Monday, December 16, 2019

It’s All Up to You

     I’ve read recently that people have become emotional handcuffed by the problems in the world. They can’t function and have a dim view of the future.
     The world problems have kidnapped their emotions and taken control of their lives. That’s devastating news to find out you have lost control and see little chance for recovery. Is it true? Yes, it is, if you let happen to you, but it’s all up to you.
     You’ve heard of the optimist and pessimist view of the glass half full. Well, that’s what it’s about. It’s not all about what’s happening in the world, but how you internalize it. Letting world problems affect you in a negative way is the catalyst for taking emotional control of your life. How much has your life changed in the past year because of outside influences? If the answer is many things, then you need to take a step back and revaluate. The one thing you have total control of is your reaction to a situation.
    World problems won’t go away, just replaced by another. Being stressed out, sleep deprived and physically exhausted won’t make you live to the fullest and won’t make the problems disappear. Put things in to perspective and do the right thing for yourself. You are at your best when you put yourself first.
     The world is not perfect and neither are our lives but there is one thing that’s perfect. Resilience of people to overcome their problems. I believe if we take care of our own problems, the world problems will start to shrink. “Just Saying . . . “

Thursday, December 12, 2019

Too Much

     Is there something to the saying, “Too much of a good thing is bad.” News is good, basically, but is it necessary to be bombarded with it 24/7? Don’t we need some downtime from news overload? I do. What are the negative effects of too much news?
     Electronics has changed our lives with the invention of smart phones, which led to a whole array of electronic devices. It has improved our lives in some ways, but we now seem to be under constant surveillance. There’s too many people and things watching us. While it’s true many of these devices are meant to protect us but they also invade our personal space. It seems like it’s too much of an intrusion for the benefits we receive.
     Bacon is the exception to this rule. There is never too much bacon. No one ever says, “No more bacon for me. I’ve had enough.”
     There is too much reality TV. One episode is more than adequate. Anything beyond that is too much. Think about it, why would anyone care about the characters on “Big Brother.” It’s been on TV for over 20 years, but I don’t understand why.
     But, let’s get back to bacon. It enhances everything. Salads are healthy and many have bacon bits. Bacon on burgers was a historic idea. Chocolate covered bacon. Who would turn that down? No one I know.
     I’ve noticed a lot of people protesting. It’s a good way to voice your objections. But, sometimes it turns into complaining, even worse whining. Politicians do a lot of whining. Too much whining, that’s all I’m saying.
     I know this all may be too much to think about, but remember, we‘ll always have bacon. “Just Saying . . .”


 

Monday, December 2, 2019

Suspicious Minds

     The truck made a slow turn down Capital Street as if the driver was looking for something. Just an old green Chevy step-side pickup, which had the fender wells on the outside of the truck bed. An unimportant detail unless you’re a car guy, but some details become more important when a crime is involved. As a retired detective from a major metropolitan city, I was attuned to picking out details even in my small-adopted town.
     It was a quiet Thursday morning, but that would soon change. Lunchtime neared, which brought heavy traffic to the many fast-food restaurants on Capital. The park would be bustling with joggers and people stealing away for a few minutes of sanity from a hectic work life. People lived more stressful lives these days and welcomed a time to let their guard down; lunch was one of those opportunities.
     I made my rounds to the local downtown businesses dropping off the free weekly Triton newspaper. I didn’t earn much, but it occupied a little of my retirement free time. The extra money came in handy, but it was more about keeping busy. I always made sure I completed my deliveries before lunch hour, then I could sit in the park, and people watch. Not an exciting life, but interesting, because people are interesting. 
     This morning, as I walked to my usual spot in the park I again noticed the green pickup as it drove down Capital Street. This time the bed was full. A tarp held down the load with bungee straps.  Normally the sight of a loaded pickup rarely drew attention or caused concern, this being a blue-collar town, but there was something different today. 
     This time I noticed the driver, Middle Easterner, with a full beard, as one might expect. There was a passenger too, a black man, African American or whatever the proper term is now. Immediately, my suspicions surfaced, but should they? My police background, reinforced by the nightly news was the cause. The news survives by promoting fear. The truck slowed and finally stopped in front of a multi-story office building, Capital Insurance, employing about 300 workers.
     It couldn’t be ignored, especially this time of year with all the holiday shoppers out and about.  I called the police to report a suspicious truck. 
     The police responded quickly. Many spectators watched from afar. I felt I had done the smart thing, but it didn’t feel right. The police talked with the driver for about fifteen minutes, then a tow truck appeared, hooked up the old truck and dragged it away. By now there were three squad cars. The two suspects got in one of the police cars and were driven away. 
     What was going on? Did I divert an impending disaster? Just then a cop pulled over to the crowd. Questions flew at him like pellets in an ice storm.
     “What’s going on?”
     “Who are those people?”
     “Are we in danger?”
     The cop held up his hands to quiet the crowd, then said. “Everything is under control. We were just checking into some suspicious behavior. I can’t say anything more at this time.”
     “Seems like that’s always your response,” someone yelled from the crowd.
     “Yeah!” others said in agreement.
     “Look, if you want to know more come over to Brantley’s high school auditorium on Friday night at 6:00 pm. We should have more information at that time.” The cop stated.
* * *
     Friday night came quickly. In the meantime, the town buzzed with rumors about the green truck and the occupants. The parking lot was full that night when I arrived. It seemed like everyone wanted to know what impending danger lay ahead.
     The crowd sat anxiously waiting for the police to explain. The Chief of Police walked out to address the crowd.
     “This is a highly unusual situation, which is easier to understand if I show you this,” as he pulled back a curtain to display a mountain of toys.  
     The Chief went on to explain. “The two men we picked up the other day, both Muslims, have been collecting and repairing toys to distribute to poor children of this town for the Christmas holiday. It’s not their religious holiday, but they knew most of the people in this town are Christian and, they wanted to do something for the children.” They need help to complete their Christmas wish. If anyone’s able to help, please see Ahmed or Abdul after the meeting.”
     A stunned silence struck the crowd and a line immediately formed in front of the two Muslims to sign up to help. That day I learned some details could lead you in the wrong direction. 
     I still deliver the local paper, but when I’m finished I skip the park and instead go to Ahmed and Abdul’s Coffee and Tea House in an unfamiliar part of town. The back of their shop has a room filled with broken toys in need of repair. Toys for the poor kids bring us together as our worlds grow closer. 

