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D
O W N J O E B A L D R
O A D
T H E G H O S T
C H A I R
THE LEGEND
OF
SLEEPY HOLLOW DUMP ROAD
James F. "Jim"
Barrett
On
Joe Bald Road, by the shores of Table Rock Lake, in
the Ozark Mountains of Missouri, there was a dump.
Just an ordinary dump, not a big public landfill
type dump, but an everyday,
this-is-the-place-where-we-get-rid-of-our-junk,
dump. Some thirty years ago, in less frenetic, more
personal days, folks all respected dumps. They
didn't throw kitchen garbage, contaminated oils,
radioactive waste, germ infected hospital
materials, and out-of-favor-Mafia-characters into
their dumps. Dumps were for things like the bicycle
you meant to fix for the last ten years. It was for
worn out things, detested gifts, fruitcakes kept
from Christmas three years ago, and all such
obsolete and no longer loved paraphernalia. Dumps,
in those innocent days, also received potentially
recyclable trash such as old or unwanted furniture.
It
was a lovely late fall day and Emil was on his way
to Kimberling City's post office to mail some large
packages his wife had prepared for someone's
birthday, a holiday, or such like. Emil was never
certain why or what was being mailed, or to whom,
for that matter. Nor did he much care one way or
another. It was always just another great way to
get out of the house, go down to "The City," have a
beer or two, and enjoy a long exchange of chit-chat
with whomever might be at the bar in the Hillbilly
Bowl upon that particular day.
His
slightly battered blue Chevy truck was running well
for a change, the sun was warm and bright, leaves
in a wondrous pallet of colors were whirling down
from the trees and drifting in great windrows along
the road. All in all, it was another of God's grand
days in the Ozarks. Emil drove slowly with the stub
of a hand rolled cigarette dangling from the left
corner of his mouth. The radio played dental office
music for which Emil cared very little. However,
anything was better than the constant crying and
self recrimination on the country stations and the
repetitious screaming and whanging on the rock
channels.
As
his truck jumped up and down the ledges in the one
lane dirt road, Emil hung onto the steering wheel
and moaned softly to himself. He called it his
singing, but the sounds he made would have worried
any doctor in an emergency room. His spit stained
cigarette butt bobbed up and down at the corner of
his mouth. He was on his way to an afternoon of
pleasantries in The City and, for that, he was a
happy man.
As
he passed the even smaller and nastier road that
circled by the dump, he arrived at a decision. He
would loop through the by-road and see what the
dump had in stock today. Of course, this wasn't
what one could really call a monumental decision.
Emil checked the dump on a pretty regular basis. It
was one of the few fun things to do in those olden
days down on Joe Bald Road.
He
backed up the few car lengths by which he had
passed the turn off. Shifting the floor box into
compound low so that he could dawdle along, he
turned from the road and bumped away into the dump
lane. Fifty or sixty yards through the big trees
and the brush brought him to the leading edge of
the dump. Broken fishing rods, mounds of beer cans,
an aluminum boat with very little left of its
bottom, a huge pile of tree limbs, a couple of lamp
shades, some unidentifiable iron items - nothing
much to interest a true connoisseur of fine and
collectable trash. He eased the truck along while
he inventoried the cast off items, looking for
something new, interesting and perhaps even useful.
As
he rounded the final curve in the lane and headed
back for the main road, his eyes focused on a
bright object that caused him to mash down both the
clutch and brake pedals with instant and equal
force, bringing the Chevy to an abrupt stop. There,
leaning slightly askew atop a pile of construction
rubbish, was a perfectly good, reasonably clean,
bright and attractive, chair. It was an armchair,
sort of overstuffed style, but not quite that
bulky. It was obviously a living room chair such as
a man could use while viewing Sunday afternoon ball
games, swilling beer and devouring fattening food -
and Emil owned no such luxury.
He
turned off the engine, set the emergency brake and
opened the driver's door. Holding firmly onto the
truck's cab, he swung himself down to the dusty
path. He took the butt from his mouth, examined it
a moment and, with a shrug, stuck it back from
whence it had come. He pulled up his striped bib
overalls, adjusted his faded blue railroad
engineer's cap and strode toward the awaiting
chair. He knew, as he clumped across the trash,
that the chair, when he got to it, would have the
springs missing, the back side torn out or be
soaked in skunk pee. Something had to be wrong with
it. No one threw away such a nice comfortable
looking chair unless it was on the verge of
collapse or had some other calamity attached to it.
