Short fiction

Escape

Bob42 — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 20:52:06 GMT

I submitted this story to a contest. I really did not expect to win but I was hopeful. I did'nt even make the short list, oh well. Any critique will be helpful. Thanks in advance.

Escape

The world can no longer offer anything to the man filled with anguish -Kant

George Davies dutifully went to work as he had done every working day for the past 20 some years in the belief that company loyalty and hard work was the best way to provide for himself and family. The clock radio was tuned to one of those automated FM radio stations that had an easy listening music format and came on each morning at 5:30. For the past two weeks it came on playing "Knock, Knock, Knockin' on Heaven's Door." Changing the station seemed pointless since he turned it off right away and trying not to disturb his still sleeping wife got up and busied himself with his mechanical get-ready-for-work routine.

The 40-minute drive to work did not seem much different than any other day; uneventful and boring except for the occasional moments of shear terror reacting to the insanity of aggressive drivers. The car radio played the same annoying commercial at the same spot in the road and the traffic was like a gathering of old friends: license LULU 2 belonged to the brunette who was always putting on the final touches in the rear-view mirror, the blue pickup with the sports bumper sticker, the sedan with a collection of baseball caps lined up across the back window.

Tracking the progress of the construction of a new building along George's usual commute offered a bit of a diversion. George thought that the site chosen for the building was a rather unusual; the narrow strip of land between the road and the river seemed more suited for a park; but then he had an affinity for parks and nature anyway. The sign in front proclaimed "Future Home of Escape." No other words were posted saying what kind of business it was. Was it a bar or perhaps a restaurant? The sign had to be some kind of marketing tease to create suspense and attract the curious when the business finally opened.

Everyday at work was a challenge to survive. The situation was going from bad to worse: the economy was in a free-fall, everyone was stressed out, on edge and suffering through yet another reorganization. Though his job had remained unchanged George had reported to four different managers in six months. He did not know how long he would last or what he would do if he got the ax. There is not much of a job market for middle-aged engineers and he could see himself at the end of the line bagging groceries at the local super market or flipping burgers in one of those nutrition impaired fast food joints.

Nine months after groundbreaking Escape was ready for its grand opening. True to the marketing strategy George's curiosity got the better of him and he decided to stop in on his way home.

Inside the entrance was a suspended display screen saying in large letters "Welcome to Escape, the Ultimate Experience in Virtual Reality." The main room had a number of booths each with a clear glass door along one wall. In several of the booths people were sitting in lounge chairs wearing helmets which appeared to be connected with a cable to the back of the chair.

Around the walls and hanging from the ceiling were numerous large video display screens showing promotionals for the various games one could experience. It reminded George of an over TVed sports bar, if that were possible.

An attendant approached George and said, "Welcome to Escape, can I help you get started with your virtual reality experience?"

Noticing the attendant's nametag George said, "Hi Bill, could you please tell me what kind of business this is?"

"This is a virtual reality center," replied Bill, "where you can play games and interact with other people in a variety of virtual environments."

"So why the special center? Can't I do this from my home computer?

"This is one of many centers around the world connected to a supercomputer by a proprietary high-speed virtual reality network called the VR Net," Bill explained.

"So this is like a video game arcade?"

"In a way yes," replied Bill, "except that you can experience everything visually in three dimensions complete with touch and feel and actually become part of the action. Would you like to give it a try?"

"Sure, why not," replied George.

Bill escorted George to one of the small rooms where he sat in the lounge chair. Bill showed him how to insert his credit card in slot provided in the arm of the chair and fitted him with the helmet and gloves. Bill explained that the helmet contained the brain computer interface sensors and a display screen in front of each eye giving George a real world like three-dimensional stereoscopic image while the tactical glove provided the ability to experience touch and feel.

The operation of the system appeared intuitive enough with menu selections for getting started, and more advanced choices for fantasy games and various virtual environments such as city life, parks and nature trails.

Taking Bill's recommendation George chose the blocks game to get started and become comfortable in the virtual world. Selecting the menu item he instantly found himself inside a small room containing a number of blocks of various geometric shapes and colors: cubes, cylinders, pyramids, etc. The head mounted screens inside the helmet displayed the room and its contents as a three dimensional binocular image. Within his field of view he could see an image of his hand. As he turned his head up and down and side-to-side he could see more blocks. With his gloved hand he could reach out and pick up a block, then move it or stack it on top of another block. Like real blocks, when the stack became unbalanced they fell down. Playing with blocks reminded him of the many happy hours he had spent with his daughter engaged in a similar activity.

Over a period of several days George tried out several of the getting started experiences. The roller coaster ride was the wildest he had ever been on. The twists and turns the coaster took defied all laws of physics and would be impossible in the real world. He could feel and react to the movement in much the same way as he had viewing one of those 360 degree or Imax movies but several times more dramatic. Bill was right, the sensations and reacting in the virtual world took some getting used to.

The fantasy games, he found, were similar to those hand held games except that instead of manipulating an on screen character with thumb activated controls you became the character and took on that characters point of view. If your character was knocked down you got a view from the floor of your attacker.

In exploring the city streets George would encounter many different individuals much like real life. In the virtual world, however, if he met someone he did not like all he had to think was "zap" or point at the zap button on the screen and the person would disappear. This also worked if the other person zapped you. In either case the person was gone. The best part was that the system remembered those he had zapped and he never had to encounter them again. What a great feature if only it was available in real life, he thought.

George tended to avoid confrontation and was untrained in the art of snark, banter, repartee and quick wits. He was one of those for whom the perfect retort did not come to him until several days after an encounter. Besides, he thought, the confrontational thrust and parry of dialogue was rather pointless, entertaining, perhaps, but decidedly pointless.

The virtual environments included the ability to experience history such as Biblical, medieval, and Roman culture or future worlds right out of Star Wars. The stressful adrenaline pumping fight or flight feelings in those eras was not something that George was comfortable with.

Choosing the placid nature trails George found himself on a tree lined path complete with the pleasing sounds of songbirds. Approaching a bridge he noticed a woman looking into the water below. She appeared to be middle aged, fit and trim with blond hair.

"Hi," George said and uncharacteristically introduced himself.

"Hi, I'm Paula."

So far so good, George thought, she didn't zap me, yet anyway.

"You ever see fish having sex?" she asked.

"Can't say that I have."

Looking down George saw two fish side-by-side. The female was laying eggs in the sand while the male fertilized them.

"Amazing, isn't it? Especially considering that this is only a virtual experience."

"Yes," George replied.

"Where are you from?" George asked.

"I live in Minneapolis."

"I am in Pittsburgh." George offered. "Do you come hear often?"

"As often as I can. I find the trail relaxing and there is always something new to see and experience."

A younger appearing man approached them on the bridge.

"Hi, Mark. Good to see you," Paula said. "Mark has been helping me get used to the virtual world."

"Sort of a virtual coach," George offered.

"You might say that. Mark used to come into the system from an Escape center in Houston but now he is part of the system."

"Part of the system?" George asked.

"Let me explain, "Mark said. "You see there are outside or telepresence people like you two. People who go to Escape centers in the real world and connect into the VR-Net. Then there are people like me who have made the transition to become an inside person."

"Inside person?" George asked making a quizzical facial expression not knowing if it was communicated into the virtual world.

"For inside people or IPs as we are called the virtual world is our life, so to speak, and we are dead in the real world. As you can tell we don't act or look any different we just don't have to get up and deal with the real world anymore."

"Speaking of the real world I'm afraid that I have to go take care of some business. It was nice meeting you both. Hope to see you again." George said as he pulled his credit card out of the slot and disconnected from the system. Actually he was quite taken aback and needed some time to process what he just heard.

George had book marked the nature trail location where he had met Paula and Mark. Over the next couple of months he returned to the spot to meet up with Paula. The two of them shared the joy of exploring the virtual trails and becoming familiar with other experiences that were available in the system. He even met up with Mark who explained how the transition into an IP took place.

It was a typical February day in Pittsburgh; cold and gloomy. The phone rang on George's desk. He could tell from the caller ID that it was his manager. He picked up the handset and identified himself anyway in his best customer service voice.

"George, do you have a minute?" He sensed immediately that something bad was about to happen. It always does when a manager asks you if you have a minute.

"Yes," he replied knowing that it was the only possible answer.

"Could you please come to our conference room?"

Entering the room he saw his manager du jour, Susan from Human Resources and Mike from Security already seated around the large conference table.

"Please sit down." Barbara said. "You know Susan and Mike?"

"Morning, " George said as he took his seat.

"I am afraid that I have some bad news," Barbara said and then went on rehashing the recent difficulties and company restructuring as if it was some kind of excuse or something that she needed to apologize for. He reengaged when she got to the part "so it has been decided to let you go. Mike will accompany you to your desk for you to collect your personal items and escort you out of the building. Do you have any questions?"

"No," he said knowing that any inquiry or discussion would be pointless and he wanted to at least maintain some semblance of professional dignity. What got his blood pressure up more than anything was the thought that all the time he was doing his job and carrying out managements' directives that same management was scheming to get rid of him. All he could think about was how all he had worked for was for nothing. Perhaps his only hope was to escape with Paula.

Not really having any place to go he went to Escape and logged in.

"Hi George," Paula said as she came into view on their now familiar trail, "mind if I join you?"

"No of course not, I was hoping we would meet today. I missed seeing you the past few days."

After they walked a short distance Paula said, "George, I have something to tell you."

"For the past few months I have been an outside person like you. I would come to Escape to find some relief through the distraction of the virtual experience. You see, for the past few years I have been suffering with ovarian cancer and was told last week that there was nothing more that could be done. I was terminal and in a great deal of pain. So I decided to make the transition to become a virtual person. I am now inside and it is wonderful."

"Wow! I don't know whether to say I'm sorry or congratulations. I guess I'm sorry for your suffering but at the same time I'm happy that you are now free."

"Thanks," Paula said.

"But what about your family?" George asked.

"They think that I was so despondent over my condition that I committed suicide. I will send them an e-mail in a few days letting them know that I am okay and in a better place."

George had so many questions, "You can do that? Won't they be confused?

"Yes, that is the beauty of being a virtual person. You are still your own person and you can still communicate, like we do and through e-mail, but without the baggage of a broken body or the demands of the material world. Sure they will be confused but they will get used to it."

And then it struck him. Why didn't he think of this before? "So you are now immortal?" George asked.

"Yes. Remember what Mark told us. We become a collection of data representing who we are: our thoughts, memories, values, beliefs, likes and dislikes, our very soul," Paula replied, "as long as the system is maintained in the outside we will be alive, so to speak, on the inside."

As George pondered Paula's situation and how it paled in comparison to his he shared with her his job loss experience. "I don't know what to do. I feel like such a failure: my family life is over, my wife and I have grown indifferent toward each other and I dread the thoughts of going home, I can't sleep, I am up to my ears in debt and my house is up for foreclosure. I feel like I can't go on any more."

"Why don't you come inside with me?" Paula asked.

In the back of his mind George was aware that Escape had become an addiction; an addiction whose expense had exacerbated his financial situation; an addiction from which there appeared to be no escape.

Feeling frustrated George replied, "I don't know. How do I know if this is for real, that you are for real and not just an image without the real world history you just told me about?"

"Check it out George." Paula said. "Look up the obits in the Minneapolis Herald for February 26^th. You will find an entry for Paula Williamson."

Later that day George went to the on-line obituaries and sure enough there she was. Paula Williamson, age 64, she sure didn't look 64 he thought, died of an apparent suicide after a long illness. The obit went on - she is survived by her husband, a son, a daughter and three grandchildren.

George was found in his car parked in a roadside pullover overlooking the river. The authorities said that he had apparently died of a drug overdose.

"Welcome to the new world," Paula said as they gazed into the water below watching the newly hatched fish. "Imagine that, new life in a virtual world."

The Old Chair by JB Everett

jb92804 — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 05:06:09 GMT

Wrote this after my grandma died. Would like to hear what others think.

"Are you ready John?" his wife asked.

"Yes just a minute," he replied.

John looked around the room where is mother had spent her last few years. It was an old hospital converted into a nursing home. There were two twin beds and a curtain that could be drawn down the center of the room for privacy. On his mother's side there were pictures on the wall of family and religious leaders. There was a night stand with a few precious knickknacks. In the corner there was an old rocking chair, one of the items allowed to stay with his mother in the nursing home. She wouldn't have gone without that old chair it was a link to the past that she could hold onto. When she sat in her chair she would rock forward and back for hours and she was able to lift the fog of Alzheimer's. Mary could talk about her entire life without forgetting a thing when she sat in her chair. Now she was gone and her old chair remained.

John walked out the room and stopped at the nurse's desk to tell them when he would return to collect the rest of his mother's things. John left the nursing home and as his wife quietly drove home, John looked out the window thinking about that old chair and his mother sitting in it telling stories.

Mary, John's mother, received the chair when she was married to her husband William forty two years ago. William was a handsome man, tall with jet black hair, blue eyes, and broad shoulders. Mary had taken to him as soon as she met him. William had moved from the city to help his grandparents on their farm. He didn't know much about farming and Mary was always there to help him when he didn't know what he was doing. They grew together and inevitably they married.

The rocking chair was a wedding gift from Mary's grandfather. He built the chair for Mary using the finest wood he could find. He had to make a special trip to a town fifty miles away to get the wood and supplies he needed. He worked for weeks on that chair, cutting a shaping the rockers and turning the spindles for the legs, arms and back. He was an experienced wood worker, most of the houses in the area had been touched by his talent and he was well known for his craftsmanship. His granddaughter's gift however was very special. He made sure that the chair rocked perfectly, no wobble or bumps it felt like gliding on air. He made the legs, seat, arms and back sturdy so it would last many years. He carved tall granite peaks that towered over a large meadow where elk grazed next to a stream into the head rest of the chair. The scene was not just any mountain or meadow; it was the place that Mary had spent many summers camping with her grandfather and the rest of the family. He knew that Mary may move away or at least become too busy to go to the mountains every year. He carved the scene just as they both would remember so where ever she went or for however long she was gone she would have that place with her always.

