Radio Frequency, Interrupted

In 1895, the world changed completely. Tobias McMillan invented the rubberband. Now, nobody would ever worry about documents coming apart. Everything could be organized with a snap. The day Tobias came up with his idea, he was feeling antsy about his divorce. None of his papers and legal documents were ever together. This worried him.

He lived alone in his West Texas home. His life was now a simple one. No more than two weeks before, it had been different. He had a wife who he despised and a young boy who he thought the world of. Now he had nothing. The past few days hadn't been easy, but he was actually in good spirits for the most part. He complained a little to his dog, Handle, about his failing heart and back aches. This was normal. Handle had seen Tobias grow ill over the years. Tobias had seen Handle grow old and tired. Two old souls. They were meant to be.

One particular evening, Tobias had a visitor. A young farm boy looking for simple work in town. Tobias put him to work early the next morning, finding the young man, who he learned was named Burt, to be useful. Burt helped him with relatively easy tasks that Tobias had grown sick of completing. Burt got a room in a small house in town with the money he earned working.

He was a boy, no older than seventeen. A runaway at the age of twelve. He could never relate to any human. He learned this on his third birthday when asked if he was happy. "I don't feel that. Ask me how I feel". His father then re-worked his question to suit him, " Well, how do you feel son?". Burt replied, " Tired. Longing for real".

He was thought mentally ill by his family, who packed their things in the middle of the night and left him in their house alone to die the next day. Three indian brothers looking for shelter in the house discovered Burt that very night. He was grateful, although he really hated the way indians lived. Slobs. Bathing in filth. Destroying their bodies with 'medicines'. No indian in this tribe lived to be forty. They accepted it too! How awful.

The chief was a heavy smoker. He coughed at night, keeping the whole tribe awake with his wheezing. "Only smoke when white man pass into town", he would say. "But chief, you smoke--", another would start to say. " Now. Smoke heal. No fresh air. Smoke", he interrupted. He lit one up. And another. His marijuana smoke was the only thing the white men enjoyed. "Smoke funny. Make you feel new man", he would say. It was true. Every night the chief turned into a grain of sand and he was gone. Only for a little while.