He
arrived where the chair stood and he was still
dubious. It LOOKED fine, but something HAD to be
wrong. He unhooked one thumb from his overall's
strap and reached out to touch the chair. Under the
caress of his gnarly old hand, the cloth was warm
in the fall's bright sunshine and it felt
relatively factory like, nubbly and crisp. There
were no major stains, tears or rips. Of course, it
WAS a little soiled and the wooden parts were a bit
abused, but only a very little. It was a rather
pleasant green with silvery threads worked out into
little flowers and ferns. Emil thought that his
wife might even like it in their front room. He
could easily see himself at rest in its depths,
comfortably watching a ball game, drinking a beer,
while the winter did its nasty worst outside their
trailer house.
He
intended to tip the chair forward so that he could
see the backside, but was surprised at the weight
of the thing. The way the broken boards and pieces
of old siding skidded under his feet made moving
the heavy chair difficult. That was when he saw the
lower part of the chair bobble in and out. My gosh,
he thought, it's a recliner. Imagine that. I've
always wanted a recliner and now, here's one, just
waiting for me to take it home. He tentatively
pushed and pulled at the chair, which only made the
footrest jiggle a little.
The
chair was far and away too heavy for a beat up old
trainman in his early seventies to wrestle over the
trash heaps back to the road, let alone load into
his truck. He'd have to get some help. Also, he'd
have to hurry before someone beat him to retrieving
this swell item. He'd tried calling Cecil earlier
and found that he wasn't at home. Emil had thought
that Cecil might like to ride down to The City with
him, but his wife had said that Cecil had left some
time back and wouldn't be home 'till after lunch.
Don!
Emil thought, Don would be home. Don was almost
always home. It was quite a way to Don and Pat's
house, but he was the nearest man Emil knew who
would likely help him. He hurried to his truck and
fired it up. He'd get Don to help him and get this
chair back to his house and really surprise his
wife. Emil hadn't been this excited in a long time.
He even forgot to moan-sing along with the
easy-listening music as he thumped and jumped his
way to Joe Bald's main road and on up the mountain
ridge to Don's house.
When
Emil arrived at Don and Pat's house, he found the
two of them occupied as they almost always were.
Grandma Pat was in her Shanty, working at her
endless rearrangement of her collections of
antiques, less than antiques, and multitudes of
other strange items, which only she could truly
appreciate. Don was in their front yard, sitting in
one of his oft repaired 1950 vintage tin lawn
chairs, enjoying the warmth of the beautiful fall
day. In one hand he held his ever present glass of
Old Crow and water, while in the other he held a
screen-wire fly swatter with which he bashed the
last of the summer's flies. Emil's excitement over
his grand find would brook no restraint and he
jumped from his old truck and burst upon the
idyllic sitting.
"Don,"
he said loudly as he hurried across the lawn, "I
found me a real great TV chair and I need your help
with it."
Don
regarded the other old man with a calculating eye
as he humped along, hurrying as best he could, to
the seating area under the giant old oak tree. "I
got no money to spare, Emil."
Emil
dropped into another of the oft painted tin chairs.
He waved his hand and said, "Don't need your money,
Don, need your help gettin' it into my truck."
Don's
mood brightened perceptibly. "Oh, you already
bought it, now all you need is for me to help you
load it?"
"Didn't
buy it. I found it. Down in the dump. It's a real
nice front room chair, good upholstery an' all.
And, it's a recliner, too."
"In
the dump?" Don asked, dubiously, as he batted at a
pair of flies on the arm of Emil's tin chair.
"What's a good chair doing in the dump?"
"No
idea, Don, but it's a real good chair. Got a little
damage to the wood parts an' a little hair grease
on the back, but, other than that, it's just fine.
Pretty color, too. All green with silver leaves an'
stuff. Wife's gonna really like it." Emil said with
pride, thinking of his soon to be acquisition.
"Want
a little shot of Old Crow?"
Emil
considered, "Yeah, but let's get on the road.
Someone'll come along sure an' get my chair if I
don't get down there quick. It's real nice,
someone'll sure want it."