The day of Mary's wedding was a warm fall day in October. She and her husband William were married in a grove of aspens on her grandfather's farm. Golden and deep red leaves on all the trees. Mary's grandfather had constructed a gazebo at the end of a small clearing in the middle of the grove. The gazebo was built with knotty pine that he had collected throughout the summer. Four pillars held up an open roof of vines that formed a dome. There were dried and fresh flowers woven into the vines wound down the pillars to the ground.

After the ceremony friends and family enjoyed a dance and dinner in the large barn. Mary's grandfather had moved the animals out the day before and he and William and some of the other neighbors cleaned the barn and prepared the floor and set up a make shift stage and tables using straw bales and planks. After they were done the women took over. Mary's mother, grandmother, and sisters made the old barn look very festive. They hung fresh and dried flowers on the posts in the barn and hung colorful quilts behind the stage area where the local musical talent would play. The dinner was lovely and the night was long. Mary and William where congratulated throughout the night and they danced and sang.

Towards the end of the night Mary's grandfather announced he had something for Mary. He sat Mary down and told her to close her eyes. He and William went and retrieved the rocking chair. Mary's grandfather had covered it in a blanket to hide for a short time the full beauty of it from the others. He and William set the chair down in front of Mary and her grandfather pulled off the blanket and told her open her eyes. Mary opened her eyes and she saw the wonderful gift that her grandfather spent hours making for her. She reached out and ran her hands along the arms to the seat. They where smooth as silk. She saw the back and the carving of the mountain scene and tears began to build in her eyes. Her grandfather pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to Mary.

"It's beautiful grandpa," Mary said drying her eyes.

"I made it for you relax in and rock my great grandchildren in Mary," Her grandfather said.

"You must have spent hours on it," Mary said.

"It was worth every minute Mary," He replied.

"The carving on the back is perfect."

"Now where ever you go Mary, whatever you do, you will have a part of me and the mountains we love with you always," He said.

By this time there was not a dry eye in the room. William told the band to play and suggested that Mary and her grandfather have the next dance. Mary and her grandfather danced in the center of the floor while the others watched.

Mary leaned and put her head on his shoulder and said, "Thank you for the chair and for the day everything is perfect grandpa I love you."

"I love you to Mary," He replied.

The years past and the rocking chair that Mary's grandfather had crafted with love and care stood the test of time. It saw many moves from to the city to the country and back again. It helped Mary sooth to sleep her children. The chair held up during the war, all of the nervous rocking waiting for William to return home. The chair was there to comfort Mary when William left her for the last time. He would not return but he would be waiting for her though, on the other side.

The chair went with her to the nursing home to see her though the long hours of constant rocking. John often wondered if she was marking time, reliving her life in her head, waiting to rejoin William on the other side. Finally Mary's time did come. Mary had rejoined William on the other side and now the chair belonged to john.

The old chair found itself in John's garage. John had put it there not knowing what to do with it. It had stood the test of time well but it did have a few signs of wear. One of the support spindles on the bottom hand come loose and rocking in the chair was no longer smooth and maybe dangerous if done too long. The arms had become loose also, they would need some attention.

The chair sat in John's garage forgotten until one day John knew what he was going to do with it. John would come home from work every night and work on the chair for a few hours. John had a deadline and he was going to finish. He refinished the chair and returned the chair to its original beauty. Then the day came for the chair to begin its new life.

John's daughter, Emily, had told him six months earlier that she was going to get married. Today was the day that John's daughter was going to begin her new life and his mother's old chair was going find a new home.

John and Jacob, Emily's new husband brought out the chair covered with a blanket. Emily's eyes were closed as she sat waiting.

John pulled off the blanket and said, "Open your eyes Emily."

Not a dry eye in the room.

The Tree

cdmaum — Mon, 14 Nov 2005 23:25:46 GMT

I'm thinking of entering this in the WD short short story contest. What do you think about it?

THE TREE

My grandmother will die today. I stand outside and look up at the giant old oak tree in the front drive and I remember how I used to play beneath its branches. I remember the old clapboard house with the porch along the front where my grandparents would sit each evening to watch me play. I remember the plum trees and how I used to eat all the green plums each year (Papaw never seemed to have enough red ones for Mamaw to make jelly). And I remember the shed out back where my cousins and I tried to dig our way to China one summer.

Every memory of my childhood derives its origin from that old place. I lived there with my mom, my brother and sister and my grandparents. All of my aunts and uncles and cousins were close by. There was always someone there to talk to or play with. My grandmother would tell us stories about her childhood and my grandfather would sneak us a piece of “Three Musketeers” candy when no one was looking (there were so many of us he’d cut them up into tiny little bite-size pieces so we’d each have a taste). And my cousins and I would spend our time outside beneath the branches of this old oak tree.

For years this tree stood guard on the little house and its occupants. It never once betrayed us during a storm. Never did we worry that it would crack or break as we went about our daily lives. It was strong and sure and always there; rooted deep, its branches reaching to the sky.

It’s my grandmother’s face I see as I stand beneath the tree, tears making their way down my cheeks to drip onto the roots. Like the oak tree, my grandmother stands tall and strong in my memories. Sitting on the porch beneath the tree, her family surrounding her, she would shell peas or beans from the garden. She would scold me when I needed it and encourage me when I felt down.

It’s good to be allowed to say good-bye. When my grandfather died it was sudden and quick and I couldn’t be there. I learned about his death in the middle of the night after it was over. We all expected him to live forever and with him gone this old place was never the same. But my grandmother remained. She was still here and I knew that there was always a place for me to go when I felt down. There was always a place where I could find the encouragement I needed to make my way in the world.

Now so much has changed. The house is gone that stood beneath this old tree. In its place is a trailer, moved there by my aunt and uncle who came to take care of my grandmother. I’m told the old tree is to come down soon, too. There will be nothing left now, but my memories. Memories of a love between two people so strong it continued after my grandfather’s death. Memories of a family where nothing you could have done would have made their love any less. Memories of a childhood rich in knowing someone would always be there to pick you up when you’d fallen.

As I walk back inside to face the reality that she’s gone from me forever, I feel the tears falling. I will miss her. I’ll miss this old place. But I will always remember what she’s given me. The knowledge I needed to form a strong family bond with my own children, the strength I need to make my way in this world, and a gentle love I’ll always be able to hold in my heart.

The family is gathered around her as I make my way to my mother’s side. I think she will be the most affected by my grandmother’s death. She is the only girl out of 15 children born to this family. She was always so close to her mother, as girls usually are. I know they shared a special bond and I will do what I can to help her through this tragedy.

We have all spent the past week taking turns at her side. My mother and I never left. I knew when I received the call that this would be a chance for me to repay her in some small way for all she’s done for me over the years. I bathed her. I held her hand. I talked to her. I took what little sleep I needed by her side. And now the time has come. I take my mother’s hand and we both watch as she takes her last breath.

The grief is overwhelming. I know that she is in a better place, but I still want her here with me. I kneel at my mother’s feet in the chair she has taken, holding her in my arms as she cries. I feel her tears mingling with mine. There is weeping all around us.

My mother dries her tears and rises from her seat. I rise with her and accompany her as she begins to make preparations for the funeral. Others must be notified and her final resting place must be made ready. My mother and uncles choose a simple, beautiful dark wood coffin with white satin lining. The body has been taken to be prepared. No one will sleep tonight; we’ll all sit around reminiscing about our favorite memories. Mine are many and I will share them gladly.

When my mother finally lays down to rest I sit with my own thoughts to keep me comfort. I pull out an old box of photographs from beneath my grandmother’s bed and fall back to days gone by. Here’s one of my mother when she was very young. And here’s another of my grandfather in the garden. A black and white of my mother holding me as a baby and several more of my brother and sister and me when we were small, my cousins, my aunts and uncles, and some I don’t remember; all have been carefully kept in this box.

My mother has asked me to read a poem at the funeral. It seems everyone agrees that I’m the logical choice for I’m the one who is forever telling my tales to any who will read what I’ve written. This will be a difficult task for me, but something I will gladly do.

I fall asleep in a chair and though it does not offer much in the way of comfort, I sleep fitfully on and off most of the night. When I awake I know that I must begin to say good-bye and I put off the task as long as possible. But soon the noises pull me from my slumber and I rise to face the new day. My mother is already up and probably has been for some time. Relatives are arriving from far and near to pay their respects to the woman who filled all our lives with so much.

I dress carefully; my grandmother always liked for us to look our best. It’s time to leave for the funeral, but I must find a florist before I can enter the little church. I want to lay a rose in the coffin for her to take with her. Her favorite rose is purple, but they are rare as she was a rare woman, so they’re not available here in this small town. I must settle for a deep red.

As I enter the church I walk down the aisle toward the altar where she is laid so peacefully upon the satin pillows. She looks as if she sleeps, dreaming of my grandfather and the wonderful life they had together. I lay the rose in her arms and a single tear falls to settle on the pillow next to her. I whisper “good-bye” softly in her ear and turn toward my seat.

The church is filled with family and friends. The service begins and I feel the tears begin to course down my cheeks. I thought I had cried all I could, but more seemed to be stored, ready to fall. When it is time I make my way to the pulpit and slowly read the poem.

I begin to cry midway through, but I stumble on and feel her presence as I finish. I know in that moment that she will always be with me. When the funeral is over I stand again beneath the branches of the old oak tree and run my hands over its rough bark. I know this is the last time I will see this old friend as well. But now when I look into the branches high above my head I realize that no matter where I go, I will always have the strength that my memories provide.

The Unheard Warning

CrimsonBlue — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 02:21:27 GMT

First, thanks to anyone that would take time to read this story. Additional thanks for any comments.

This is an experiment for me to write this way, and I am using, I hope, some effective techniques of time and scene movement. There are minimalist ‘description' passages, only used when I want the readers tucked away where I need them to be. Some lines are intentionally jarring for this purpose as well. Hopefully this is not annoying. Comments on predictability, imagery, confusion, being boring etc. are all welcomed.

Formatted to work with this forum software.

The Unheard Warning

"They'll learn you to kill real good and get you shiny trinkets for your efforts."

My father's last words before the door closed on our relationship years ago. We rarely spoke since. But he was right; they awarded me for my scars. I'm not sure why I thought of him as I read the pink notice taped to my locker. My last name first, followed by THOMAS all capitalized in faded, machine printed ink regretfully informing of my termination.

The guys were quiet when I walked in. They knew. It wasn't the first time we've seen it. The sting would always come at shift's end, an unlucky man finding thanks for his dues with a pink. When I saw it I hoped that I was standing far enough away that I only thought it was my locker. When I came close my sight held the condemning slip centered-it was my box.

"Will it be worth it when you're dead, Tommy? Or maybe crippled? Maybe you'll never walk again like your uncle?"

My father carried his own scars from a thankless war and was angry when I told him. He hated my decision and mom always agreed with dad.

I tore the small document from my locker, folded it as if it were precious and thought of the medals. I carried a false pride towards them. They were kept hidden in a closet and I haven't seen them since we moved into the house. Was it three years now? Money was good and I promised her a home. The backyard was wide enough and our dogs could reach full speed, the kids laughing as they played with a pile of toys on the patio.

"I love it so much," she smiled. "You sure we can afford this?"

We could. I had made work my atonement. I would provide. I would prove that my wounds would not decide my life. But this was an issue of downsizing and I lacked seniority. There was nothing I could do. Pinks were final.

The evening was cold with a breeze scented by frozen asphalt and truck exhaust. My hands felt numb as I closed my car trunk with my few locker items packed away. Lit just enough by the orange lamps above, I saw myself as an indistinct reflection in the rear windshield.

Can you keep this life for them? But the image said nothing. We'll have to move? Maybe. This kind of money anywhere else? No. Not for someone like you. I promised her and she believed me. A hero lover, she had said yes when I asked. But she loved a liar and the paper in my pocket burned as another reminder.

On the drive home I veered, finding myself idle in the parking lot of a bar listening to the motor running. Those familiar feelings again. Was this somehow my fault, too?

The noise of my car engine was being replaced by the sound of an engine echoed from another life, before I had conceived of any fragile place as home.

As we slowed to a stop the heavy diesel hummed in heavy chugs that almost pleaded for us to keep going, to stay in motion and drive away from those streets. That was the thing about night patrols. If you kept moving the warm desert breezes and vast, star sprinkled skies eased you along, dulling your senses, relaxing your readiness and you could find yourself forgetting where you really were. Sometimes it was wonderful, assuming you avoided getting killed.

That part of the city was like the rest-flat roofed boxes. The lines of cubed structures were layered like weaved baskets, oppressively crowding in upon you, the claustrophobic roads cut between the buildings like carvings on temple walls. The plaster, stone and brick were the colors of burnt mud and ashy sand in the sunlight but twisted in the nightly blackness to shades of midnight blue and violet, shimmering and pulsating like ocean tides as we sped past in armored transport.

Windows, low walls and blind corners were menacing promises. Things that waited were made worse by the concealing shadows. It could be this one or maybe that one? Never could be sure.

"We don't need to check," Sammy complained nervously. "Don't feel right, anyway. Hell with this, man, running into them boogie dark alleys like that." Eighteen, his enthusiasm was as limited as the degree of his regretted enlistment. I guess it was expected because his brother had joined two years before, but Sammy had been homeward bound in heart and mind the moment his boots hit the sandbox.