Sunday, November 17, 2019

Santa Fe

I’d never been to Santa Fe, New Mexico, and yet it felt like home. The buildings and people were unfamiliar to my eyes but oddly recognizable to my senses. I felt like a local and looked like a one. Tourists stopped and asked for directions or recommendations for a restaurant or hot spot. Even though I’d only been there a week, my response to each request contained an air of confidence. 
            When I first walked into the Coyote Cafe and Cantina, they welcomed me back. Maybe it was nothing,­ just their way of making everyone feel comfortable, but it seemed like more. 
            The waitress approached my table and asked as if I was a regular customer. “Do you want the usual?” 
            Without even thinking I answered. “Yes” The drink menu lay open on the table, their special, the Coyote Margarita was called “The Usual,” which explained a lot. My imagination was working overtime and made me chuckle at myself.
            While looking over the menu, a stranger walked over to me. He stopped and smiled then stuck out his hand. “John, where have you been? It’s been ages.”
            I took his hand, not because he was familiar but because my name was John. “Working . . . I’ve been busy.” I stared at him trying to find something familiar about his face. Nothing . . . nothing came to mind. 
            “You need to come to Milo’s tonight. The whole gang will be there.”
            Still bewildered I said, “Thanks, I’ll think about it.”
            “I reserved a room from seven to midnight. Tell them you’re with Tony. They all know me.”
            “Thanks, Tony, I’ll try to make it. What are you celebrating?”
            “It’s something we started last year, a tribute to Aly-Cat and her inspiring spirit. Of course, I don’t need to tell you about her.” Tony pointed upward. “A perfect nickname for her.”
            I played along. “Such a great nickname, it described her to a T.” I didn’t remember Aly or Tony. Maybe lost memories would resurface, if I attended the gathering at Milo’s. Confused thoughts filled my brain.
My curiosity got the best of me. So to try to put this puzzle together I went to Milo’s. My story to explain why I’d been out of touch was the extensive business travel up east, which led me to setting up a permanent residence in Baltimore.
            When I showed up at Milo’s, people greeted me like a reunion. Everyone knew my name, I knew no one, but I acted like they were long lost childhood friends. My senses were on high alert listening for names so I could play my part. Stories about escapades from our past brought laughter and smiles to our faces. Mine included. Not because I remembered, only that I could relate. I made mental notes placing names with faces and events. 
            Nothing triggered a memory for me, even the ski weekend we all spent in Taos. Aly’s brother, Chad, talked with me, about her moving to Taos after that weekend. “She lived in a tiny house just outside Angel Fire ski resort after you two split.” He looked over at me and said. “You and Aly were a great couple. None of us understood what happened.”
            I looked around at the others. “Sometimes there isn’t one answer.” 
            Chad picked up his beer and took a swig. “You and Aly were alike in that way. You were both secretive about what happened, but neither of you blamed the other.”
            “What’s your point?”
            “The point is she died and you weren’t here.”
            “It haunts me daily. It was too late when I found out. We hadn’t talked in several months. Our lives were on different paths.” 
“That’s true.” Chad nodded. ”Aly found her passion going into a small business to connect with people. She was getting ready to open a cat cafĂ© called Aly Cats. Serving tea, sandwiches and specialty wines from local vineyards. She hadn’t even opened yet and already talked about plans to expand.”            
“I know it was an accident but no one’s told me exactly what happened.”
“No one saw what happened, so we aren’t exactly sure.” Chad continued. “The police said the avalanche was triggered by an exploding propane tank. Her tiny house was buried instantly.”
“That seems like a freak accident.”
“The crazy thing is they found a second body in her house. DNA didn’t reveal anything about the mysterious person and no one recognized him.”
“Maybe she had a mystery lover. Could be nothing more than that.”
Although I had no memory of ever knowing them, I spent the rest of the evening chatting with old friends. I left early as it was becoming difficult to keep up this game of charade. 
            That night when I lay my head on the pillow, my mind was whirling with crazy scenarios of the stories about Aly. 
* * *
The next morning I woke feeling groggy and decided to walk down to the coffee shop to get an espresso. I needed a shot of caffeine. As I turned to head over to a booth, I saw Chad, so I walked over to say hi.
“Chad, I wanted to apologize for not being around when Aly died.” 
            He scratched his chin and cocked his head.  “How did you know Aly?”
“What? I was with you last night at Milo’s. “
Still confused, he said. “I’m sorry. You must have mistaken me for someone else.”
“We talked about her tragic accident.” I gave Chad a puzzled look.
“Accident? You mean her being murdered but her boyfriend John.“
“What? No! Wasn’t it an avalanche that buried her in her house?”
“There was an avalanche that John started. He exploded a propane tank, but Aly was already dead. The avalanche killed John . . . karma.”