Don
pushed himself up from his seat, putting his fly
swatter aside. "I'll mix us a couple of Old Crows
while you go over and tell Ma where we're going."
And he cripped away, headed for the house.
Emil
hooked his thumbs around his bib-overall straps and
walked down the drive to Grandma Pat's Shanty. In
his mind he was shifting the green chair around his
front room to get the best advantage of heat from
the wood stove and retain the best possible view of
the TV at the same time.
"Well,
where the heck is it?" Don asked as he gawked
around at all the various piles of rubbish.
"I
- I don't know, Don. It was right here on this pile
of boards and siding just a little while ago."
"Wonder
who beat us to it?" Don asked, as though Emil would
know.
Emil
thrust his hands dejectedly into his hip pockets.
He, too, looked all around, hoping that the chair
was in some place other than where he remembered
seeing it last. "I don't know. Someone. Darn! I
knew I should have tried loading it when I first
saw it. But - I guess I knew I couldn't do it. Was
a real heavy chair. Pretty, too. Darn!"
Don
went back to Emil's truck and began climbing up
into the seat. "Well, best take me back home. It
appears someone has a new front room chair."
Disconsolately,
Emil walked back to the truck. "Yeah, an' it sure
ain't me. Darn! It was a REAL nice chair. It'd a
cost me maybe a hundert an' twenty five bucks was I
to buy it new in a store." He climbed in behind the
wheel. "An' I liked them silver flowers an' stuff,
too."
The
two old men chatted as Emil drove Don back up Joe
Bald Road to his house. When they pulled into Don's
drive, Grandma Pat was waiting. She was sitting in
the swing by the tin chairs having an iced tea and
polishing a battered silver spooner pot.
"You
guys sure got that chair delivered quick."
"Didn't
get no chair." Emil groused from the truck's
window. "We uz too darned slow. Someone beat us too
it."
Don
was carrying their two glasses in one hand and
reaching for his fly swatter with the other as he
slowly dumped himself back into his chair. He
cocked one eye brow in calculation and batted a
pair of slow to react flies on the arm of the old
wood swing.
"We
went just as fast as we could. Someone had to have
seen it just after you left, Emil. We could have
driven a hundred miles an hour and not have been in
time."
"Sheeez!"
Emil hissed. "Well, I gotta take these packages to
the post office for the old lady. I'll see you guys
later. Thanks for the help, anyway." And, so
saying, he put the Chevy in gear and ground out of
the driveway, onto the dirt road and away toward
The City.
An
hour or two later, Don waved to Emil as his truck
clattered by on its run back down the way to where
he lived, on the side road to Sleepy Hollow Resort,
approximately one disastrous, dusty mile beyond the
dump.
About
thirty minutes after Emil had gone by, Don heard
the phone ring in the house. This was back in the
days when remote phones, radio phones and all such
modern conveniences that we now take for granted
were unheard of. In those days telephones were
firmly attached to the wall by a relatively short,
and quite sensible, cord. The old man had to hoist
himself up, put down his Old Crow and his fly
swatter and go into the house to answer the phone.
He made it on about the tenth or twelfth ring.
"Hello!" He shouted gruffly, as he always did.
Don's phone experience was mostly from his country
rural-line days when one got only rare calls and
then had to shout to be heard. Of course, that was
a lot of years before, and he had had the use of
much more modern phones since that time. But,
shouting into the phone gave him some small sense
of satisfaction, and so he still shouted "hello" as
though he were still out on the farm.
"This
here's Emil, Don." The tinny voice exclaimed into
his ear. "The chair's back!"
The
old man squinted his eyes and looked out the dining
room window, as though that would help his
understanding. "What chair's back where?"
"Don,"
the squeaky voice continued, "the chair, the green
chair we was going to load. It's back in the dump."
"Huh!"
Don exclaimed. "Wonder why?"
"Don't
know why, but it's there. This time I want you to
drive down to the dump and help me load it. I'm
goin' up there in my truck an' keep an eye on it
'till you get there. Can you do it?"
"Do
what?"
"Sheeeezz!
You're gettin' senile, Don. Come down to the dump
an' help me load the chair, that's what I mean."
The
old man grinned evilly to himself, "Ooooh! Sure,
yeah, I'll tell the old lady and be right on down."