"We don't ignore suspicious activity." My command had sat on my shoulders barely a week so I didn't have full force in my orders, nearly arguing with the guys, uncertain in what I wanted, letting sir slide unused, still a friend just as apprehensive, not a higher rank leading.

"I'm with Sam on this one," Tony agreed. Shorter than me by a head, his body was stocky and powerful. His face was a broad sweep of pudgy cheeks and bold forehead ridges that displayed his unease clearly in the moonlight, a sliver of sheared bone glowing in the sky.

"Don't you girls worry," I said with mock confidence. "I promise we'll just take a peek and come back before Sammy wets himself." There was an unconvinced laugh.

Three empty shot glasses stared at me, their molten contents swallowed in rapid succession. The tension in my shoulders was melting and the glaze settled into my eyes, but even with the alcohol fumes buzzing through my head I could not stop the thoughts that came. I could still smell the chemical stench of burnt powder; see vividly the blinding flashes of yellow and orange, hear the brutal sounds of gunfire in cramped stone rooms. I said it was nothing, don't worry. But it was something. Just like that pink was something. How would I tell her? She would try to reassure me but it would only be comfort for her.

"He's hit, man, they got him! He's bleeding to death!"

I found out later that the boy's rifle was an ancient relic from some Twentieth Century war. That it fired was a small wonder and it was probably a fluke that it had taken Sammy in the throat.

"Come out now," we barked the commands in rage, our fists tightened on the solutions of our rifles. We couldn't understand what was shouted from inside. The phrases we were taught in the native tongue became hard to recall, the pronunciations wavering like smoke from a gun barrel. We only knew confusion and anger.

Another three joined us from the squad and I gave the entry order and we breached the house.

It was nearly lightless, the human shapes inside running for unseen escape, our words over lapped, incomprehensible, chaos, and then someone fired-then we all did. The central room was engulfed in hypnotic brilliance, the world visible then hidden, the horrific scene played in slow motion strobe lighting, our bullets destroying meager possessions and ripping away the walls in chunks.

My arms vibrated from assault rifle recoil. Screams. A woman heard through the ringing in my ears. Afraid, I went forward leading a sweep the best I knew how.

"Cleared" called a furious voice and "secured" came another. I think I had half a magazine, quickly moving to a hallway off the rear of the main room, the walls the faint shade of scorched steel from the moon bleeding through an arched window above.

She lay upon the ground struggling with a body that would not respond to the pleas of her brain. Her pooled blood was a void as black as the anger in our hearts. Her face was obscured but her eyes absorbed enough of the moon. The cries slowly ceased. I knew she saw me.

I still don't know why, but I choked, helpless. I could only stare at her crumpled form on the ground. I'd seen death, the dying, but for some reason she stopped me.

I did not secure the hallway. I never heard the voice or the threat. I didn't see the weapon. I barely realized Tony had appeared next to me. Then I moved, going for the woman, and I stepped in front of Tony at the moment just before the deafening roar.

It was like being smashed in the chest with a hammer, the impact moving outward to my shoulders and stomach. Shock and pain, I screamed, falling backward into Tony, pushing him from the hall and I looked past the woman to the boy. We stared at each other, his shouts distant and slowed. We were the same, two boys afraid, but I raised my rifle...

"I haven't seen a man looking that way in a long time," the stranger said in a deep, strangely pitched voice. "You okay there, buddy?" He tossed his gloves on the bar and looked to the bartender who recognized him.

"Excuse me? You mean me?"

"You okay," he asked again. He spoke as if ignoring my question.

"Yeah, I'm fine" I mumbled from between the empty glasses that increased to five or six.

"Could be worse, right?" He smiled, lifting a fresh double scotch. "Name's Perry. You?"

"Tom," I slurred.

"Have to say it right at me, friend. Lost most my hearing in the war."

"Tom," I said again. His face had two large, gruesome scars crisscrossed from cheek to forehead. His gaze was direct with an intensity I turned away from.

"You remind me of an old friend, Joshua Riley. He'd been hurt real bad in the war. Explosion. Last I saw him he had the same look you got right now."

I wanted to be alone but I stayed restrained, polite.

"It's the face that gives us away," he snorted over his drink. "A person confesses everything through an unguarded face."

I tried to let him know I wasn't interested in talking but my words were pointless. He wasn't looking.

"Josh lost his legs and an arm." He crunched on a piece of ice. "That's usually enough, but he lived."

"Excuse me, sir," getting his attention. "I don't much feel like hearing stories right now, okay?" He nodded and stood to move away.

As he went:

"I'm sorry. It's just, you remind me of him. Josh used to say that the lucky ones were killed. Said they were spared. I almost believed that, too."

He walked with a practiced limp and I looked away, swallowed another shot, the burn smooth, but it wasn't making me drift into the oblivion I wanted. With my head clutched in my hands I began hearing the voices I had failed to confess to.

"He saved my life! His tall ass slammed me back and took that round for me, right where my head was sure as hell. He saved me!"

"You never listened, did you, son?"

"We award this..."

"I love you so much...yes, yes I will..."

"God deliver this man..."

And now: "I almost believed him..."

The man was quietly drinking and watching the blurry television above the bar.

Drunker than I realized, I wobbled toward the stranger. He turned to me.

"Sorry about that."

"It's okay," he shrugged. "It wasn't my place to say that to someone I don't know."

We spoke for awhile, the empty drinks building.

His name was Perry Mann. He had enlisted with a future of honor and pride in mind. On the day he earned his scars it was beautiful. He remembered the sky was achingly blue with wisps of milky clouds, an unfair contrast to the ugliness below where the wreckage of failed progress lay burning in the sand; the smoke, the flame, the distant concussions of combat and the tangible fear of streets dangerously empty-these were still the places of his nightmares.

"Sometimes the worst thing to come from a wound is guilt; even if you survived, it can kill you later. That's what got Josh. He blamed himself," Perry said drunkenly, coming around to his original story.

"That explosion wasn't his fault, though. Wasn't the driver, either. It's just the way the war was. We all had to pay a certain price." He was seeing that distant time.

"So young and foolish, you know? Very proud. And it all made sense. You remember those skies? And the damn thing was casually hidden. Real clever. A speck on the ground compared to those skies. We always expected of course, but who's sure? No one is. It was our time."

I had nothing to say.

"It cut through us like a welding torch. Killed one there and another in the hospital. Two lived, though. One was Josh." He looked down at his drink, then back at me.

"The other was me."

I nodded.

"But at least I can walk, right? Hell, if it hadn't been us it would've been someone else. I was on the other side. It took most of my hearing and I had to learn to walk again. But I make out okay. I'm still alive, right? We're alive. But I'm telling you, Tom, I only spoke to you because I've seen that look you got. I've seen that hurt before."

Perry leaned his head closer to me sincerely.

"I'm not sure what you're saying."

"No? You sure?"

I said nothing.

"The blast didn't kill him, but when I last saw him in the hospital I could tell. It was the face. He wasn't there anymore. Who can blame him, right?" He traced his thumb along the rim of his glass.

"He was messed up plenty but that's not all of it. I wanted to believe he was justified by his wounds, but I just couldn't."

"Why?"

"Because it wasn't that simple. I know he'd lost everything he was, that his life would never be the same, much worse than mine. And when I heard he died I wasn't surprised. They gave some medical reason and maybe that's true, but I think it was because he couldn't let go of the blame. That guilt pulled him down into some place he never came back from and he let himself die inside. The rest just sort of, you know, followed along."

He faded from the story and we spoke about very little beyond empty remarks about the games on the televisions. We sat together, but apart, listening to our own silent stories, our own wordless justifications.

It was late when we got up to leave. I dropped a few bills for the bartender and followed Perry outside. It was much colder. Shivering, I put my hands into my pockets. It was like grabbing a smoldering coal when I touched the folded termination notice. I'd forgotten.

Too drunk to drive but close enough to walk, I'd return for my car in the morning. Perry didn't drive so he would walk with me.

"It's okay. It's sort of on the way."

"Sort of?"

"Close enough," he smiled.

We had gone two blocks when my last drink decided it wanted out immediately. I tapped Perry on the shoulder. I motioned what I had to do, unsure if he would be able to read my lips.

"Don't let it freeze off."

I stepped into an alley, closed my eyes and leaned my head back. A rush of blood and I was dizzy. Almost falling, I caught myself against the wall. Lightheaded and drunk I looked at the puddle spreading upon the ground.

The flashback came with uncontrollable force, paralyzing, suffocating; before I could regain control I was as a ghost watching the images of my past.

Her hand was reaching for something it couldn't find, and then it lay still in the spreading puddle of blood. I wanted to do something, I had to try, even if it was worthless, but as I stepped in front of Tony a piercing thunder erased all silence. I was hit near the shoulder just beyond the lining of my body armor. My breath burst from my lungs and I stumbled into Tony, shoving him from the hallway. The boy stood at the end of the hall and we looked at each other, a moment of time frozen within a crystallized shard. Was she his mother? Sister? Had my shots killed her? I raised my rifle by instinct, but he did not move. Watching. Was there nothing left to fight for? Was there no reason to care? Was his hatred a creation of my sole actions? I squeezed and his chest exploded as my bullets ripped through him.

When it was later sorted we discovered the boy had been a student, sixteen years old, dodging curfew patrols on his way home from friends. We only happened upon him. A few seconds different and we wouldn't have seen him, never followed, and none of it would have happened. When we rolled on his house the boy had panicked, grabbed an heirloom gun and tried to be a man protecting his family. We forced him to make that choice.

Was the war still enough for me? I've used that for so long but I wasn't sure anymore. I had lied to those men, to my family, my wife, my children. To myself. I sat through funerals and ceremonies, quietly accepting what they said about me; brave, noble, a hero, but I never admitted the truth-I had failed.

Perry must have thought I was sick by the way I was doubled over against the wall. He laughed, said something I couldn't understand, and I fought to regain myself.

"Get it together, man, come on!" He encouraged me to come out but I was stuck against the wall. I was choking. Perry came closer and he changed from humor to a gentle sympathy. He smiled understandingly and came to help me.

Perry took my arm firmly, helping me to stand upright upon a drunken, broken heart. I looked at his face, a vision of mercy, but I could not embrace it, and my tears came, the last bits of my silence conquered by regret.

"You're wrong, you don't know. You can't, you can't see it, that I'm so afraid. I lied. It wasn't me. I failed them. I never did it, it wasn't true. I lied to everyone and I lied to you! I can't do this!"

Then I realized that we were beyond the reach of the street lights, my mouth lost in shadow. I tried to move toward the street, my eyes wet with shame as much as sadness. As I struggled forward he raised his hand to my face, finger tips on my forehead. I stood still. Then he guided me from the darkness, helping me to get back home.

Desperation

Farson — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 17:43:13 GMT

Warning- This story contains some gore/censored swearing, those easily offended should venture no further. Any feedback would be great.

His sleep was uneasy, his nightmares were vivid and his body was drenched in sweat. The bitter cold of the winter frost did nothing to cool him down; he was sick, very sick. It had probably come from drinking from that river a few days before, it hadn't looked clean, but he had become so thirsty by that point that he hadn't cared. He would have drunk irradiated p*** if he had been offered it.

He coughed in his sleep, his chest burned whenever he did, but he couldn't stop. He had never been sick like this, he was no doctor, but whatever it was he knew it was bad. A particularly painful cough woke him from his slumber; he coughed again, and again. He covered his mouth and clenched his other hand into a fist, causing his nails to bite into the flesh; he didn't even notice. He remained there, curled up into a ball coughing his lungs out for what seemed like forever until finally it stopped. Sweat dripped from his face as he gasped for breath, his chest felt like it was on fire. His hand felt wet, in the dim moonlight he could see that it was stained a dark crimson, he had been coughing up blood.

"S***..." He muttered to himself, it was the first time he had spoken aloud in weeks. His voice had an unfamiliar, gravelly tone that made him cringe.

He pulled himself to his feet, shaking as he did so. His whole body ached, as if he had just taken a severe beating. A bolt of pain tore through his left leg as he put weight on it, causing him to fall back to the ground. He grunted in pain as he gently rubbed his ankle, the crude bandages he had made were coming apart. He wasn't sure how the bandages were supposed to help, but people in movies always used torn clothes to bandage themselves whenever they were hurt, so that's he did. He got to his feet again, resting on a battered crutch he had found several weeks earlier, he had planned originally to use it as a last resort weapon, but he had since developed a more traditional need for it. He was able to maintain his balance this time and made his way through the trees, towards the small town nearby.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He moved slowly and carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible. His bag was hung over his right shoulder, it weighed almost nothing, the thing was practically empty. He had been forced to seek out new supplies to remedy that. In his right hand he held a pistol that he had taken from the body of a cop. He only had three bullets left and was a poor shot, but it was better than nothing. He could see the outskirts of the town through the thicket, it was very small and had a population of perhaps less than a hundred people before the outbreak. It was more likely than not that the place was emptied of life by now, like a grim memorial of the world that once was.

Regardless of the odds, he took his time. He had survived this long, so he liked to think, because he was careful. He was wrong in this belief however, he had survived this long out of simple luck, and luck can only save a man for so long.

He crept around the first building, keeping his head low and listening for any sounds of movement. The town was a very standard, simple country town. A collection of rustic houses, a small grocery store and a decrepit gas station made it indistinguishable from countless other towns around the country. Some of the houses had windows boarded up from the inside; several of them had burned down, but those weren't the ones that bothered him. A small house directly across from him had once had boarded up windows, but the boards had been torn away and flung to the ground. The front door had been smashed aside, probably by several assailants, and was covered in blood. A rotting body lay just outside the door, the corpses' face had been destroyed by a shotgun blast, whoever had been in there had gone down fighting.

