The Legend of Daedalus Dingle

The summer in North Idaho had drawn in a crazy concentration of newcomers to the Farm, and standing out amongst an incoming former CIA spy, a six-foot-six country thug with anger management issues, and a vegan gal with green hair, was an unassuming man by the name of Daedalus Dingle. It was the name alone that piqued curiosities, prompting everyone to ask him the tiresome question of “Is that your real name?” to which Daedalus answered a simple “Yes.”

He told George he’d just returned from a seventeen-year stint in Thailand, teaching English until the immigration people had finally caught up with him and had him deported. He said before that, in his younger years, he had led backcountry survival tours in Papua New Guinea and New Zealand. His was an amazing story, and the flophouse freshman was quickly accepted by the group.

Dade, as he preferred to be called, looked normal: around five ten, short brown hair, clean clothes, eyes white, and no missing teeth. Unremarkable in every way – a gray man, if ever there was one. George moved him into one of the small bedrooms on the Legacy side of the house, and Dade stowed some bags filled with gear in a corner of the cluttered tool shed. He was friendly and well-spoken, and during his first week at the Farm was never heard cursing or sowing disharmony in any way. He made a brief appearance at the campfire one evening, but then never again. It was understandable, because not everyone had the stomach to handle the nightly debauchery taking place there.

A community meal was announced one Sunday afternoon, causing everyone to scramble to bring an offering for supper. Dishes and bowls overflowing with food crowded the long table, and twelve people showed up with seating for eight. More chairs were dragged over from the Legacy dining room. Folks were already digging in when Dade walked in and was beckoned to join the meal. He grabbed another chair and everyone scooted down to make room for him beside George.

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