Emil
was getting agitated at the protracted
conversation. "Yep! You get on down there an' I'll
be waitin', keepin' an ' eye on the chair."
Don
hung up the phone, went to The Shanty, told Grandma
Pat where he was going and got into his Mach I
Mustang. Of course, Grandma Pat had been as puzzled
and curious as was he about the returned chair, but
he told her he had no idea what was going on, that
he'd go help Emil get the chair home and then he'd
tell her all about it when he got home.
He
fired up the little Mustang's huge engine, smoked
the clutch as he backed up with one foot still on
the brakes, clashed the four-on-the-floor a couple
of times getting it into low and then lurched away
down the drive, out onto Joe Bald, and down the
mountain ridge toward Sleepy Hollow road and the
public dump.
"Well,"
the old man asked, "Where the heck's your green
chair, Emil?"
Emil
was sitting on the tail gate of his Chevy, smoking
the last of a hand rolled cigarette and looking
mighty glum and low.
"I
ain't got no darned idea at all!"
Don
looked all around, "You're sure it was really here
this time?"
Emil
closed one eye to the wafting smoke and growled,
"They was a chair right here, Don, big as life, an'
just as green as it was the last time it was here."
The
old man scratched behind one ear as he was
considering Emil's sanity.
"You
saw it this morning and, when we got here, it was
gone. You saw it this afternoon and, when we got
here, it was gone again. You real sure you saw it
at all?"
The
affront was smarting. "It was here the first time,
an' it was here the second time, too, Don."
"Well,
it sure as heck ain't here now, Emil, an' that's a
gut!" Don said as he plunked down on the tail gate
beside the discouraged Emil. "You're real sure..."
"Sheeeez!"
Emil moaned. "It was a nice chair, both times. I
can't imagine why it's here, then it's gone, then
it's here, then it's gone." he sighed deeply.
"Reckon
it's a ghost chair?" Don asked, with his usual
smart-mouthed sourness.
"I
reckon it's somethin', that's for sure."
"Welp,"
Don grunted, getting up, "guess I'll go home an'
tell Grandma the ghost chair's gone again."
"Yep.
I gotta go home and tell the old lady I missed
gettin' it again. I just can't figure why whoever
took it the first time brought it back."
"I
can't figure how, when it was back, someone beat us
to it so quick!" Don said, as he slid into the low
slung Mustang. "If you see it fly by again, give me
a call."
His
smart alec remark made Emil scowl sourly. "If'n I
see the durned thing on the dump again I'm gonna
get it loaded by myself, come hell ur high water!"
"Ahhhh,"
the old man said as he started the Mustang, "I's
just kiddin'. You see the chair, you call me. We'll
beat the next guy out, sure."
He
chuckled darkly to himself and eased out the
clutch. His little gold framed glasses bobbed on
his nose and ashes dribbled from his filterless
Camel as the big engine bounced the Mustang down
the dump lane.
"Emil's
halucinatin' sure as heck!" the old man snorted
with a grin as he cranked the non-power-steering
wheel around to get the car pointed down the dirt
road. "There's no way a chair's gonna appear and
disappear like that -- no way at all!"
The
next morning, just after sunrise, the telephone in
Don's front room began stridently ringing. Don
could hardly believe his ears. No one ever called
this early. Lord! It must be an emergency! He
crawled out of bed, fumbled for his leather
slippers with his wrinkled old feet and shuffled
out into the hall.
When
he reached the phone, he jerked it from its cradle
and shouted his customary "Hello!"
He
could hardly credit his hearing. It was Emil,
telling him that he had just come from the dump,
where he had had to go at first light, to look for
the Ghost Chair.
"It's
back, Don, it's back an' big as life."
"The
chair?"
"You
sure it's the same darned chair?" Don growled.
"I
might be old, but I sure as heck ain't stupid, Don.
It's the same chair that's been there twice before.
It's green, got silver flowers an' it's a recliner
-- just like it's always been when I've seen it in
the dump."
"And
you want me to get dressed and come down and help
you load it, right?"
"Yep.
You bet! I'm gonna go watch it, but I ain't gonna
touch it 'till you get here."
"Not
touch it? Why?" Don's curiosity was suddenly
peeked.