He made his way towards the grocery store, praying that that was still something in there worth taking. As he made his way through the empty street his eyes kept turning back towards the blood-soaked house, he felt drawn to it, as if it was calling him. He shook it off and made his way to the grocery store. The place was empty, both of people and supplies; it had been picked clean, most likely by people who were now dead. He methodically looked up and down every single isle, and there was nothing of any use. Had he been in desperate need of toilet cleaner than he would have been pleased, but he wasn't. He tried not to be too upset but he couldn't help himself, there wouldn't be another town for miles and with his leg it could take him weeks to reach it.

He shuffled out of the store, his bag still weightless, mocking him. The town remained still and silent as he had his way past the blood soaked house. He stopped outside the door, unable to stop himself peering in. All of his experience told him that going inside was a bad idea, but he stepped over the corpse outside and entered anyway. Afterall, he reasoned with himself, there could be supplies inside. There was more blood inside, the place was soaked in it, more than one person had died in here yet there were no bodies.

The place stank, it smelled like rotten flesh and s***, yet as he looked around he still couldn't see anything. They must have left already, probably in search of surviving humans. He wasn't sure if the things were really human or not, but he had seen enough of them to know that it didn't matter, if they got him that was it. Game over.

He didn't get the chance to explore much of the house. He heard a creak upstairs and froze. He remained absolutely still and listened for any further sounds, after what seemed like an eternity he began backing out of the house. He was paying any attention to his crutch; he was so focussed on listening for any sounds up the stairs. His crutch slid on the carpet and he fell to the ground, crying out in pain and surprise. Less than a second later his scream was met by a second scream from up the stairs, and another, and another from somewhere behind him in the town.

The pain in his ankle was worse than anything he had ever experienced, even worse than when he snapped it. His leg felt like he was on fire, yet he forced himself to ignore the pain, adrenaline was flowing through his body and his instincts took over.

He tried to force himself to his feet as frantic footsteps tore down the stairs. He shakily raised his pistol as the shape bolted towards him and pulled the trigger as rapidly as he could. The first shot flew wide, blowing a small hole into the wall. The second was closer, hitting it in the shoulder, slowing it down for a crucial moment. The third bullet was a direct hit to the creature's skull and it fell limply to the ground.

He backed quickly out of the house, abandoning his now useless pistol and trying to get back to his feet. Another one of the creatures tore down the stairs and in seconds it was on top of him, he managed to force it back using his crutch and rolled into the street. Out of the corner of his eye he saw several more of them coming towards him, one of them was small, just a child. The creature in the house leapt to it's feet, moving with unnatural agility as it screamed again. It was that scream that had haunted his dreams, and he had not heard it so close for what seemed like forever. The creature threw itself onto him, pinning him to the ground and tearing a chunk of flesh from his chest.

He screamed as he desperately tried to throw the creature off. He had lost his crutch at some point; it was most probably still in the doorway. The other two creatures threw themselves onto him, one biting his wrist, the other tearing into his throat. He stopped struggling; his hands fell limply to the ground as the creatures ate their fill.

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inmyprime — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 23:57:30 GMT

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inmyprime — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 13:41:29 GMT

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inmyprime — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 00:10:33 GMT

Knight (working title)

cdmaum — Mon, 17 Oct 2005 15:51:38 GMT

What do you think of this as a prologue for a novel? Right now it's a short story written entirely in letter format, but I'm thinking of expanding it to novel format with letters throughout. I just want to see what kind of interest it draws. Thanks.

18 July 1351
Dearest One,

Tis late. All is dark about me and this single candle my only companion. I record here tonight the joy I will soon know. I have only recently left your father's bed and though I loathe him with all my being, he has given me one thing I will cherish above any other. The proof grows beneath my breast even now.

I have not in all my years of marriage conceived a child. I despaired that I was barren and would never know the joy of motherhood. Now, though the circumstances of your conception are not as I would wish, I will present this gift to my husband and he will never know you do not belong to him by blood.

But you, my child, must know. You must avenge the wrong committed this night. You must never forget the reason you are here. You must never forget the one who has caused so much pain. The one who gave you life.

25 September 1351

The physician has just left. It has been confirmed now. I am to have a child. Now tis time to tell Malcolm and I am frightened. What should happen if he suspects? But I must be strong. I will tell him now and he will believe you belong to him. You will grow strong beneath my breast and you will be delivered to Malcolm as his child. He will raise you to be a courageous, honorable Knight. And I will teach you all you need to know to defeat your father.

10 October 1351

My husband boasts of his good fortune. He tells all who will listen of the pending birth of his son. I do not regret my decision. He will make you a wonderful father and will love you as well as any other. Even now he plans that you will become a Knight. I do not oppose this idea; tis what I wish as well. You will be trained well and you will learn quickly. All will be as it should.

18, April 1352

Your birth will soon be upon me. I grow weary and the pains come closer. The midwife has been summoned and Malcolm paces like a lion before the fire as he waits. Back and forth, back and forth; he refuses to be calmed. He does not understand when I tell him you will make a fine entrance. He worries for I have been barren these many years, but I am calm. I know that you will be delivered to me soon. I have no fear for I know all will be well.

The pains become greater. The midwife has not yet arrived and I begin to feel weak. Malcolm tries to help, but he knows not what to do. I feel you move and I know you will live, but I fear now for myself. It has been many hours since the pains began and I want to sleep, but I know I must not. I must be assured of your birth before I give myself to the blackness.

Cue the Hallelujahs - A Happy Ending

gabrielcoeli — Sun, 31 Jul 2005 09:40:30 GMT

___________________________________________________________

Gabriel Coeli

2115 E 9th St
Vancouver, WA 98660

(360) 737-7714

gabrielcoeli@yahoo.com

Cue the Hallelujahs
A Happy Ending
by
Gabriel Coeli

___________________________________________________________

“There are two kinds of people in this world. Those that think there are two
kinds of people in this world and those who know better.”

I have no idea who said that. I would credit them, but I’ve seriously asked
everyone I know and even borrowed a few books of quotes from the library looking for the originator of that thoughtful witticism. I’ve got nothing.

But I do know that men, at least, can be more or less grouped into two
categories: Breast men and leg men.

Charlie Cohen was a breast man.

I remember watching a program on television a while ago and they had a
psychologist on, a real shrill brown-haired woman who referred to a fixation with
breasts as infantile predisposition. It has something to do with the amount of
attention a man gets from his mother in early childhood. Or the lack thereof. If a
baby boy is allowed to breastfeed too often, too little or not at all, he becomes
obsessed with tits. I guess there’s a “sweet spot” where the baby gets just enough to grow up a leg man, instead.

If I ever have kids, I’m going to shoot for that sweet spot.

I’m sitting at a table in a s***ty diner where I’ve just finished my swing shift, across from a homeless man who is talking to my breasts. He hasn’t shaved in years, but he’s managed to find a shower some time in the last six hours, because his frazzled brown hair, shot liberally with grey, is slicked back and still wet. His skin is pale but full of blood, and his eyes are alert, wide awake. I would say that he looked good for his age if I knew his age; I bear also in mind that homeless men can look ninety and be just forty.

His name is Charlie Cohen, and he has cancer. He lives in a boiler room below the music room of the parochial school at Saint Gabriel the Steadfast Catholic Church. Every weekday morning at ten a.m., he wakes up to the sound of the boys’ choir sending a great big greeting card to God. Every weekday morning, he also wakes up to a cough so rattling and violent that it often gives him a nosebleed.

He is wearing an expensive suit and sneakers that look like they were pulled out of a garbage bin in 1985. He says he’s paying for the coffee we’re drinking. I’ve protested three times, but he seems to be getting offended at the idea that a woman would pay his tab, so I have no current plans to raise another objection. Besides, I’m getting a free drink. Outmoded, patriarchal attitudes have their upsides from time to time.

The lighting is dim, and the plastic upholstery crinkles unpleasantly beneath me. My coffee mug has a chip in it, and it is not the only receptacle in the establishment that could use a bit of replacing. Our waitress is as disillusioned as I am when on the clock. Her name is Rosa, and she is very ugly. Charlie will eventually tip her ten dollars.

Outside, it’s raining. From time to time I shift my gaze from Charlie’s calm eyes to the window. I imagine that the water hitting the glass forms punctuation for our conversation as it slides downwards toward the street. He’ll say something I find surprising, and I’ll see an exclamation point in the water tracks. He’ll trail off, and I’ll watch an ellipsis materialize and disappear.

He’s a bilingual white American, which is rare, and he speaks English with a tortured accent that is at once as down-home as Southern-fried collared greens and as polished as a Broadway actor. He chews on his words lazily, and his years of accumulated “street” colloquialisms are deeply ingrained into his speech, but there is a high end to his cant that wears a sense of refinement like a veil. If his accent could be photographed, it would look like a New England bourgeoisie snoozing in a star-spangled hammock strung between two willows on a humid Mississippi evening. But it’s his French I’ll never forget. When he speaks French it’s as though all of his impediments vanish like wind into another sky and he’s suddenly a laureate at ease. He says things to me that sound beautiful but could easily mean “you have a head that is shaped like a strawberry,” or “please pass the salt.” I can’t tell, because I don’t speak French. I speak Spanish. But I don’t care. It’s a pleasure to hear him speak. And he talks about the French language the way Paris must have talked about Helen of Troy.

Charlie also tells me he is in love with me, and now the raindrops on the window are forming a gentle question mark. I am forced to admit that I’ve never seen him before. He tells me that he’s never come into the restaurant before because he was ashamed. He always watched me through the windows, he said. Four years he’s been watching me. I’m simultaneously flattered and frightened.

I ask him uncomfortably if that’s why he bought the suit, so that he wouldn’t be ashamed when he met me. He smiles and shakes his head, saying “No.”

He says that he killed seven men in Nicaragua, and that is why he has cancer, now. He says that God is cleansing him of his sins before he goes to heaven. Then he asks me to apologize to my people for him and for his country. I start to tell him that I’m Guatemalan, not Nicaraguan, but I think better of it and just nod. He seems satisfied.

He takes one of my hands in his and I’m surprised. One of his hands is soft as a baby’s and the other feels the way gravel roads look. Then he tells me he’s sorry for splurging on the suit. He says he still has some left, still has some left, still has some left. He says he has enough left. He says that he got the suit on discount for just two hundred dollars, marked down from eight hundred dollars, and that he just wanted to look his best when he came to meet me for the first time.

And the last time.

He says that he intended to ask me for a lock of my hair to be buried with, but now that he’s seen it up close, he wouldn’t want to displace a single strand. He looks at my ears, and at my ponytail, which I usually wear in a tight bun at work. Now that I’m off, it’s running all the way down to the small of my back. I swore to my grandfather a long time ago that I wouldn’t ever cut my hair short and I’ve stuck to that promise. My grandfather loved my hair.

Charlie removes a small bound book from his pocket and slides it across the table. I open the book and look at the pages; it’s all in French, and I ask him what it is.

They are his memoirs, he tells me, and his smile looks like it was rear-ended by a piano, but it moves as easily across his face as sunlight.

He excuses himself and stands with some difficulty. I stand, too, and walk him out of the diner. He doesn’t say a word as we exit the restaurant and he remains silent as we stand awkwardly in front. Then he smiles again, that horrible smile, and he turns around and starts to shuffle, slowly and painfully away from me. This man, whom I’ve never seen before, loved me.

I walk up behind him and slip my arms around his waist. My fingers lock around his slightly distended stomach, and I kiss him very lightly on the neck, just behind his ears. I tell him that he is a beautiful man.

I can’t see his face, but I can tell that he has started to smile again. Then he removes my hands from his midsection and walks away.

•

I wake up early the next morning and it is raining, a hot rain like only this town can make. It’s seventy degrees and slimy outside. It’s my day off, today, but I’m not watching daytime talk shows today. I’m thinking of Charlie Cohen.

I put on a coat, take it off, put it back on. It’s hot, but it’s raining. I leave the coat on and walk thirty-seven blocks past bodegas and my s***ty diner and the black boys who play basketball with the intensity and ethic of mailmen, come rain or sleet or snow or whatever. They’re always out there.

I smile at them, and though all of them see me, only one of them smiles back. This town is not soft, and it doesn’t let people be soft. It’s a rough-and-tumble type of stomping grounds, one that produces high school dropouts, petty criminals and alcoholics. It’s the worst place I’ve ever lived, and the only place I ever lived. My mother sometimes points out to me that, logically, it’s also necessarily the best place I’ve ever lived.

Logic is for men. This town is disgusting.

At the end of my journey is Saint Gabriel the Steadfast Catholic Church. I knock at the door of the rectory and Mrs. Ramirez, a friend of my mother’s who works as a parochial secretary, answers the door. She asks if I saw the police on my way in. I remark that I did not. She points out the police car, which is not an uncommon sight on these streets, and says that a homeless man was found dead in the boiler room beneath the music hall. Isn’t that dreadful? she asks me, and I wonder if she’s talking about the fact that a human being is dead or the fact that a homeless man had been sleeping undetected in the boiler room.

I know now that Charlie is dead.

I excuse myself and walk to the school, across the grassless lot that separates it from the cathedral. Peeling paint, warped siding, broken windows and dusty lots are the standout geographic features of my neighborhood, and the church is in no better or worse shape than any of the tenements or corner stores in its shadow. My personal religious feelings aside, this is a God-fearing town, but money to spare for the collection bins at Sunday mass is a bit hard to come by, and St. Gabe’s is starting to show for lack of it.