Monday, November 11, 2019

Traveling the Highway of Life

Sleet pelted the window with repetitive monotonous ping. The sound was relaxing, but the thought of driving to my friends' house on the slick roads concerned me. Driving was fun for me, but only on well maintained paved roads. Snow and sleet were a problem. I couldn’t be sure if they were recently treated. Even if they were, it seems likely that some ice patches prevailed. Those are the ones
I worry about, the ice patches that defy treatment.
     Driving is like life, some roads are straight, some curved, others hilly, but all take you to a destination. The roads themselves do not create the problems. It’s the detours, roadblocks and other obstacles you encounter along the way.
     Despite my concerns, I can’t let problems control my life, so I bundled myself up in a heavy winter coat and boots to make the trek to my friends' house. As I expected the roads were not free of ice, even though they were treated. Turning around to head back in the house was my first thought, but I couldn’t disappoint my friend. He looked forward to each of my visits. I was his connection to a normal life, a trivial life, a life he would never have.
     My fears were his dreams, his fantasies. His reality was like the repetitive monotonous ping of the sleet on the window panes. Life stops if there are no challenges. Achievements, big or small give us a reason to smile. My challenges and achievements were small compared to his. He smiled easily, but I found it difficult.
     Opportunities are endless for me, too easy one may say, but it’s hard for me to see them. His vision for the future is focused and open to any challenge. I want to inspire him to conquer life, that’s why I visit.
     I parked the car and entered his home. He smiled when he saw me. “Ted, I’ve been waiting. I want to show you what I can do.”
     “Hi Sam, I can’t wait to see it.”
     Busting with excitement, he shouted. “Look at my toes . . . I can move them.”
     A tear rolled down my cheek. “This is why I visit. You inspire me.”

