Exit To Tasmania

   I swear I could almost see the stale smell of cigarettes that enveloped the young looking man that sat across from me, like some classic cartoon.  If he (Alex) hadn't offered his age in our initial introduction through email I would have sworn him to be only in his mid twenties not his actual mid thirties.  Alex's age was only glimpsed in his eyes from time to time while we spoke, but the window's of his soul would have fooled you as well to think that he was much older than his thirties.   Alex was a chameleon without a doubt, the definition of not judging a book by it's cover.  When he spoke he spoke eloquently, graceful and mindful with the choice of wording and narrative.  As he vocally danced about he would quietly slip in a fuck or some other curse word that would jar you for a split second, I am almost convinced he did this to keep his disguise up.  Just looking at Alex one would question his motives or his background.   Alex...

  Sonora, Texas 4:28 a.m. 1995.   3,140 souls slept soundly in the early morning hours of a warmer than normal July.  The county seat of Sutton County, Sonora was just a typical small town in the Western Hill Country of Texas.  Sonora was just one of a half dozen small towns that Jim had deliver to that Friday morning.  Sweeping across the darkness he drove the highways and roads that connected these towns on his milk delivery route.  One stop after another like some version of a lactose infused Santa he made his deliveries six mornings a week climbing into his delivery truck at three am.   Jim didn't really mind the odd hours, the endless miles, or even the hard work, hell he couldn't remember a job he had that haven't at least involved one of those demands.  He enjoyed being off early enough to pick his boys up from school, one just out of kindergarten and the other in elementary school.  That was truly his career, being a father, th...