Sometimes I think about all of the gold and ivory and marble in Rome, where the Pope lives, and I wonder why they can’t send a few hundred dollars to us to get a pothole in the parking lot filled. Maybe it’s politics, or maybe it’s logistics. Maybe if St. Gabe’s had a sudden windfall it would look out of place in a humble neighborhood like this one. Jesus didn’t descend in golden glory, after all. He did it on the sly. He blended in.

Maybe that’s why our cathedral looks so bad all the time. It blends in with this town perfectly.

On the doorstep of the school is a police officer, a tall white man with apparent difficulty growing a full mustache. Next to him are two ambulance drivers. The cop asks if he can help me, and I tell him kind of heavily that I was a friend of the deceased. I don’t stop to consider whether or not I am telling the truth, or whether or not it is a good idea to be connected to a dead homeless man in this town. I don’t stop and correct myself after the word friend, as I should, because Charlie and I knew each other for thirty minutes last plus the time it took me to hug and kiss him. But it feels good to say that we were friends. I suddenly wonder if Charlie had any real friends, anyone who wasn’t completely oblivious to him.

The police officer asks me if I’m the Nicaraguan waitress from the s***ty diner and I start to say that I’m Guatemalan, then just shake my head and reply in the affirmative. He smiles, an expression much more pleasant than Charlie’s, and tells me there’s something I just gotta see.

I walk into the boiler room where Charlie is lying down, dead as cardboard but looking great in that eight hundred-dollar suit. They’re about to lift him on to a stretcher, where a manila body bag lies in wait.

I’ve never seen a dead person before.

It’s not nearly as scary as I thought it’d be. Charlie just looks peaceful. He looks happy. I’ve never seen Charlie unhappy, because I just met him last night, but I can’t imagine that he had a happy life. Lying there, on top of his sleeping bag, he just looks happy.

The police officer points behind the furnace and I notice, in the brown dingy light, the milk jugs full of dimes, nickels and pennies stashed back there.

Lord, there must be fifty of them.

Then the cop hands me a folded piece of paper. On top of it, in childlike handwriting, is the inscription, “To the Nicaraguan waitress at the s***ty diner on Eleventh Avenue.”

I unfold the piece of paper and it says:

Mon chere:

Go to college.

I love you.

A yelp escapes my mouth, a sound like an excited puppy might make, and I slap my hand over my lips. Is it wrong to be happy? I’m here, excited, pleased, joyful that I just “inherited” thousands of dollars in change from a transient, and he’s lying there peacefully, completely unaware of what’s going on.

Or is he aware? I don’t know. I don’t know. I find myself thinking about God and whether He is really up there. For the first time since I stopped believing in God, I start hoping He’s really there.

For Charlie’s sake.

They’ve got Charlie in the body bag now, and they’re zipping him up. I ask them to wait, and then I take a small knife out of my purse and saw off my ponytail, all three feet of it. This I place in the bag with him, and one of the ambulance guys looks like he’s going to cry.

“He wanted a lock of my hair.” I say, and I think of my grandfather. My grandfather loved my hair, and so did Charlie.

They wheel his body out on a stretcher, off to be cremated, or whatever happens to people who die and don’t have an estate. Then again, Charlie did have an estate. Worth a few grand. That’s enough for a cremation.

The police officer tells me he’ll help me bring the change back to my house in his car, and that he won’t tell anyone about the money. He says that if he puts that in his report, the city would take the money to pay for Charlie’s posthumous expenses.

Well, even death ain’t free. There Ain’t No Such Thing As A Free Lunch. Whoever said that first hit it right on the head.

The cop helps me take the jugs full of clinking dimes and pennies up to his car, two by two, and when we’re finished he drives me all the way home. He even lets me ride in the front seat. On the way home, I wonder how long it must have taken for Charlie to save that much money.

How much money is in those jugs?

Years and years and years to save it. More than four years. Longer than he’d loved me.

The cop pulls up to my house and we unload all but one of the jugs, which I leave in the car with instructions for him to take his wife out somewhere nice. He says he doesn’t have a wife, and he smiles at me. The cop looks about twenty-seven years old when he’s not smiling, but he looks twenty-two when he is. I’m only twenty, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Neither did Charlie.

I say goodbye and walk into the front door of my apartment. My mother is puffing furiously at her lipstick-laden Misty menthol cigarette and examining with great interest one of her toenails. She asks where I’ve been, then (suddenly very loudly) asks where all the change came from. Then (suddenly much louder) gets into a fit about me cutting off my ponytail. She mentions my grandfather six times, and I think of Charlie every time she does.

When I am able to calm her down, I do. Then I tell her everything. And I tell her that I want to go to college. I don’t know that there’s enough in those jugs to get me through college, but maybe there’s enough to help me subsidize a federal loan and stay alive. I tell my mother that I am thinking of being a nurse. She curses in Spanish, lights another cigarette and makes me breakfast.

It’s ten a.m., now, and I am finished eating. It’s time for that daytime talk show with the façade of integrity. I think of Charlie coughing and bleeding. I think of him scrimping and saving. I think of his ugly, ugly shoes.

I go and pull his little book, his memoirs off of the top of the dresser in my bedroom. It smells stale and a little moldy. I open it and stare at the words, uncomprehending.

It’s ten a.m., now, and my mother is applying her eye makeup. She’s a maid at a fleabag motel across town, and she’s off to work.

I can’t help but think that wherever Charlie’s at is better than where he was. It makes me happy to think that he went to Heaven, but I don’t think Hell’s got anything on being homeless, either. I think that wherever Charlie’s at is an improvement.

It’s ten a.m., and I’m thinking of Charlie Cohen. He saved thousands of dollars in pennies, killed seven men in Nicaragua and he loved my hair. I find myself thinking about college. I think I will learn to speak French.

It’s ten a.m. and the choir at Saint Gabe’s will be starting practice any minute.

I imagine the angels in Heaven suiting up in their wings and their robes, getting ready to sing with their own choir. I imagine them ringing in Charlie’s arrival with the most beautiful song anyone ever wrote, and then another even more beautiful than that.

Cue the hallelujahs, boys.

Charlie’s coming home.

Happiness Lies at Home

Oes — Wed, 19 Dec 2007 04:24:16 GMT

Let me preface this by saying that I have never written much of anything in the way of fiction before. This is the start of something new for me and I imagine I have plenty to learn. So please, give me some advice.

Jason Davis
jason@screenink.com
Lincoln, NE

Greg’s plane had landed according to schedule: 7pm central time in Omaha, Nebraska on that Thursday, August 27th, 1984. Greg’s mother had just passed and an old family friend by the name of Miklos, Miklos Zaycek, was meeting him at the airport to drive him back to his mother’s home. She still lived in Walton, in the home he grew up in, the home he left behind some four years ago, the only home he knew. Miklos owned a quaint little bike shop in Walton. He wasn’t the brightest of men but he knew his way around a bicycle pretty well and thus decided to make a living out of it. He and Greg’s mother, who’s real name was Bozena but she had long since come to prefer a simple Edna, both had come to the states from Czechoslovakia at around the same time. They were not only escaping the Communist overtake of their homeland; but also chasing their dreams. They ended up becoming lovers for a brief period until and eventually life long friends. Greg never knew his biological father and so to him, Miklos was a much-needed replacement at times. When Greg was young, he had always imagined his father being a big, strong and courageous firefighter or perhaps an overly passionate police detective, solving murders and saving lives.

“All in a days work.” His father would have told him as he tucked him into bed.

His mother would never deny him these possibilities because she simply didn’t want him to know the truth. His real father was, in fact, a well-kept secret. One that she damned near took to the grave. Edna had difficulties with intimacy all her life, something she passed along to her only child, which is why she died alone.

Edna had always been a bright, strong and independent woman, a loving mother. She had worked several dead end jobs in the capital city while attempting to further her education and also raise her son before she finally completed her M.A. at the University of Nebraska Kearney and landed a position tutoring, then teaching at the University’s Slavic Studies Department. When Greg finished college she had sensed her son’s true aspirations of becoming a successful architect and designer. She had pushed for him to follow those dreams.

My health problems are being blown way out of proportion by these American doctors,” she had told him, I’m not going anywhere soon,” she would always say.

Now she was gone, dead at age 63. Greg’s mother had been battling cancer off and on for just over 3 years and instead of giving up his career pursuits after graduating from the University of Nebraska Lincoln, Greg had put Miklos in charge of hiring a caretaker for Edna, someone who would take to her needs. He knew no matter how his mother tried to convince him, she wasn’t going to last too much longer. Putting his mother’s care in the hands of someone else allowed Greg the ability to chase his only promising job lead, working for Burkholder & Associates in Manhattan, New York as an in house architectural draftsman, without the thought of leaving his mother alone eating at his conscience. Miklos found a young Czech girl by the name of Jana, the daughter of his friend back home, for the job.

After only two years of precisely measured lines and consistent rotation of finely sharpened pencils on floor plans Greg had solidified a position on their team of designers selected to move on to train for more creative endeavors with the firm. There was computer software still fresh on the market, and the firm wanted to get a jump on the potential change in technology.

Greg had been allowed one week of paid personal leave to go home and take care of his family’s estate and, in his boss’s words, bury his mother. To some, this sort of talk would strike a chord; but for Greg it was no more an issue than throwing away his mother’s semi-annual catch up letters. Greg loved his mother, that was not to be doubted, but there was some definite resentment of the fact that she never spoke of his father. Edna was, after all, the only one around to blame for his absence. Besides, Greg had already dealt with the idea that she would be dying years ago when he had left for New York; it was just easier for him that way. And when it came to emotionally heavy decisions, he liked taking the easy route.

“Greg, over here!” Miklos let out a heavy holler through the gaping smile stretched across his face.

“Miklos, come here old man. It’s been too long!” They embraced as if forcing through each other. Miklos never had any kids of his own. Some two years after Miklos and Edna settled in Nebraska, she up and moved away to Kearney, Nebraska leaving no forwarding address for him. She had just vanished from the town of Walton in the most mysterious of manners. It wasn’t until some four years later that Edna had returned, with child and no spouse. Miklos had by then met an American girl by the name of Karla who, as it turned out, wasn’t able to bear children. This hit him pretty hard. Miklos had taken a real liking to Greg the first time he watched him peddle his cherry red Schwinn Typhoon off down the rural road from his bike shop. Greg had saved up money from delivering the Lincoln papers every Sunday morning in order to buy it. A smart investment, Miklos had told him. A kid has to start somewhere and that bike allowed him to deliver papers a heck of a lot faster.

“You came alone, I see.” Miklos poked.

“Yeah, I’ve got no time for women. I haven’t the slightest need for one to tell you the truth. Doin’ just fine on my own.” Greg had noticed his ill humor was not so well received.

“You just wait boy, there’ll come a time.”

“Not so sure about that one Miklos, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“Anyhow, I meant to tell you over the phone, I’m real sorry about your mother, Greg, she was a special woman.”

“I know, I know. How about we get back to the house and I can fix us up something to eat.”

“Hell, we can have Jana take care of that Greg, she’s a pretty good cook. Your mother made Jana learn all of her old Czech recipes and, well, you know Jana’s Czech herself so she wasn’t one for complaining. Those two got pretty damn close these last couple of years.” Miklos’s eyes swelled up and Greg attempted to sway the mood a bit.

“Well we can call her over then, I suppose I should thank her for all the work she’s done. You know I haven’t met the woman, is she around my age or--?”

“She’s probably a little younger than you Greg. She’s been livin’ at your mother’s house you know.” His eyes widened and his head bobbed in a matter of fact sort of delivery.

“Is that so?”

“Oh yeah, your mother insisted on it. I’m telling you Greg; those two had gotten to the point where they wouldn’t even speak English anymore, just Czech. Boy they had a heck of a lot of fun together, I tell you what,” Miklos explained.

“I bet they did.” Greg’s voice had a slight tinge of jealousy. He was an only child, and sometimes those types tend to get fairly protective of their parents.

Greg hopped in Miklos’s rusted old brown ’68 Chevy pickup and they talked all the way back to Walton. They spoke loudly in order to allow each other to hear over the noise of the wind pushing through the cracked and flaky seals on the passenger side window. Miklos talked of the bike shop, the old Typhoon and how he had passed it on to another boy in town. He was a paperboy just like Greg, he told him. Greg tried his best to explain the concept of modern computers and the programs he was learning in Manhattan. Greg had a lot of questions about Jana and Miklos did his best to fill him in on the details. How she wasn’t much of an English speaker. How she kept to herself and fell in love with the countryside and his mother’s estate. How she and Edna went and tied themselves off at the hip. How she was the daughter of an old friend back home and he had her fly to the States just for the position because her father wrote him talking of how much she adored the American lifestyle. Something Miklos found to be quite funny being that she was here now and had, until these recent and unfortunate events, chosen to keep herself cooped up with an old Czech woman as if she had never left the homeland.

When they pulled up to the entryway of his mother’s estate, Greg immediately traveled back in time to his paper route, to mowing the yard on Saturdays and to painting the old shed every other year just so Edna could use it as her descriptive marker for newcomers to the house. Greg would have to paint it a putrid blue green color. A color that had no place on the wobbly old shack of a shed, resting all lopsided some forty feet from the house. He never asked questions though; questioning his mother was a moot point. His mother always knew best, always. Everything had its place and everything had its reason. The firewood stacks behind the garage, the lawnmower goes in the shed, after it’s washed clean of course. Plastic bags were placed over the tomato plants before the first winter freeze and the bushes are pruned before they could get a jump on things from spring’s rain. The windows were sealed up towards the end of fall too and they had to be blow dried to tighten up the plastic otherwise Edna couldn’t see through them. It was all coming back to him; it all took place at the end of the long, winding gravel road leading him back home.

“You know your mother bought this house from a farmer?” Miklos asked.