Wednesday, November 6, 2019

Early Riser

     It was late, much later than I’d been out in a long while. I was a night owl in my college days, but that is no longer my life. I rose early to get to the office first, because success didn’t happen without effort, for some never at all. Failure wasn’t going to happen to me, I always told myself. Some people call me driven, but others said I had no life. I disagreed; my life was my work, which was all I really needed.
     People didn’t understand, but why should I care. I kept to myself. There was no need to get involved with the problems of others. It never turned out well. 
     My life was routine, but it worked for me. I normally picked up dinner on the way home from work, takeout, but that night I ate quietly in the diner at the back booth. A couple of young thugs with gang tattoos walked in. They made some rude sexual comments to the waitress then grabbed her and pawed at her blouse. Her name was Julie. I knew her but not intimately. She was pretty, but she had a kid, and that was a problem for me.
     I watched in silence from the booth, trying to be invisible. I'd seen this before, but Julie was adept at handling creeps. These guys were different, more persistent and obnoxious. She was flustered, and the place was almost empty, except for an older couple and me, but they left quickly once the thugs started trouble. 
     Now it was just Julie, the tattooed creeps and me left in the diner. I no longer went unnoticed by the gang members. They wanted me out so they could stalk their prey. I should have gotten my order to go, but now my conscience wouldn't let me leave. Dammit. This could get ugly. I left my phone at the office so calling for help wasn’t an option.
     Julie tried to dial 911 from her phone, but they grabbed it out of her hand, then pointed at me and motioned to the door. I got up not sure what to do, but I couldn't leave her alone. She’d be a statistic on tomorrow’s newscast. 
     I strolled toward the door. Time was not my friend. Seconds were ticking away as I approached the exit. I had to do something, but what?
     Without giving it much thought I grabbed a chair and swung it at the guy that appeared to be the head thug, striking him in the side of the head. He dropped the phone as he clutched his bleeding head. Julie immediately picked it up and dialed 911. The other guy came at me with a knife; thank God he didn’t have a gun. I fended him off like a lion tamer, holding the chair in front of me. I advised him to leave with his buddy since the cops would be showing up within minutes. 
     Julie waved the phone at him and said. “I see the flashing lights.” She pointed out the window. 
     They ran out quickly as they yelled, “We’ll be back.”
     Julie mumbled. “I’ll be ready.”
     “That was close,” I said. “Lucky you were able to get the phone and call the police.”
     “I was bluffing, the phone’s broken.” She held it up to show the broken screen. “In this neighborhood, you always hear sirens so I was gambling.”
     “Holy shit! That’s gutsy.” I remarked. “I’m not playing poker with you,”
     She smiled, “I better lock the door.” She turned the deadbolt and started to lower the shades. “That was brave of you, to stick your neck out for a stranger. What’s your name?”
     “Thanks, it’s Timothy . . . just call me Tim. I’ve been here before, so you’re not a stranger. I don’t normally get involved, but this is different.” I started to lower another shade. “They threatened to come back. What are you going to do?”
     “I’m not sure what to do. I need this job.” She looked in his eyes. “I recognized you, but you’re quiet . . . you rarely say a word to me.” 
     “Yeah, I fly under the radar, most of the time. We should get out of here before your admirers realize they’ve been duped.”
     “Admirers . . . that’s funny. But you’re right, let’s go, now.”
     “Do you need a ride?” He pushed the chair back under the table.
     “No, I only live two blocks away. I’ll be fine.”
     “Let me give you a ride. They could be waiting around the corner for you.”
     I checked the parking lot and saw no signs of trouble so after locking up we hustled out to my car, a dinged up Ford Focus with only three hubcaps and a dented rear fender. I never needed to worry about it being stolen. 
     I felt good doing something to help her. She was a young single mother doing her best to support her child. It was a short drive. I’d drop her off and get back to my bland life. It was two blocks, no big deal. She thanked me repeatedly, as we turned west on Second Street toward the projects. When we rounded the corner I spotted two cars riding side-by-side exchanging gunfire.
      “Holy Crap! We have to turn around.” 
     Julie looked at me with tears rolling down her cheek. “But my son, I have to get home.”  
     I made a U-turn in the middle of the street. “We will but we have to go a different way.”
     Just then a third car turned the corner at high-speed heading my direction. I stomped on the gas now driving east on Second Street but my economy car was no match for their go-fast car. They were gaining on us quickly. At least I was driving a direction that was familiar to me. Two blocks down on the left was Compton Avenue, which led to the rail yard. If I could get to the yard I might be able to lose them. 
     Compton was quickly approaching but so was the thug mobile, so I didn’t slow down. As I made the turn on to Compton I could feel the car lift up on the left almost leaving the ground. The tires screeched like an animal being skinned. 
     Julie huffed, moaned and yelled. “Shiiiiiiiitttt.”
     I was too focused and scared to say anything until we exited the turn unscathed. Then brilliantly claimed. “That wasn’t so bad.”
     Through the rearview mirror, I could see the chase car take the turn at a high rate of speed, much faster than I had. They made the turn but sideswiped two cars, which slowed them down but they didn’t stop. 
     They were further back now, so there was a chance I could lose them in the rail yard. I knew a back way out, because I once worked here in my teens. I hoped it hadn’t been closed off. 
     Julie regained her composure and said. “For a quiet guy, you have a wild streak.”
     Before I could respond with a clever remark I saw a train and pointed at it. 
     “I hear the train.” I gripped the steering wheel. “It’s coming.”
     Julie braced herself, “rolling around the bend.”
     “No time for Johnny Cash.” I teased. “Maybe a duet later, June”
     She laughed. “You’re nuts.”
     The car launched over the tracks with the gang car not far behind. They were trying to beat the train. It was going to be close. The screeching of tires, the blaring horn from the train and the sound of the crushing metal filled the air. 
     I looked at Julie. “They won’t be bothering you anymore.”
     “There’ll be someone else to take their place.”
     We drove in silence to her apartment; both relieved the nights' trauma was over. As I pulled around to let her out she yelled. “Watch the curb.” Too late my front wheel jumped the curb and I hit the light post.
     “Can I give you a ride to work tomorrow?” I smiled. 
     “I think it would be faster taking my sons' skateboard, definitely safer.”
     I winked. “I’m an early riser.”