"Cause
the thing's darned spooky, that's why. I want you
here when I go up to it. I want you to see the
chair, for real, sittin' there in the dump, before
I go an' touch it." There was a long pause. "To be
honest, I'm beginnin' to doubt if I'm really seein'
the blamed thing."
Don
got dressed as rapidly as he could. This thing was
getting out of hand, he was thinking. Emil was
either crazier than a peach-orchard-boar or there
was an amazing mystery at the Sleepy Hollow dump.
He was just considering whether the occasion
warranted an early morning toddy when Grandma Pat
came wobbling from her bedroom.
"What
in the ever lovin' world are you doing up at this
hour of the morning, Don?"
"Emil's
seen the chair again. He wants me to come down to
the dump and help him load it -- again."
Grandma
Pat made a wry face. "The green chair? Isn't this
the third of fourth time he's seen it at the dump?"
"Third."
The old man said as he decided against the toddy
and made himself a tepid cup of coffee with instant
and tap water. "I'm beginning to wonder who's the
craziest, me or him. But," he gulped a little of
the insipid brew, "I'm gonna go see for myself.
This comin' and goin' chair's beginning to get my
curiosity."
Grandma
sat down at the dining room table. "What if there
isn't any green chair?"
The
old man turned to her after tossing the rest of his
coffee into the sink, "Then I'm gonna have to talk
to Emil's wife about having him put away." He
grinned hugely. The thought of telling Emil he was
going to have to be committed amused him greatly.
"Guess
I better get on down there and see what's what."
"Sure
hope there's a chair there for you two characters
to haul off." Grandma said thoughtfully, "Wouldn't
be the same around here if only you and Cecil had
each other for company."
"Ah!
It'll all work out. Maybe just have to clout Emil
on the head a couple of times to get his brain
running right again." Don chuckled as he slammed
the front door and headed for his Mustang.
This
time, as Don drove slowly up to the dump, Emil was
again sitting on the tail gate of his truck, but
this time he was grinning like a sulled possum. As
the old man shut off the rumbling engine, Emil
nodded wisely and with obvious happiness and glee.
As
the throaty exhaust died away, Don could hear him
say, "It's there, Don, right there behind you. It's
there."
Don
raised up out of the Mustang and looked over the
top. Sure enough, a bright green and silver
recliner sat tilted slightly askew upon the pile of
construction trash.
"I'll
be darned!" The Old Man gasped, "Danged if it
ain't!" And he began to ease around his car and
squint at the chair. "It ain't
disappearing."
"It's
real, by gum. Least, I THINK it is. Looks real,
don't it?"
Don stood at the edge of the debris and regarded
the solid looking Ghost Chair. "You sure it's the
same chair you saw twice before?"
Emil
had come over to join him where he stood. "You bet!
How many green chairs with silver flowers and
recliner stuff do you think there could be on
Sleepy Hollow road?"
The
old man considered this a moment and said, "Don't
suppose there'd be more than one. But, holy smoke,
where has it been going to and coming back
from?"
Emil
shook his blue capped old head, "Beats the heck out
of me, Don, but let's get busy and load it before
it disappears again."
"You
touched it yet?" Don asked hesitantly.
Emil
shrugged and twitched at his bib overalls. "Naw. I
tolt you I was gonna wait for you to get here. I
ain't really afraid of it, you see. It's just -
well - it's just kinda spooky, an' I thought it
would be better if you was here to see it. I mean,
for real an' all."
"Ummm."
The Old Man said, "Well, um, it ain't gonna load
itself. Let's go out there and see if it's a ghost
or a real chair."
The
two old men eased out across the pile of boards and
siding scraps.
"Ghost
chairs don't come around in the daytime." Emil
said, more or less to reassure himself.
"You
saw it twice in the daytime, Emil. And it
disappeared twice in the daytime didn't it?"
The
men had reached the chair and stood regarding it.
Finally, Emil could resist its attraction no
longer. He reached out a liver spotted hand and
stroked the Ghost Chair's arm.
"It's
real! Least, it feels as real as it did the first
time I touched it. Let's get it loaded. Man, is my
old lady gonna be surprised. I've told her about
the chair three times now. She thinks you an' me
been drinkin' too much. She don't even laugh no
more. She just sticks her tongue out at me and goes
on watchin' TV."