“Yeah, I know. She never did any real farming though did she, more like tended to an oversized garden I’d say,” Greg chuckled, “I remember how she used to make me take the extra tomatoes and cucumbers on my route and give them out to all the neighbors and people in town.”

“Oh yeah, Karla and I never had a shortage of vegetables at the house, not while your ma was still tending to that garden of hers.” Miklos’ face was cherried as he shook his head. His mouth wanted to spread wide but he fought it back in an attempt to disguise his admiration for Edna.

“Here we are, home sweet home.” Miklos spouted and jumped out of the truck.

Jana had been in the yard hanging some of Edna’s clothes out to dry. It was as if Edna was just inside the screen door, reading her morning paper in her favorite old armchair. Sipping her coffee and patiently waiting for them to arrive, waiting for her boy to come home. Greg stayed in the truck. He thought, and he stared. Stared at the white strips of rail along the porch, counting the layers of paint in his head that he must have put on the old porch over the years. Examining each window on the house to make sure she wasn’t just waiting inside, hoping that it was all just an elaborate hoax to get him back home to visit. He just waited there, watching. Edna didn’t surface; she wasn’t home.

“Get inside boy, it’s time for supper! You can finish the chores after we eat, don’t want the soup to get cold,” Edna commanded.

“Alright ma, I’ll wash up.”

Greg remembered watching her oversee him from the porch with a vacant stare as he came running towards the house for dinner. He lost her for a moment there and could sense that she was keeping something from him. Perhaps it was the cancer, he thought, or perhaps it had something to do with his father.

“Let him be Jana” Miklos’s distant voice broke Greg’s spell. “Let’s go on inside and fix him up some bedding,” Miklos told Jana under his breath, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her in as they walked towards the house together.

“I already did that Miklos. I already did that in his room.” When Jana spoke she had the softest tone, like an angel. Miklos and Jana went into the house leaving Greg some time to himself.

The next thing Greg remembered was waking up to Jana’s gentle gaze, her soft face upside down, lying on the truck seat next to his, her cheek pushed upwards forcing her one eye to close up a bit. Her lean body twisted and bent in an awkward manner, sort of emulating or perhaps, he thought, mocking his own uncomfortable position.

“Why you still in the car?” she asked.

“It’s a truck, technically. I just wasn’t ready to go inside yet, I guess.”

“You can come in now, Gregory, I will take you.” Her voice brushed onto his nose and rolled across his cheek and then slipped into his ear. His eyes closed up slowly as he absorbed her tone.

“My mom calls me Gregory.” Greg explains delicately, briefly forgetting why he is home.

“Your mom will always call you that, you know. She will always be around too, you know.” For some reason Jana always seemed to repeat the last few words of her sentences, something that normally could be considered awkward or annoying but Greg found it to be completely endearing and irresistible.

Jana went around the pickup and let open the door with a slow creek. She coaxed Greg out and grabbed his arm, slinging it over her shoulder and grasping his hip as if having to walk him to the house herself. Her attention towards him and her lack of awareness for personal space was utterly confusing to him but Greg didn’t resist her. His hand squeezed her shoulder tightly as he crept to his feet and her hand responded, squeezing his opposite hip. They remained embraced as they walked towards the house. Just before reaching the front stoop, he looked down to her and stopped walking. She turned to him and her eyes sank deep into his, almost beaming straight through him. He lost himself in the glazed green haze of her eyes. He realized his vulnerability but still wanted to kiss her, to hold her, this complete stranger. She held such beauty in her delicate cheekbones and soft eyes, her long light brown hair so soft and gentle, breaking across her nose and mouth in the breeze. He closed his eyes and broke their gaze, realizing how ridiculous and awkward it might have been if he had acted on her vulnerable innocence. Glancing over her shoulder, he noticed some of his old track t-shirts from high school hanging out to dry on the line.

“Are those my—those are my track shirts?” He said, perplexed.

“Yes. I wear them now. Bozena told me to wear them now you are gone.” Jana stumbled on her words and became slightly defensive, like a child she backed up a step and lost herself briefly.

“Bozena? Miklos used to call her that when I was young,” Greg smiled, “It’s alright, you can wear them Jana, I don’t mind at all.”

“Y-e-a-n-a,” She sounded out, her tongue slapping her lower palette as she released the “n”, “My real name is Yeana.”

“Right, is Jana your American name then?”

“Yes, it is my American name.”

“Get on in here you two, let’s eat something before it gets late!” Miklos shouted from inside the screen door.

“Come Gregory, we have an important day tomorrow, you need sleep well and I make you a big breakfast tomorrow, OK?”

“That sounds good. Thank you, Jana, for everything.”

“No, Gregory, thank you. I am very much glad you are home.”

Edna was put in the ground wearing her favorite lavender and cream flowered dress along with her mother’s lavender pearls. Most of the town showed for the service and they placed tomatoes, vegetables, and carrots next to her tombstone. It was, after all, about the only thing they knew of her besides her teachings at the University. There was no family but of all the guests Greg noticed that Miklos was having the hardest time. Greg approached him stone faced and eager to raise his spirits.

“Hey old man, it’s all right. She’s in a better place now.” Greg’s attempt surfaced as weak and relatively void of emotion. Miklos collected himself, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his tears.

“I know boy, I know.” Miklos’s words were brief and non confrontational. He simply seemed to be avoiding something. “I’m gonna head back to the house and help Jana pack her things so you can have some time in the house alone.”

“What? No. I—where is she going to go?” His tone tinged of desperation.

“Greg? Do I sense a tone of desperation in your voice?” Miklos teased. “You falling for my old friends daughter?”

“I—I don’t know what I’m doing Miklos. I just—I think she’s special. The way she cared for my mother and cares for the house. I don’t want her to leave.” Greg’s voice petered off as he awkwardly forced out his last words.

“Listen, Greg. Why don’t you phone your boss, take some time off? You need it. Spend some time here, with Karla and I, with Jana, at home.”

“That’s probably not a bad idea Red but falling too far behind in my current line of training could cost me my job.”

“A job’s a job Greg, Job’s are everywhere. Hell, you think I intended on fixing bicycles my whole damned life? Tell you what, you do what you feel is right in your heart. You know I ain’t got too many years left myself and I wouldn’t mind seeing a certain somebody take over my shop for me.” Miklos’s face blushed a bit as he looked to the ground and kicked at the grass.

“I appreciate that Miklos. I really do.”

“Oh, before I forget, your mother wanted me to give you somethin’. You can read it now; you can read it back in Manhattan. Hell, you can just throw it out if it pleases you but it’s something your mother thought you should probably have. Whatever it is, it must have been special to her.” Miklos pulled out a sealed manila envelope and pushed it onto Greg’s chest as he patted his shoulder.

“I’ll see you back at the house.”

Greg stuck around the cemetery until everyone had left; he found a bench near his mother’s grounds and opened up the envelope. Its contents were minimal but packed a solid blow. He read the letter first, immediately noticing his mother’s handwriting. She wrote briefly of how proud she was of him. She mentioned Jana and how fond she had grown of Greg even though they had never met. The boy who was, after all, the only boy she knew in the states. How Jana would openly and honestly confess to Edna how attracted to Greg she was and how silly she had felt about it. How she felt she already knew him because Edna had talked about him so often. Then she mentioned Miklos, how close she was to him so long ago. How they needed each other at first but then she pushed him away and left. Then returned years later demanding to be just friends and never to discuss their relationship as to avoid hurting his wife Karla. The letter closed with a single demand, to view the rest of the contents and do with them what he will.

Inside the manila envelope Greg pulled out an old black and white photograph of a young couple holding hands at a farmers market. The girl carried a demanding beauty and the boy looked so happy to be with her. On the back it read “Boz and Mik, June of ‘59", then in fresh ink it read “your father”. He collapsed on the grass by his mother’s tombstone and just lay there, staring at the sky, numb.

Greg took Miklos’s truck back to the house. He pulled in off the rural road and kept it in first gear all along the gravel path to the house, he remembered crashing the Typhoon coming home from delivering papers one Sunday and how skinned up his elbows and knees had gotten. How upset his mother was at him and how confused the whole situation made him, realizing now that she simply couldn’t put her love for him aside, not even for a simple accident. How she was upset because she couldn’t handle seeing him hurt. Greg tried to fight back his tears as his abdomen clenched, again, then again and finally his emotion exploded in a gush of tears. Twenty some years of repression belted out a fierce cry and the sound didn’t come from his stomach or from his lungs; it screamed from his chest, from his heart. As he wiped his eyes and tingling moisture from his chin he parked the truck in front of his home. He glanced at the clothing on the line, drifting in the slight fall breeze, at the dwindled stack of firewood next to the garage, over at the blue-green shed and at tomatoes and cucumber plants, then up at the house. He scanned the windows and dried his eyes again, searching for tightly stretched plastic, potential streaks that may not have been blown clear. For cracks in the paint, which may need a fresh new coat before winter. Then she surfaced, Jana, standing in the living room window, patiently waiting for his return. His heart sunk deep in his chest; he exhaled completely and closed his eyes, then collapsed onto the truck seat. Waiting, for her.

N/A

Alqualonde — Wed, 18 Jul 2007 18:42:22 GMT

Junk Yard Dog

protime — Fri, 11 Nov 2005 15:35:06 GMT

Junk Yard Dogs

When the phone ran and woke me at ten in the morning I thought it was the alarm clock. After I pushed and pulled every button on it, I figured out it was the phone. I really needed to stop this late night partying.

“Hello, and this better be important to me.”

“It’s Chuck here. I need to see you today. They broke into my wrecking yard again and poisoned my three watchdogs. As far as I can tell they took every four-barrel carburetor, starter and alternator I had in stock and on the cars. They must have been in here all night.” Chuck shouted on the other end of the phone.

“I’m sorry Chuck, but what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to catch them. This is the second time this month they hit me.”

“I’ll be down the yard in about an hour. I still don’t know what I can do that the cops can’t?”

“If you can do more than nothing you’ll beat them. I’ll talk to you when you get here.” He said as he slammed the phone down.

Chuck owned one of the largest late models wrecking yards in New York, probably the biggest on Long Island. At thirty-seven he is already close to being a millionaire. Not bad for a high school drop out that started his business six years ago by picking up metal scrap from peoples garbage every Wednesday. I have known Chuck all of my twenty-nine years. We were inseparable before he got married five years ago. Don’t get me wrong, I love his wife Connie to death, but she keeps the lease pretty tight on him. He met her in Austria while in the Army. She’s the one that got him where he is today. Since he married her everything he touches turns to gold. I still have to smile when I see them together. He’s six-foot one and she’s a hair over five feet. But make no mistake who the boss is between the two. I never thought I’d see him whipped like that and liking it.

After a quick shower to wake up I jumped on my 1951 Indian Chief and rode to the diner for bacon and eggs and three cups of coffee.

“You were in rare form last night at the club Johnny.” Penny the waitress said.

Penny was a thirty-year-old red head with a great figure. She was divorced from a nut job that was in prison for burning their house down. I heard he would be getting out soon and was coming after anyone that had been with Penny. It was a little scary being that Howard was six-foot five and went about two-fifty. Throw in that he was crazy as hell and you had the ingredients for murder.

“What did I do?”

“You were trying to get into every woman’s pants at the club.”

“Did I succeed?”

“Not with me you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Maybe if you were a little more sober I would have considered it.”

“I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

“You do that Johnny. The shape you were in last night you couldn’t handle me.”

“I don’t know if I could handle you on a good night.”

“If you want to see if you can, I’m living on my boat docked at Dave’s Boatyard. I’ll be there after six tonight.”

“No woman has every asked for her money back yet.” I joked.

“We shall see.”

“You’re living on your boat?”

“Their still working on the house that a****** burnt down. Besides it’s only me, and the boat is thirty-foot long.”

“I’ll drop by around seven tonight. What can I bring?”

“ How about bringing a large pizza with extra cheese and some bottles of Rolling Rock Beer?”

“You got it. See you at seven-take care.”

“You won over three hundred on the pool table last night and you give me a two dollar tip?”

“I’ll give you a bigger tip tonight.”

“Promises promises.”

Riding over to Chucks wrecking yard I couldn’t decide if I felt better or worse after eating. I knew I had better be in good shape by seven. Penny was almost six-foot tall and all woman. Me on the other hand am five-six with shoes on and a hundred-forty pounds.

When I pulled into Chuck’s I saw the county detectives were there. One of them was Detective Molloy, who had been riding my ass since I can remember.

“Good morning Chuck.”

“You know Molloy, and this is his partner Detective Joe Franks.”

“Glad to meet you Detective Franks.”

“This is Johnny Sax the local private eye, pool hustler and wife stealer.” Molloy said to his partner.

Molloy was referring to the time one of the cops caught me in bed with his wife. They were separated so I didn’t see the problem. Apparently the husband did because he shot at me going out the front door. Of course no charges were brought up for trying to kill me.

“I’m going to look around at what new cars you have since the last time I was here. I’m looking to get a car. Winter will be here before I know it and I’m not riding the bike another winter. I’ll talk to you after Kojak leaves.” I said.

“I heard you beat the fire chiefs son for three hundred dollars last night at the 400 Club. You know the chief‘s a friend of mine.” Molloy said.

“His son can afford it and then some. He’s one of the biggest dope dealers in the county.”

“You better watch who you slander Johnny.” Molloy said.

“Would you like me to take you out on my boat to meet the mother ship for his next dope delivery this weekend?”

“Somebody’s going to shut that mouth of yours for good one day Sax. Lets go Joe, we can’t do anything more here.”

“You all have a good day now.” I said.

“Your day will come Sax, and I can’t wait.” Molly said as he got in their car.