Sunday, November 3, 2019

A Dogs Life

When I was growing up the phrase ‘A Dogs Life’ meant you lived a difficult life. I looked up the definition and it means a miserable unhappy existence. I think that’s an outdated definition. My experience shows that pets, dogs in particular have an exceptional life.
     Let’s just go over a few facts.
1. Most dogs don’t work. Service dogs and guard dogs are the exception.
2. Dogs eat well. Owners often buy special food for their valued pet, while the owner eats a hot dog, no pun intended. In the 60’s canned Alpo was the main dog food. It was disgusting so, an improvement was needed, but we may have gone overboard.
3. Owners take their dog for a walk, so they get exercise and pick up their poop along the way. Nice gesture, but why can’t dogs use there own backyard for toilet duties?
4. You buy them toys, and they can be rather expensive. When was the last time they did something special for you. It’s true they are loyal and always welcoming, but let’s not forget the time they jumped up on the kitchen table and ate the cake or barbecue hamburgers.
5. Dogs are cute and funny, especially when you dress them up in costumes. I sure they love that.  Is cute and funny enough. What about the times when your coming home loaded down with packages, totally exhausted and they decide that it’s a perfect time to run away. Yea, cool . . . Not.
6. Dogs wag their tails and lick you to show appreciation. There’s really not much else they can do since they don’t have a job, reference fact #1. The human shows their appreciation by giving their dog fancy food, expensive toys and trips to the dog park. Taking your dog to the dog park is important to improve social skills. Some owners go over the top, but that’s not the dogs fault. Around the corner from our house a dog owner installed plastic bubbles (windows) in every fence panel so his dog could see what’s going on outside of his yard. That’s great for walkers, by that I mean, not great. Now the dog can run from window to window and actually see who he’s barking at. Fun, no not fun.
     I don’t want to give you the impression that I dislike dogs. Pets are great, dogs in particular, and when I was a kid we always had a dog. They were considered part of the family but not on the same level as humans. Today, however they have been elevated to a status beyond royalty in the family. Even the royals work. As a result I believe we need an official change to the definition of the term ‘A Dogs Life’. It should be changed to an animal of royal status to be honored without regard to their contribution.
     That’s just my thoughts, what are yours?



Friday, November 1, 2019

Alleys and Ash Pits

When I grew up, life was different. I lived in North St. Louis, what was known as Walnut Park. It was a community of middle class families. It was a safe neighborhood where neighbors knew neighbors and watched out for others.
     We played ball in the streets, frequently interrupted by passing cars. The drivers never seemed annoyed by us or our street activities, maybe because they were our neighbors. They saw us everyday and were never surprised to see kids running around the streets. Hide and seek, dodge ball and spud were a few of the other street games we played.
     Friday nights were usually spent at the RIO show, down the street from Lombardo’ restaurant. Most of the time the movie playing was not as important as meeting up with your friends. After the show we walked home, actually we walked everywhere. Most families had only one car, so dropping you off at your friends house was a rare occurrence.
     City kids in those days traveled the alleys to their destination. It didn’t matter that it was 10 pm and you were just returning from a scary movie. Alleys were shortcuts and we were used to them. Also, it wasn’t unusual to jump a few fences to cut through a yard. We knew where the dogs lived, but I always walked a little faster when passing an ash pit. Who knows what might be hiding in an ash pit?
     The old neighborhood is different now. I hear about it all the time on the evening news. The street names mentioned are always familiar, I’ve been on many of them when I was younger, but now there is a danger there that I never experienced.
     We weren’t rich or poor but our memories of those times make me smile. It’s different these days, so my memories will be different than my kids and vastly different for my year and a half old granddaughter. I just hope their memories are as pleasant as mine when they reminisce about their childhood. I hope they remember the adventures they had instead of their video games.
“Just Saying . . .”

