This is a two part series. The series "A Boy Named Salt" will continue after this.

There is a town called St. Benedict Joseph that most people would drive through and say, “This is where dreams go to die.” That wouldn’t be a far off statement, but this town was also home to a type of people who never left because this was all they wanted to know. It had breath-taking foliage during the fall, white Christmas winters, beautiful green fields during the hopeful spring, and a serene lake that could engulf even the simplest man into meditative thought. No one recognized these beauties, because this was a town for the nobodies, commented one city dweller. There was one main road that led people into, and out of the town aptly named St. Augustine. The main road had an old dilapidated drug store called St. Charles, a grocery market, a barbershop with a salon next door, an old film theater with old cracked leather seats, and a bar. The bar was lovingly referred to as Nowhere. Nowhere was a dive bar by all means. It had the medicine to cure anything, and the folks to help you along the way. This is where Waylon spent most of his time among living human beings.

Waylon moved to St. Benny Joe’s a little over a decade ago. His age was up in the air, and his mind was in the gutter. He lived in one of the outskirt neighborhoods. He kept to himself, and had a routine that was like clock work. The man would wake up at the same time every day, have himself a black coffee with a splash of whiskey, and sit on his modest front porch. He would warmly, but not too warmly greet passersby’s. He had tattoos scattered all over his body all telling different magnificent stories. Waylon had a swallow on the back of both of his hands, and it was from when he was an amateur boxer. He got the tattoos as a gift from his promoter after beating everyone in his district. Other than that he won’t tell many people about the other tattoos that have claimed permanent real estate on his flesh. Waylon’s appearance would be that of a handsome man. A weathered, tattooed, wrinkled, always looking like the world had ended handsome but handsome nonetheless. He had short-cropped hair, a 5 o'clock shadow that never went past 6, and a body that proudly displayed years of hard physical labor. His forearms were bigger than most people’s biceps, and his barreled chest stuck out. His clothes resembled that of a blue-collar worker with serious inspiration from an outlaw’s lifestyle. The thing is Waylon was an outlaw.

Waylon grew up like many other people who are blessed to do so, and once he realized money didn’t grow on trees he started to find work. Waylon would do what he could, but he seemed the most cut out for manual labor. Around this time Waylon picked up his greatest vice beautifully called tobacco. He fell in love with the temptress, and used it in various forms. As it happened one afternoon while working he was taking a break indulging in his tobacco getaway when a young woman came by offering to sell him lunch from her cart. Waylon, ever so polite, shook his head no, but the woman was not to be put off easily and said, “Well smoking, chewing, and whatever else you do will kill you so why not go out eating something that will help the process come along quicker.” He chuckled (which if you couldn’t tell wasn’t a common noise to be emitted from his being) and bought a hot dog. He liked that girl, and wanted to ask her to out. Well, as fate would have it that same day the girl was hit by a big piece of machinery, and died. It would be a couple years until Waylon met someone who he really fancied outside of a fling. As what can happen to most good-natured men, Waylon got tired of living paycheck to paycheck, and looked into alternative extracurricular opportunities to make some extra Federal Reserve Notes.

Waylon met some like-minded individuals, and got to work. He started out as an amateur boxer going to different competitions, and getting beat pretty soundly. After getting knocked down ninety-nine times he was able to knock someone else down that hundredth time. He went on a tear using his signature right-handed jab to break more ribs than are found in a trashcan at a barbecue joint. After earning and receiving his swallow tattoos he was approached by a gentleman in a leather jacket about being a bouncer for his private clubhouse. Winston was the man's name, and he assured Waylon he would be better compensated, and would be able to grow within the company. Waylon accepted the gig. He was tired of relying on too much painkillers, and not being able to move for three days after fights. The first night on the job a tussle broke out and someone lost their life. The dispute Waylon never found out, but it left an impression on a young girl bartender who was serving that night. She walked out to calm her nerves with her favorite vice, and that’s when she ran into Waylon.