“Why can’t you keep your mouth shut around him Johnny? I don’t need the cops around here checking the registrations of every damn wreck I bring in here.”

“I’m sorry Chuck but you see how he talks to me. I can’t just let it go.”

“That’s why you’re in a couple of fights every month.”

“I win most of them don’t I?”

“I want you to move in to the shack in the back at night, starting in about a week or so from now. I figure they won’t be back to rob me again for a few weeks at least.”

“You want me to live in the shack?”

“Yes.”

“What about my night time social life?”

“Johnny you know I have never asked you for a favor. But these robberies are killing us. We can’t take anymore robberies. I don’t want to have a guard here for obvious reasons.”

Chuck had done me tons of favors over the years. Everything from saving my ass in a fight to bailing me out of jail and paying for a lawyer. The reason he didn’t want a stranger in here was because every once in awhile he bought some hot cars from the stolen car ring that they couldn’t get rid of fast enough.

“You know I’ll help you Chuck. But damn if it won’t put a crimp in my love life.”

“I don’t care if you bring a woman in the shack for the night. But it’s lust life, not love life.”

“Whatever it is I want it to continue it.”

“I’ll tell you what. I have a 1960 black Cadillac Coupe DeVille convertible I’m picking up this week out on the end of the island. It needs a motor and front nose. I already have a 1960 Caddy in the back with good fenders and grill on it. You can have the motor out of that 1962 Caddy over there. You catch these guys it’s yours.”

“Why is someone junking a five year old Caddy. It seems to me that the insurance company could fix it cheaper than totaling the whole car out and scraping it?”

“The wife hit a tree and was thrown out of the car. She died at the hospital. The husband doesn’t want to see the car again, so you would have to paint it another color after you fix it.”

“I can’t take all that from you Chuck.”

“I’m only giving him two hundred for it. If you catch these guys it will be worth it. One other thing though.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“We think that the mob might be behind it.” They could get rid of large amounts of auto parts. Who else is going to be able to get rid of about five hundred carburetor’s and five hundred alternators a month?”

“Oh frigging great Chuck.”

“Anyway, if you catch them and put them out of business the wrecking yard association will pay you for your trouble also.”

“How many yards have they hit?”

“Just about everyone on Long Island that belongs to the association.”

“Maybe the mob wants you to pay protection to them.”

“No one has contacted anyone.”

“Not that you know of, maybe some have and are already paying.”

“I didn’t think of that.”

“Ok I’ll give it a try.”

“Thanks Johnny.”

“Look on the list of yards and see if any were not hit again lately.”

“Ok I will. I’ll let you know at the club tonight.”

“I won’t be at the club tonight; I’m going to see Penny on her boat.”

“What are you frigging nuts? Howard will be out of jail in a few months. You know that crazy bastard will kill anyone that has been messing with his wife.”

“They’re divorced.”

“Like that matters much to that nut job.”

“It kind of makes it more of a thrill seeing her.”

“You’re going to thrill your self right into a grave one of these days.”

“Nice way to go though.”

“I got work to do Johnny. Be careful with her.”

“Ok I’ll see you in a few days, unless you want me to go pick up the Caddy for you?”

“That would be great. You can take the new wrecker to get it.”

“I’ll pick it up tomorrow if that’s all right with you and the owner?”

“That will be fine. Come in the office and I’ll give you a check for the guy.”

“I want to come with you when you buy the two new watchdogs. I need to make friends with them fast. I don’t want them chewing my ass up one night here.”

“I’m going to pick them up Friday at nine in the morning over in Belmore. Can you get up that early?”

“How does Connie feel about me being involved in trying to catch these guys?”

“Connie was the one who wanted me to ask you.”

“Wow.”

“Connie likes you Johnny. She is just afraid that I will get in trouble hanging with you. I have a lot more to loose now.”

“Yes you do. You have come a long way baby.”

We both laughed at that as I got on my bike and took off for the poolroom.

Oceanside Billiards has been around for over twenty years. It’s where I hung out in my teen years. I’ve probably made more money playing pool in there than Bob the owner has on the tables. It also has a small bar where Tina works. Tina and I use to live together before she found out I couldn’t be faithful to one woman very long. We are still good friends. She always told people that I would make a good husband for someone if there were no other women around with in fifty square miles.

“Hi Johnny, how are you doing?” Bob the owner asked as I came through the door.

“I’m doing pretty well, how about you?”

“I’m hanging in there.” He said as he handed me my two piece cue out of his cue locker.

“I’ll take table six Bob.”

“You got it. Here are the good Armith Balls.

“Thanks.”

I saw Corina Ash the number four ranked women pro in the nation on a back table with Larry Sparten her banker watching her. He glanced at me and nodded. I waved to him and Corina. Corina was a pro on the women’s tour out of Oceanside Long Island. She could hold her own with most men.

Just as I thought, after I practiced for about fifteen minutes over came Larry to ask if I wanted to play Corina for some money.

“I’ll play her straight up Larry, but I’m not giving her any weight. She’s too damn good to spot balls to.”

“How about you give her the break and two on the wire in a race to seven games for two hundred?”

Giving her the break meant she broke the balls for every game no matter who won the last one. Two on the wire meant that I would give her a two game start. Meaning in a race of the first to win seven games of nine ball she only had to win five to my seven.

“I’ll give her one on the wire and the break for two hundred.”

“Ok you’re on, let’s do it Johnny.”

I had played Corina many times even. But giving her a spot of any kind was going to make me really work for my money. She was the real deal and she didn’t choke for money. A red head at about five foot six with a stunning figure through a lot of guys she played off their game. I just hoped I wasn’t one of them.

Today she wore tight black jeans with a white v-neck that showed a little bit more than neck. The thing that would help me is she told me long ago that she wouldn’t go out with me if we were on a deserted island together. She just didn’t know the real me.

“Put your money up and rack them up chump.” She said.

Oh and did I mention she had a big mouth?

After she jumped out to a four to nothing lead, there was no catching her. The break in nine ball is so important. At the pro level, if they make a ball or two on the break and wind up with a shot on the lowest ball on the table, they usually run out the rest of the rack for the win. The final score was seven to four Corina.

“Do you want to try to get even Johnny?”

“Try my ass. I’m going to beat you bad.”

“You couldn’t beat me with a stick.” Corina laughed.

“Its funny when you’re winning how much fun you can have. But this time her break wasn’t working for her and she came up dry on most of the breaks. I beat her seven to two.

“Do you want to play the next set for five hundred?” The banker asked.

“Not unless we play winner breaks I don’t.” I said.

“I can’t do that Johnny.”

“That’s no problem. We’re even, let’s call it a tie. Goodbye Corina, and good shooting.” I said.

“See ya Johnny, you too.”

After a bite to eat at the dinner and picking up my cloths from the cleaners, I rode home to get ready to go over to Penny’s boat at seven.

I parked my bike on the wooden walk way by her thirty-six foot Chris-Craft. Thirty-six foot was bigger than I remembered them to be. Only having small runabouts and hydroplanes since I was twelve, I didn’t get to go on big boats that much. I had worked at a large boat yard for a year and got pretty good at handling them though.

Penny must have heard me ride up on my Indian, because she came up on deck before I could ring the little bell on a pole on the dock.

Hi Johnny. I’m glad you could make it.”

“Hi Penny, I brought the beer, but I’ll have to call for the Pizza. It's hard to carry a pizza on a bike and the wind would make it cold before I got here.”

“Come on aboard. I’m cooking some lobster that Red gave me this afternoon. We can have the pizza latter if you still want it.”

“Lobster works for me.”

“Come on down below, I won’t bite.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“The food will be ready in about a half-hour. Open up a couple of beers and relax.”

The large main cabin was paneled with white oak halfway up the wall. The kitchen was small but seemed to have everything one would need. I popped the tops off two bottles of beers and sat down at the small table.

“This is nice Penny.”

“I love it here on the water. I might even sell the house when it’s ready and live on here permanently.”

“Sounds like a plan. Can I help you with anything?”

“Nope, it’s just about ready. I’m just waiting on the baked potatoes. I hope you’re hungry?”

“I’m starving. I haven’t had anything since I was in your diner this morning.”

“Let me show you the rest of the boat. This in here is where I sleep and the bathroom is in there. That’s about it.”

The bedroom was almost as large as the main cabin. The bed was queen size with a mermaid mural painted on the headboard. The whole boat was kept very neat and clean.

“That’s a cool painting on the headboard there.”

“My girlfriend Sherry is an artist. She took the headboard off awhile back and painted it on there for me.”

“She’s very good. I don’t know that much about art, but it looks like it’s good to me.”

“She is good. She sells her paintings in a gallery in Queens and one out in Sag Harbor.”

I noticed Penny had on a very short green skirt with a black turtleneck. Every time she bent over to check in the oven, I could see her green panties. At this point I didn’t know which one I was more hungry for , the lobster meat or the Penny meat.

“Ok it’s ready. Do you want sour cream for your potato?”

“No just butter please.”

“Dig in and help yourself to whatever else you need.” She said.

The lobster was fresh and cooked to perfection. After the dinner with two more bottles of beer I was stuffed.

“That was a great meal Penny. I didn’t know you could cook like that.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know I can do.”

“I’m sure.”

“How about taking me for a ride after I clean everything up? I love riding on the back of motorcycles.”

“Let me give you a hand cleaning up and then we can take a ride down to Long Beach.”

“Sounds good to me.”

After cleaning up, Penny went into her bedroom to swap her skirt for a pair of blue jeans with black leather motorcycle jacket and boots. Then she came over and kissed me on the neck and said.

“Come on lets go James Dean.”

“James Dean?”

“That’s who you remind me of.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Very.”

“Just call me James then.”

I took Long Beach Road to head down to the boardwalk. The big oversize seat on the Indian fit us both like a glove. I felt the warmth of her pressing up against my butt while we bounced along.

“This is a nice bike Johnny. It’s nice and big and rides smooth.”

“It’s eight hundred and forty pounds. It should be.”

“Let’s stop at the Sand Bar and have a couple of belts of Tequila and head back to the boat.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” I said starting to drool.

When we got to the bar we did the salt and lemon thing three times and jumped back on the bike and headed for the boat.

“Let’s take a little swim when we get back to the boat.” She shouted into my ear over the roar of the bike.

“Don’t you think it’s a little cold for swimming this time of year?”

“Don’t worry, I promise to warm you up after the swim. She said while nibbling on my ear.”

“Bingo.” I thought.

“Swimming it is then. But I’m going to be very cold after being in that cold water.”

Penny just laughed a sexy laugh.

Back at her boat we both stripped down to our underwear and dove off the side of the boat. Penny swam back and forth across the canal three or four times before she stopped by the ladder of the boat. She was a very powerful swimmer I noticed.

“I’ve had enough. That felt good.” She said as she climbed up the ladder with her green panties clinging to her. Her large breasts were just about out of her bra from the swimming.

When I got up on deck she threw me a big towel to dry off with and said she would be back out in a minute.

“Why don’t you pour us a couple more Tequila’s while I’m getting dry? The bottle is in the cabinet there.”

“Sounds good to me.”

When she came back out she was in a white terry cloth robe with her long hair pulled back in a ponytail. In the light of the one little light in the cabin she looked like Bridgett Bardot.

“After we each had two shots of the firewater she said.

“Come on in the bedroom and bring the Tequila and two glasses.”

I woke up when the sun started shinning into my eyes at eight-thirty. I don’t think I ever had been so completely drained from a woman before. We had made love three times and then fell asleep in each other’s arms.

“Good morning Johnny, was I all you thought I would be?”

“Everything and more. Geeez I’m about dead.”

“You were great yourself tiger. I think we made the mermaid here blush.” She laughed.

“I’d really like to see you again Penny.”

Aren’t you afraid of Howard?”

“Some things in life are worth the danger. I fact it adds to the excitement of the whole thing.” I said meaning every word.

“You can sleep as long as you want but I have to get ready for the lunch shift at work.”

“I'm going to head out too. I have to go get Chuck’s tow truck to pick up my new car out East.”

“What did you get?”

“A black 1960 Cadillac convertible Coupe DeVille.”

“Wow that’s cool Johnny.”

“Well it needs some work and I have to repaint it but it will be worth it.”

“I love those cars.”

“Me too. I said.

“Call me when you’re free to go out again. I really enjoyed last night.” She said.

“I will but I just told Chuck and his wife I would do something for them.”

After telling her what I had to do and that I had to spend a week or so of nights in the wrecking yard shack, she said maybe she could join me a few nights.

“I’d like that Penny.”

“You would love that Johnny.”

“That too.”

“Ok I got to shower, call me when you can.”

“I will Penny, take care.” I said kissing her on the lips.

I was in love again.

I picked up my car and brought it back to Chuck’s with no problems. Chuck was out picking up some car his helper Bob said. I was still beat from the night before with Penny so called it a night early.

The next morning I went out to pick up the two new dogs with Chuck. They were two almost all black German Pincher’s. A little under two years old and already trained for guard duty.

For the next two weeks I spent my days at Chucks yard working on my new car and most of my nights on Penny’s boat. The car was just about ready to have painted. I figured I better wait until I caught these guys before I did anymore to it, being that I hadn’t earned it yet.

Penny and I were getting along great. She was a free spirit like me and didn’t ask a lot of questions. She was everything I liked in a woman. If this kept up I would have to make a decision before Howard got out of jail. Everyone was right. He would try and kill anyone that was with his ex wife.

Then I got a call from Chuck on a Monday morning. He said that two wrecking yards were robbed over the weekend, one in Freeport and the other in Valley Stream. Both of them were with in five miles of Chucks. This time they took motors and automatic transmissions.