Thursday, October 31, 2019

Lake

Short Story Fiction

They found his bloated body floating in a cove in Table Rock Lake near the James River arm. He was unrecognizable. The DNA identified him as one of the gang members to an up and coming drug kingpin, answering to the name Justice. The name didn’t seem to fit a gang leader but don’t tell him that or you may feel his long arm. 
            The floater was known to locals as Tats, due to all the elaborate tattoos he had. I met him once before I was aware of the gang and the lake house they occupied. The massive house sat on a point with unobstructed views from three directions, which was important for lake property, but more important if you’re the drug lord.
* * *
            The house was a half-mile across the lake from my small chateau. I never gave it much thought because it was just one of the many gigantic homes on the lakefront. Branson attracts a lot of celebrities; so big fancy houses are ordinary. I stayed off the lake on weekends, no need to fight for space with the young bucks and their cigarette boats. Tuesday through Thursday was my time on the lake. 
            Most days I would putter around in my johnboat fishing a few coves on my side of the lake. But on this day I wasn’t getting any bites, so I went clear across the lake to a cove that had received good fishing reports. It was off the main channel next to the point where the gang’s house sat. I picked a spot and threw my line in then waited patiently. After a few minutes, I got a bite and reeled in a small, largemouth bass. I tossed it back. 
            Within two hours I caught three dinner size bass and decided to call it a day. I started the motor and made my way at a good clip toward the main channel when I hit an underwater dike. The motor flipped up before it fell back violently hitting the transom. This was bad. I could see that I had damaged the lower unit. I wasn’t going anywhere, except where the current would take me. I was floating right toward the dock at the house on the point.  I noticed three men on the dock all dressed in black. Odd since it was about 95 degrees that day. The closer I got to the dock the more men I saw. I counted eight men in black. One had his jacket slung over his shoulder exposing his massive tattooed arms. There was no doubt he was the boss. My first thought was how nice of these guys to come out to help a boater in distress, but then I saw their guns. My boat had floated close enough that I could hear the words they yelled at me. 
            “Get away,” yelled the tattooed guy standing in front. “Leave now, before something bad happens.”
“My motor is broken.” I pointed to the lower unit. “I need a tow.”
“That’s not my problem. You’re trespassing.”
My boat was still about fifteen feet from their dock, so I knew I wasn't
trespassing, but the tattooed guy didn’t look like he was open to a discussion on that point. I let it go. I had floated close enough that they got a pole with a hook and pulled me in until I bumped the dock. Well. I guess I’m trespassing now unless I’m a guest because they pulled me to the dock. Probably, a moot point I don’t need to bring up.
            “If I could get a tow I’d be out of your hair . . .” Crap, he’s bald. “way, I mean way.” Nice save, doofus.
            “Want me to take care of him, Boss?” A muscle-bound underling said. 
            “No, go inside and see if the big boss needs a new anchor.” Tattoo guy laughed. “I’ll take care of our guest.” He reached down and grabbed my bowline. 
            Anchor? No, No. A guest. Yesss, that’s much better. I need to say something.
            I smiled. “A guest . . . Thanks and for your help as well.”
            “Step out of the boat.” He tied the rope to the cleat. “You’re not a guest. Sit, don’t move, and feel free to shut up.”
            He walked over to the boathouse and stepped inside. I heard a motor start and saw a boat back out. He pulled around to the side of the johnboat.
            “Get in your boat.” Then he threw a rope to me. “Tie this to your bow.” 
            Thank God he was going to help me. “I’m Clint, thanks.”
            “Tats, it’s your lucky day.”
            Is that his name, Tats?  “I’m ready . . . Tats, thanks again.”
            “Aren’t you going to untie the dock line?” 
            “Oh, yeah!” Nervous laugh. “That’s a good idea.”
            He towed my boat over to the marina, about two miles away. I was feeling more comfortable now that we were on common ground. I tied my boat up and jumped out to let the attendant know the repairs I needed on the engine. Tats waited at the dock. I returned after my conversation to thank him once more when he told me to jump in the boat.  
            “Jump in, I’ll drop you off at your place.” He threw me a lifejacket.
            “You’ve done enough. I can make it home from here.”
            “GET IN.”
            It’s hard to politely turn down a ride from a guy with a skull tattooed on one bicep and a bloody dagger on the other. “Okay, sounds great.”
            I got in the boat and attempted to make conversation. “Boy, that was a hairy ex. . . Crap, I did it again. Nooo! . . . crazy experience for me today.”
            I saw his lip twist into a small grin. “I’m bald, been that way for a long time.”
            On our trip back to my place, “A Little Bit of Heaven,” Tats pointed out a few fishing holes he’d heard were good spots. He dropped me off at my dock and suggested that I spend more time fishing on this side of the lake. I told him that was an excellent idea and invited him to share my fresh catch, but he declined.
            I didn’t sleep well that night but not because I was afraid. I was surprised that this big bulky dude was so well spoken. He was funny and friendly, in a rough sort of way.
I never saw him again, but over the next few months, I heard rumors about the drug gang, their leader Justice and Tats. The stories of their escapades were chilling. No surprise considering the business they were conducting. The reputation of Justice was the very definition of evil. He had no remorse. Tats was different, as were the rumors about him. He was tough but known to have a heart especially for kids and senior citizens.
            The bigger shock was the stories about a philanthropist who gave money to schools and hospitals. No one knew much about him since all his donations were anonymous. Each donation came with the message “Treasure All That’s Sacred,” always written in the same manner. It’s hard to know what to believe. It’s up to you to decide, but I’ve learned not to trust first impressions.

