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=   F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K.   =
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                              An Old Debt
                              -----------

I am a wanted man.  Not in the sense that anyone really wants me, of
course.  I have a few friends who wish me to be around me, but this is
not to what I am referring.  In this meaning of the term, I am wanted by
the United States government for past misdeeds which it holds against
me.

Most, if not all, of the government employees responsible for marking me
as a wanted man have moved on to other job assignments and new lives.  I
doubt any of them would recognize me if they ran into me on the street.
Nevertheless, the paperwork remains.

I have lived these past 15 years in peace.  During this time, I have
lived in a country that is not my own under a name that is not my own.
These have been prosperous years.  My education in the United States and
my business skills have served me well.

I am now returning to the United States.  This is my first visit to my
own country since 1981.  Although I miss my home greatly, that is not
the reason for my return.  My return to America, at great personal risk,
is an attempt to partially repay a past debt.

Fifteen years ago, my partner and I were involved in some shady business
dealings.  Hell, it was outright crime.  We took CitiBank for over a
million dollars, and we got caught.  They took John, but I got away.  I
got away because I ran fast and I ran far.  I had no one and nothing to
hold me back.  Before they noticed my absence, I was out of the country
and travelling under a false identity.  It cost me quite a bit of money,
but CitiBank was footing the bill.

John wasn't so lucky.  John couldn't run.  John wouldn't run.  John had
a daughter.  John loved that little girl more than I've ever loved
anything in my entire life.  John loved that little girl more than I
have loved everything I have ever loved all put together.  John lived
for that little girl.  John stayed put.  John stood trial.  John stood
trial for his crimes and for mine.

John was convicted and sentenced to two consecutive 20 year sentences.
John couldn't take it.  John was never strong that way.  Perhaps he
simply couldn't stand to be apart from his daughter for that long.  John
killed himself in prison.

John could have taken better care of his daughter had he lived.  He
should have known that.  John just couldn't have been thinking that when
he kicked that chair out from underneath himself.  It was less than a
year into his sentence.

The little girl was raised by her mother and John never once had custody.
Her mother left John before the girl was ever born.  John would see the
child only on weekends.  She was all he ever talked about. She was his
life, and when he lost her, he just stopped living.

The little girl's mother wasn't the best of people.  John had loved her.
John didn't love her anymore.  She burned out that love in ways only a
woman can.  I never did understand why she did what she did, and neither
did John.

I haven't been a father to the little girl.  I've been living in hiding.
The little girl's mother does not approve of me, and she has little
reason to.  I was part of what John killed.  She was a part too,
although she will never know that.

I hope she has raised the child well, but I have no reason to believe
that to be the case.  She was never fit to raise a child, but she was
the only one who was allowed to.  Some kids grow up right in spite of
their parents.  I only hope this is one of those kids.

I've come to America to see this little girl.  Only she's not so little
anymore.  She's seventeen and she's in high school.  It's in school that
I will meet her.  Well, not in school exactly.  I can't risk being
identified in her school.  I can't risk being identified by her mother.
Nevertheless, I must risk this journey to see the girl.

My salvation is, as has often been the case, an old friend.  I have a
friend who is a doctor and who is a female.  You see, no seventeen year
old girl in her right mind would allow herself to be approached by a
lone adult man.  My good friend will be there though.  She will be
my ticket to safely speak with John's daughter.  Using a simple pretext,
my friend will arrange for me to meet the girl.

As soon as we are together, I will come clean.  My freedom depends on
the girl trusting me enough not to scream out.  I do not know the girl,
but I knew the father.  I have enough faith in the blood to risk what I
am risking.

I do not come to bring the girl money.  I do not owe John or his
daughter any money.  I have plenty of money, and I would give it all to
John's daughter, or anything she needs just as if she were my own daughter.
But money is not the purpose of my visit.  Money is base and dirty and
money is part of what caused the death of her father.

I come with a message for the little girl.  I come to tell her about her
father.  I come to tell her about his wit, his sensitivity, his love of
life and his wonderful sense of humor.  Most importantly I come to tell
her about how much he loved her.

I don't know what the girl's mother told her about John, but I'm certain
he would have wanted her to know the truth.  Her mother was never strong
on the truth, in fact, I bet she even lies to herself.  The little girl
deserves to know what kind of a man her father really was and how much
he loved her.  If her mother was never able to love her and if no one else
in her life ever loves her, her father loved her, and she deserves to know
that.

I am an old man.  I am risking the last years of my life to tell a
seventeen year old girl how her dead father felt about her.  Is it worth
it?  You bet your ass it is.


*** A work of fiction by the Voyager.

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(11/25/96)
