Note: This project began as a re-write of a Fairy Tale for Dr. James Smith's Creative Writing course at AASU. Though purely didactic, as are all Fairy Tales, in the end a purpose is served, whereby justification is now claimed. Any resemblance to particular individuals is absolutely coincidental.

Then there was that time this guy named Joe Fret showed up. He had come like all the rest. As a kid, his mom taught him things he should know in order to get by in the world. Stuff like the Ten Commandments, and that what goes around comes around. You know, "do unto others..." and such as that. Of course, other people taught him these things, too. Everyone said that if he did what he was told, and stayed on the straight and narrow, that in the end he would be rewarded. That, like the boy in the fairy tale whose bag of dust turned to gold, so would his burdens be transformed into blessings.

Well, just like most people, he didn't really believe it. He saw too many cases where it just didn't hold up. Drug dealers riding around in fancy cars. People going to jail for a few months and being set free, when they should have been locked up for years. Criminals virtually getting away with murder. Scammers and con artists raking in the dough. Pimps and hustlers living high on the hog.

And poor people staying poor and being put out on the street by slum lords who were as crooked as a three dollar bill.

That's what he saw. Yeah, there were preachers that did all right, but they usually got caught ripping people off and weren't really so good themselves. When they got busted, it wasn't long before they were right back on TV, asking people for forgiveness and a few bucks to go along with it. So why in the world would anyone expect him to believe all that goody-goody crock anyway? Them people that got put out on the street tried that straight and narrow jive, and look where it got them.

So he decided early on, he wasn't going to fool around wasting his time being a saint. Its not that he was necessarily a bad kid, he just seemed to be attracted to certain kinds of things which caused him certain kinds of problems. Well, naturally, he got into trouble. One thing after another. It wasn't long before he had run-ins with the law. By the time he was seventeen, he had quite a rap sheet. Shoplifting, possession of narcotics, grand theft auto. Petty larceny, possession of stolen property, assault with a deadly weapon. He finally got kicked out of school, ran away from home, and came here. To our city.

He stayed with some girl most of the time. They partied together. Lived the wild life, pretty much. Only, he wanted to try and be a little slicker down here, than he had before, so he landed a job at a convenience store. He took what he wanted, when he wanted it, smokes and candy and such. The company, though suspicious, had a hard time getting people to work the late shift, so they sacrificed. People like him never lasted long anyway.

Well, one day he figured instead of periodically dropping it in the safe like he was supposed to do, he'd stash all the money from his shift and disappear with it. What did he think he was going to do? He remembered his dad bragging about being a big time car salesman in California. He'd say, "If you can make it out there in the big LA , you can make it anywhere." Said it was like hell and paradise, rolled into one, at the end of the earth; he'd built his kingdom there, such as it was, though Joe Fret never saw anything even remotely resembling a kingdom anywhere near or around his dad. Still, the old guy wasn't cut up or in prison either. His pop would say Joe ought to go to the edge one day, out there to California, and get his, too. But to Joe it seemed like his Dad was always trying to get rid of him. Maybe because he was so disappointed in Joe. Or maybe Joe just thought so, because he felt guilty about his own past and resentful about his father's example. Who knows?

The night he ended up here was the night he decided to do it. He would take the money and go to California. On Saturday nights the old dump did pretty good business. They sold a lot of cigarettes, beer, and gas. By four o'clock in the morning he had stuck back almost seven hundred dollars. Pretty good for a nights work. By six he had nine-hundred and fifty bucks. To Joe, things were looking good....

At seven o'clock the first shift guy came on. Joe clocked out, said he was sick and had to run. He took the money out by putting it in a carton of cigarettes, minus four packs. First thing he did was go to the state liquor store. Then he called that girlfriend of his. He put his cigarettes, whiskey, and the money in his knapsack, and caught the bus for her place. The bag felt like it weighed a light fifty pounds.

She knew Joe was on the way to her place and she had to get rid of her company. She wondered if Joe had done it tonight or not. She wondered if he had it in him. It would be nice to go out west and blow this pop-stand. But for now she just had to send this other dude on his way. All the jerk-off wanted was sex and he would leave. She quickly stripped so she could get rid of the loser.

On the bus ride through town, Joe felt as if all eyes were upon him. Everyone looked at him funny. An old lady with newspaper in her shoes, a middle-aged clean-cut married couple, a few hoodlums from places even he would not go. An odd mix this early in the morning, each with their eyes on Joe and his bag. He held it to his lap and noticed how it seemed to grow heavier and heavier at each stop. He remembered the old story about the bag of dust. What a laugh. Hmmph...

When he got to the chick's house, she had ditched her other companion. Joe Fret never knew. He went in and told her to get ready. He was going to California, and she needed to be ready if she wanted to go. He was headed for the bus station, but first he needed a shower. For some reason he felt pretty dirty, and wanted a clean start.

As they walked down her stoop, he felt his bag had gotten heavier, for real. She said she had to go back for a second. To use the bathroom. He told her to hurry up because the sun was out good now and he had to get the next bus headed west so he could get some sleep. She ran upstairs. He waited.

And waited.

After a few minutes he knew something was funny. The bag was really heavy now. He ran upstairs and she was gone. Nowhere to be found. The window which led to the fire escape in the alley was wide open. The sack was too heavy. He knew. In the bag were pieces of rags and newspaper, a small brick, and an empty bottle. Not even one pack of smokes. That bitch.

To him, it felt like all that was left for him to do was to jump off the bridge, and that's how he ended up here. Maybe if he'd have stayed on that straight and narrow after all, he wouldn't have gotten a tag wrapped around his toe, and he wouldn't have been put in one of these bags waiting to turn to dust.

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