Tuesday, October 22, 2019

Dangerous Relaxation

 This story received an honorable mention in a 2018 fiction contest
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      I knew very few neighbors, although they knew of me. Most of my neighbors were permanent residents. I was just a visitor and referred to as a Weekender. The tag was not complimentary. The permanents kept track of the casual residents. They didn't like changes, and they were quick to let you know if you tried to topple an established tradition. I did that once and got the cold shoulder that still prevails today.
     It was early morning. Dew was still on the grass. Once a month I took a weekend trip to my cabin to unwind. I stayed there alone, hiked through the forest, and chopped wood for the stove. Physical activity helped me de-stress. I spent the rest of the day reading a little and preparing meals while listening to my favorite tunes from the 60s. Tomorrow I would start the construction.
     In this county, you can own property, but that doesn’t mean you can change it willy-nilly. It’s more than bi-laws or codes. Tradition is the opposing force against change. I followed all the proper channels and got the necessary permits to erect a new entrance to my property, Straten’s Ranch. Once I started construction a few of the locals stopped by and offered a stern warning about making the changes. My first thought was they were joking, but days later I learned differently when my newly constructed entrance burned to the ground. Of course, no one saw anything or knew how this could have happened. 
     It had been a dry summer, so maybe it started by a spark from someone’s tractor or a lit cigarette butt thrown from a passing car. No reason to blame the locals, just bad luck. I waited until the fall when it wasn’t too dry to start the reconstruction of my new entrance. Then it happened again, a second fire that not only destroyed the entrance but three acres of my property including the honeysuckle vines, before the fire finally burned itself out. It didn’t take a seasoned sleuth to figure out this wasn’t an accident. The report filed was a waste of time, like watching a foreign movie without subtitles. 
     I learned to live with the old entrance and avoided the neighbors. Then one day I had unexpected visitors, two locals, one tall, lean guy and one short and stocky. I was cutting down a dead tree for firewood when they strolled up and asked what I was doing?
     “Isn’t it obvious?” I set the chainsaw down. “I know a crosscut saw is more traditional, but this is faster.”
     “We aren’t concerned about your choice of tools.” The tall guy commented. “Just wondering if you’re building anything.”
      “Yes . . . a fire.” I looked directly at the tall, lean guy. "You should be familiar with fires, right?”
     “I’m not sure what you mean. Are you accusing us of something?” The tall guy folded his arms. “That’s not very neighborly. You need to try to fit in. You know, do things the right way, our way. Like they’ve always been done. Remember you’re just a Weekender.”
     “How could I forget.” I reached down to pick up the chainsaw. “Is there something else you want? As you can see I’m sort of busy. If there’s nothing else, you can go.”
     The locals looked at each other then at me. “No, there’s nothing else. We just wanted to pay you a visit.” They turned and walked away. The tall guy stopped and yelled over his shoulder. “Be careful with that chainsaw, they can be dangerous.”
     I pulled the cord to start the saw, then mumbled to myself. “Thanks for the sage advice, numbnuts.”
     After another hour I finished cutting wood and went back into my cabin to listen to some relaxing music and have my favorite stout beer from The Spitting Monkey Brewery. Downing three stouts relaxed me. The recent encounter with the permanents was long forgotten. I started to dose when I heard a noise coming from outside. Then another sound, this one was near the woodpile. My first thought was raccoons or deer, but my curiosity made me get up and look. My muscles ached from the long day of sawing and splitting wood. As I peered out the window, I could see a beam of light in the yard.  My assumption that raccoons and deer had created the disturbance was wrong. 
     There was a shotgun over the fireplace. It had been there for years, but I never used it. Hell, I didn’t even know if there were any shells in the house. I decided that carrying an unloaded shotgun was just plain stupid, so I left it. I grabbed a flashlight and ax handle that was sitting by the door and made a noisy exit. I wanted the intruders to hear me and make a quick getaway. I didn’t want a confrontation, just a little peace, and quiet. I pointed my tactical high-beam light toward the woodpile. Three heads popped up and immediately scattered into the woods, two with flashlights guided the way.