The
men wrestled the heavy chair to the edge of the
dump and up into the back of Emil's truck. They
slid it forward against the cab and, once more,
stood regarding it.
"Man,"
Emil grinned as he rolled and lit another
cigarette, "Ain't she a pretty chair?"
Don
had to agree. Except for a few dings on the wood
legs and arm ends and a few insignificant stains on
the upper back, the chair was rather nice and
attractive, in a garish silver-green way. With that
conclusion in mind, he took the wiser path for once
and simply nodded.
"I'll
follow you to your house and help you get it
in."
Emil
nodded, flipped his cigarette with a horny nail and
went to get into his truck. When he had it started
and was easing out to the road, Don climbed into
the Mach I, smoked the clutch as usual and
followed. He was wondering, as he drove along,
where in the world the chair had come from in the
first place and how in the world it kept flipping
into and out of reality as it had. Maybe, he was
thinking, we'll never know. Maybe we ought to write
it all up and send it in to one of them
believe-it-or-don't-shows. He snorted, shook his
head and followed Emil up into his driveway.
At
the dump, Dave, the proprietor of Fin and Feather
Resort, was dragging another green and silver
recliner from his little trailer towed behind his
station wagon. He lifted it in his burly arms and
carried it out to the same spot on the pile of
construction junk where he had placed the previous
three chairs.
Sitting
it down, he dusted his hands and lit a cigarette.
He grinned a broad, white toothed grin as he looked
around the scene.
"Man,"
he chuckled, "Cecil's front room must be getting
mighty crowded with these pug-ugly chairs by
now!"
He
and his wife had been refinishing their motel rooms
and replacing a lot of the furnishings, which they
had detested when they had bought the place. When
he had brought the second chair, only hours after
dropping off the first one, he was amazed to see
that the earlier one had already disappeared. So,
he had waited around, after parking his wagon and
trailer down the road out of sight, to see who was
picking up his chairs.
He
didn't know if someone would come back for the
second chair right away, but he was a born
sportsman and a fisherman. Waiting to see if
something took the bait was the name of the game.
Besides, the longer he tarried at the dump, the
less painting he would have to do when he got back
that afternoon. The timing was just right, so that
he had also missed Emil's several visits and Emil
and Don's attempt to pick up the first
chair.
Sure
enough, an hour's wait had rewarded his game stalk.
Cecil had come driving up to the dump in his old
truck and had obviously been elated to see yet
another green chair in the trash. Like Emil, and a
lot of the other retired old men on Joe Bald Road,
checking out the dump from time to time was an
acceptable and interesting pastime. A man never
knew what treasure he might uncover. The first
green recliner had been a real find, the second
constituted a true bonanza, hardly to be
credited.
Dave
watched cheerfully as Cecil, a work toughened old
farmer and railroad-tie cutter, struggled with the
chair and, eventually, got it loaded into his
truck. He kept quietly in his hidden game-stand
until Cecil was gone. Dave, though big, handsome
and brash, was a very kind and thoughtful young man
and wouldn't have offended Cecil's sensibilities
for anything in the world.
After
Cecil was gone, Dave went to his car, resolved to
get at least one more recliner to the dump before
dark. He was entranced with the game. He was going
to put out the bait and see who came to get it the
next day. Being a hunter, he should have been in
hiding by dawn, but he never guessed that he was
dealing with a whole herd of chair-animals. So, he
missed Emil and Don, who, on this, their third and
charmed time, got the Ghost Chair and took it
proudly, if totally confused, to Emil's front
room.
Later
that day, Dave put out the forth and fifth chairs.
Over the next few days, all twelve of the hated
chairs were put in the dump. Dave had been
chastened when he got home after the first long
delay, and so, had to give up the hunt and go back
to painting and fixing..
Emil
and Don, having finally grabbed the Ghost Chair,
and having settled it in Emil's front room, were
pretty well satisfied as far as chairs went. Since
they very seldom visited Cecil inside his house,
and since Cecil never thought it appropriate to
tell everyone that he picked up his new chairs at
the dump, the mystery of the Ghost Chair wasn't
solved for a number of years. Thereby, through the
many re-tellings of the tale by Don and Emil, it
became Table Rock Lake's very own, mysterious and
eerie story,
"GHOST
CHAIR, THE LEGEND OF
SLEEPY HOLLOW ROAD DUMP."
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