“I’d like you to start staying at the yard starting tonight Johnny.”

“Ok no problem Chuck. I’ll be there around six.”

The first two nights all was quiet and boring. The next day Penny was off so I figured I’d spend the day with her. We took my Indian for the hundred-mile trip out to Montauk Point, the eastern most tip of Long Island. I even let Penny ride me on the back of the bike for the last thirty miles. She had owned her own bike at one time so I knew she could ride well. I have been to just about every state in the country, including Alaska, and except for Alaska I’ll take Long Island over the rest. The island is a hundred-twenty miles long and fourteen miles wide at its widest. You have the rolling hills and the Long Island Sound on the North shore, and the beaches on Atlantic Ocean on the South shore. Boating and fishing are world class too. More than ninety fishing records are from it. One thing you find on Long Island that not many places have is the four distinct seasons. About three months each of fall, winter, spring, and summer. None of them are extreme.

“This is a great bike Johnny. Now I know why they say to put an Indian between your legs.”

“Ummmm I think that’s a Harley between your legs.”

“Whatever, doesn’t Indian sound better?”

“I’m part Indian you know.” I said.

“What part?”

“The good part.”

Let’s head back to the boat for some tepee time.” She said.

“Young brave coming.”

“Not yet I hope.” She laughed.

When we got back to the boat Penny made some roast beef sandwiches that we ate out on the deck with bottles of beer to wash them down.

“What do you want to do now?” Penny asked.

“I need to go get some black spray paint and paint these two dog muzzles I bought. I want to put them on the dogs when it gets dark so they can bark but can’t eat any poison meat that the thief’s might throw over the fence again.”

“You’re a smart little sucker aren’t you?”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

“Are you going to have time for a nap with me before you have to go to Chucks tonight?”

“The paint can wait a few more hours. I need my nap for strength to catch the bad guys.”

“I thought that would be the case. Come on lets take a shower first.”

After a shower and umm, a nap, I headed for the paint store and then to Chuck’s wrecking yard.

I spray painted the outside of the muzzles and hung them outside to dry and air out the paint smell. When I put them on the dogs you couldn’t tell they were wearing them in the dark.

Nothing happened that night but the next night about one in the morning the dogs started to growl. I saw three guys over by the side gate next to a large U-Haul-It. I saw someone throw something over the fence. I took my 9 mm. Beretta out of its shoulder holster and checked that the clip was full. Then I made my way toward the side gate, keeping low behind cars to where the dogs were. I quickly took their muzzles off and put strong rubber bands around their snouts way they couldn’t bark, making sure they could still breath well. Then I put leashes on them and took them back inside the shack where I tied them up.

When I got about twenty-feet from the side gate I found the meat they had thrown over. I threw it over the opposite fence so they wouldn’t see it. When I saw them cut the lock on the fence with a bolt cutter and start the truck up, I ran back to the shack and called the police to tell them there was a robbery in progress at Chuck’s Wreaking on Drew Street. Then I ran back to with in fifty-feet of the side gate watching them back the big truck in. Of course I couldn’t wait for the cops to come, so when they were all out of the truck standing together I jumped out with my gun drawn.

“Hit the ground assholes, your surrounded.”

I guess they didn’t believe me because they all drew guns and started shooting at me. My second shot put one down and my fourth shot found its mark on another of them. The third guy put his hands in the air.

“Throw the gun away from you and get on the ground face down.” I shouted.

As I was walking slowly up to him I heard the sirens from the cops getting closer. When I got to the three I found one dead with a hole in his chest and one badly wounded in the upper thigh. I hurried over to the guy on the ground, flipped him over and hit him hard across the bridge of his nose.

“I’m only going to ask this question once a******. Who is behind this gang and where are you taking or selling the parts?”

He hesitated a second so I shot him in the foot.

“Owww, all right don’t shoot me again. Sam Stalone runs the operation for Joe Lucie. They are selling the parts to a used parts place in Brooklyn that ships them overseas.”

I hit him on the nose again.

“And Lucie wants to run the wrecking yard association?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Joe Lucie was the head of a Long Island crime family. He ran trucking and construction among other things. This was not good for my future health.

Then all hell broke loose as the cops came roaring in the yard like they were on TV show. Jumping out of their cars with guns drawn I thought they were going to shoot me.

“Throw the gun down and get on the ground now.” They all seemed to yell at once.

After questioning me for a few minutes, my friend Detective Molloy arrived on the scene. Of course he was very pleasant as usual.

“Put cuffs on Mr. Sax here and take him back to the station.”

After four hours of questioning by Molloy and his partner, they decided to hold my gun and investigators license until an inquiry was complete.

I was lucky that the guy I questioned ratted out Lucie for all the robberies and one murder. He got life in Attica prison.

The Wrecking Yard Association gave me over twenty grand for stopping the robberies, but the state kept my license and gun permit thanks to the testimony of Detective Molloy.

Penny sold her house and we took the boat down to Tampa Florida. Then I came back to New York for my Caddy. I joined her on the boat in Tampa the next month.

She bought a small diner that was just opened for breakfast and lunch Monday through Friday down in the business district. She is doing very well.

You can find me working on my tan on the boat deck by day and most nights at a pool hall hustling pool. I love it when a plan comes together.

End

Personal experience articles or short fiction?

bluegypsy — Mon, 26 Feb 2007 00:59:24 GMT

Hello writers!

My name is Janice, and I'm a 44 year old mom of three teens, and about to take my lifelong writing dream to the next level. Like many writers, I've got stories up my sleeve, in my heart, and behind my ears, and I'm ready to start submitting my work. I just wonder if I should try writing my stories as the personal experiences which they are, or should I change things to fiction, and spice them up a bit? I'm asking because in developing a 'platform', a specific 'label' per se, of who I am, I'm not sure if doing both is a good thing, or not a good thing. Does it even matter yet? I mean, I can write fiction, I've got lots of life to draw from, but I also want to be known as a women's writer, specializing in women's issues. Does anyone have any thoughts they'd like to share? Thanks so much, Janice

Vision Quest

fastkilr — Sun, 19 Mar 2006 09:22:45 GMT

Wrestling always came naturally to me. When I was out on the mat I forgot all pain, all distractions, all emotions. I never left anything on the mat. Right before a match my fears would subside and my nerves would tense. I'd feel naked in my singlet, in front of a large crowd. But these were the times when I felt most proud.

Coach James wrestled all through High School and some in College. At the beginning of the season, when I was still on Junior Varsity for the 160 weight class, Coach had little faith in my ability to perform on the mat. He held me in even less esteem on a personal level out of season. If I'd seen him around the School halls (he teaches Science), he'd often scoff at me.

Our Coach, James Russell, wrestled all throughout High School and had a short career in College. During the beginning of our season (when I was still on Junior Varsity for the 160-pound weight class), Coach had little faith in my abilities on the mat. He held me in even less esteem when we had chance encounters in the School halls. He took up teaching science only to find interest in once again emerging himself in Wrestling, by becoming our coach. But whenever I would pass by him, it seemed like I'd catch him scoffing at me.

But one day during practice he called me over while we were drilling technique.

"Bobby," he said, "do you want to challenge Arthur for the Varsity spot?"

"Yes Sir," I answered.

As practice drew to an end Arthur and I stepped into our own circle, the whole team watching us in amusement. He briefly shook my hand, displaying a great sense of faith in his facial expressions. Not long after we shook hands, he found himself pinned flat on his back. Although our match was short and unexpected Arthur carried a great deal of shame in consequence of that match. Our teammates talked a lot of trash about him afterwards. If I didn't feel so deserving of the Varsity singlet, I might have been mildly sympathetic for him. But I wasn't.

Before long I gained our Coach's respect and he was treating me more like a friend, rather than a stranger. Coach James's philosophy was one he carried over from his College Coach, who visited us during practices periodically, clearly impressed at our adaption of Greco-Roman techniques.

During the night of our first meet I had a gut feeling that things were going to start changing soon. My focus was set on jogging up and down a hallway, trying to shed a couple pounds so I could make weight. Once it was time for weigh-ins I stripped down to my briefs and found myself to be .5 lbs under 160. 'Thank God,' I thought, impressed that I could lose a couple pounds in such a short time.

As we warmed up, I noticed a crowd building in the bleachers. It grew louder and more diverse by the minute. 'Definitely not the same as Middle School Wrestling,' I thought. Speakers that hung up above the main mat played Red Rider's "Lunatic Fringe" which our team, The Red Riders, had adapted from the Wrestling film "Vision Quest."

My friend Jeremy was helping me with our partner warmup. Jeremy had light brown hair like mine and an indigent smile. He wrestled in the 145 lbs weight class. Pressing my stomach against his back, I spun around in circles holding my hands behind my back, straining my feet to spin me one way then the other, repeating the process for nearly a minute before we switched places. He was two years my senior, one year above me in grade. His stomach felt heavy on my back and I could barely hold his weight, curled up almost into a ball, my Varsity warmup zipper irritating my unshaven chin. Jeremy finished, heaving in an inhale, fighting for breath.

"To-night is the night," said Jeremy.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

He looked at me cross.

"It means that to-night's the night that you've got to prove yourself," he explained. "If you win your match, consider this your cordial invitation to one hell of an after party. That is, if we win the meet."

I found myself in the middle of a weight line in our schools auxiliary gym listening to an announcer in the main auditorium. Everyone in our room was quiet except for a couple Freshmen kids who'd find a lot to complain about in the next day's practice. The auditorium door swung open with a hefty muscled man behind it. He waved us forward and we walked single file behind the "home" set of bleachers. The room was very dark. Then a spotlight switched on, obscured from our view by the bleachers. Everyone seemed to be on their feet and the matches were announced. "For the 160-pound class we have Bobby Engels wrestling for Birch Wood High, and his opponent, Tony Blair, from Eastside High School." My stomach stiffened and the hair on my armed seemed as if it were standing on end inside my warmup suit. With some nerve, I jogged out into the middle of the mat, stood in what I considered to be an intimidating stance, and shook hands with my opponent.

Tony Blair had a very strong grip which I knew would work to his advantage. His eyes fell right underneath his eyebrows and he had his mouth closed for the duration of our meeting, but I assumed that he had bad teeth because of his rough lips. He nodded delicately to me and I returned the gesture. It felt good to feel respected. As I ran back to my team, Coach patted me on the back and shook my hand tightly. Our assistant Coaches stood out of the way.

After every upcoming match met in the center of the circle, the lights flashed on and the national anthem was sung by a lone cheerleader who was there with a rather large cheerleader friend, trying to support the Wrestling team. The former was pure eye candy.

The audience's veracity and sharp tone receded to a subtle growl as the first match began. A 103 lbs Tony Larson (of Birch Wood High School) successfully pinned his guy twenty seconds into the match. We all congratulated him with cheesy smiles. I didn't pay much attention to the other matches until the 145 weight class. When that match began, I stepped back behind our fold-out chairs and began jump roping. I shifted from my right to my left foot, pulling the jump rope around me over and over. After winning his match, Jeremy took seat in a chair and sat coolly, waiting to watch mine. My turn was almost up. I undressed quickly, leaving me in a singlet; leaving little to the imagination to the crowd. It had been a full year since I had competitively wrestled in front of an audience. Abruptly the 152 match ended. I was unsure of who the victor was when I made my way to the check in tables. I was much too focused on all sorts of moves I had planned to use the night before. Then I proceeded to the center of the mat. I was told by a very young British looking referee to wrap a red velcro marker around my right ankle.

Blair assumed his green ankle-decoration without direction. He held his hands on his hips, exposing the muscle which protruded from his forearms. It looked as if he was of great strength. I tried to rid myself of the idea that he was the stronger man, but I knew that Wrestling was always 50% technique, and 50% physical. "The smarter guy almost always wins," Coach once said to me. I nodded over to Coach James, got into Neutral position and at the sound of the Referee's whistle went shooting down first to my right knee, then followed through with my left, dragging it in tight and fast. I had successfully ducked underneath his arms and as he tried to sprawl, I quickly made to the left and got behind him, riding his legs on the ground. "Takedown. Two, Red!" announced the referee.

Once I got a lifted hold on his ankle I drove my knee right into his backside. He grunted forward and with little effort I had him on his side, moaning in agony, his arm interlocked with my own, a half nelson slung around his neck. Before even I came to the realization of my opportunity, I had already gotten the guy flat on his back. Within seconds the whistle re-sounded and I thought we were being called up to Neutral. At first I considered that I had probably fouled Blair, or maybe I had been stalling, but as the Referee raised my hand, a swelling prideful gasp of victory accidently emitted from my lips, almost like I was thanking the then ecstatic crowd. I shook hands with Eastside's Coach, who I didn't look in the face, then made my way back to be congratulated by my team.

We had won the meet thirty-nine to thirty-seven. If I hadn't won my match we would have lost. That gave me a great feeling of dignity as I met with Jeremy after we rolled up the mat. We were both on an energy high. After the team split up I got in his car and he drove me to his house despite my bickering and ordering that he take me to mine, or I'd walk home. Of course I wouldn't do so. It would have been a five mile walk. We entered his house and it was then that I had realized that his parents weren't home. Then I found many of our High School peers entering his door way, many with alcohol. At first I was scared to death. I had never drank anything in my life. Then Jeremy told me to relax, said he understood if I didn't drink, and proceeded to hand me a bottle of Bud Light. This feeling of friendly safety and reliability inspired me to drink. I got through five bottles easily and felt way too bloated afterwards. The whole varsity squad of the Wrestling team was there. There was no Arthur anywhere to be seen and here I was, a Freshmen, a beer in my hand, chatting up the cheerleader who I'd just been admiring at the meet. I certainly was reaping the rewards of our Team victory; my Vision Quest.