong side had won the war. I can’t recall him ever saying too many nice things about Yankees. No disrespect intended Bill, or Ethel.”
           “None taken please continue,” said Bill. Ethel crossed her arms and glared at Horace.
           Horace grinned and scrunched his nose at Ethel. “We had very little in the way of comfort. What little we had was squandered away by my granddaddy’s afflictions. He had a penchant for gambling and liquor. He had already sectioned off and sold much of his once vast property to developers. All that remained were the great house and the empty stables. My granddaddy passed when I was two. Dad had to sell the plantation to pay off debtors. What little Dad had left barely kept us alive. We drifted for a couple of years. Dad did odd jobs, as best he could to support the three of us. I never had siblings. Well, Ma had lost three babies prior to me. Ma was a delicate woman. My birth damn near killed her.” Horace’s eyes misted over.
             “Word came to Daddy, work could be found in a place called Kitty Hawk; pay wasn’t much but it did come complete with a tiny house on the beach overlooking Albemarle Sound. Ma thought a house on the beach would be a fine thing. Dad sent a letter care of the postmaster in Kitty Hawk inquiring about a position. A few weeks later, a letter came from the postmaster; Pa was hired on the spot. So, in the summer of 1898, my father and mother packed our meager belongings and hitched a ride to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. We had no idea we were moving smack dab into the middle of history.”