     Who were they and what were they up too? Teenagers, I hoped, just doing what bored teenagers do, mischievous little bastards. I walked down to the stack of wood I had just cut and looked around for some disturbance. They had been digging a hole, which wasn’t a big deal. What most upset me was the pack of matches I found. Three burned out matches lay on the ground. There was a name on the matchbook cover, Willard’s Feed Store. I’d been there a few times. I’ll make a point to stop by tomorrow. I walked back to the cabin confident that they wouldn’t be back tonight.
* * *
     It was seven when I woke the next morning. Late for me but the beer helped. I made a pot of coffee, strong black coffee. That’s all I ever drank in the morning. No fancy creamer or sugar substitute, just hot, strong black coffee. I walked outside and headed to the woodpile to see if I missed anything last night. I did. Well, I can’t be sure it was from last night, but I don’t remember seeing it before. Sitting next to a stack of firewood was an emblem that came off someone’s belt, boot or jacket. It was a masked skull wearing a cowboy hat with two crossed pistols. Could be a gang symbol. That’s what I thought. This was something worth looking in to.
     I hopped in the old Ford pickup kept on the farm and drove into town to visit Willard’s Feed Store. I took the matches and the skull emblem. I needed to get some supplies and decided to pick up some shotgun shells as well. 
     Willard was manning the register, and a clerk was tending to another customer. I didn't need to introduce myself. He tipped his Stetson and asked what I needed.
     “I need to reseed a few acres.” I folded my arms. “I had a fire a couple of nights ago . . . burned three acres.”
     “Heard about that.” He tugged on his suspenders. “That’s real unfortunate.”
     “Need some 12 gauge shotgun shells too.”
     “Whatcha hunting?”
     “Saw some varmints last night.” I tossed the pack of matches on the counter. “Never know when they may come back.”
     Willard looked at the pack. “I haven’t had those in years. Stopped giving them out when they came out with those Butane lighters.” He laughed, “I didn’t think anyone used matches anymore.”
     “Some people are old school.”
     “Seeds over there.” Willard pointed to the back of the store. “I’ll get the shells.”
     “I’ll take two fifty-pound bags of seed and the shells.” I picked up the matches and pulled out the skull emblem. “Does this look familiar?” I held it up to his eye.
Willard hesitated and then said. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen that before. Where’d you get it?”
     “Over by my woodpile where I saw the varmints.”
     Willard shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, but I can’t help you with that.”
     I paid for the seeds and shells and headed out the door with my purchase. As I drove home, I pulled into a Huck's gas station to top off the tank. While filling up, I noticed three teenagers on the side of the station. Two were taunting the third by lighting and throwing matches at him. He jumped and twisted trying to avoid the flying flames. The two laughed and called him a sissy. The victim yelled, "Stop it. It's not funny . . . jerks.” 
     One of the match-throwers lit the whole pack and threw it, hitting the kid on the leg. I stopped pumping gas and walked over to the kids. 
     “Hey dumbass! Are you brain dead?” Both of the kids with matches just looked at me dumbfounded. 
     “Huh!” the tall, gangly one said.
     I walked over and grabbed the remaining pack of matches. “First of all. This is a gas station. Didn’t anyone ever tell you throwing lit matches around near a gas pump is stupid as hell?”
     “We’re just having fun.”
     “Really! Let me ask the other kid how much fun he was having.” I pointed at the third kid and said. “Were you having fun?”
     “No. I was scared.” He answered.
     “Secondly, doing that to someone is harassment, which could get you into trouble.”
Willard’s Feed Store printed on the cover. Hum! “Where did you get these matches?”
     “My dad’s got a shitload of these matches at his store. He gives them out to customers. Well locals, not Weekenders.” 
     “Like me?”
     “Yeah, you’re no local, that’s for sure.”
     “Get out of here.” I motioned down the road.
     “Can I have the matches back?”
     “No, go get some from your dad, remember he’s got a shitload in his store.”
     I walked away knowing that they learned nothing from our encounter. Teenagers didn’t learn by advice. They learned only by failure. I hoped their failures wouldn’t be their demise. 
     My first thought, go back to Willard’s and confront him. But that wasn’t necessary. His scatter-brained son would deliver the message.
* * *
     Willard’s kid, the tall, lanky one, returned to the store to get more matches and told his dad about the incident with the Weekender. There was no doubt who the kid was talking about. Willard chased his son away, telling him to keep out of trouble. Then he set up a meeting with the few remaining members of the cowboy crew at the local bar. They needed a permanent solution for this Weekender.
     The kid grumbled and whined then left, kicking rocks in the parking lot to show he was upset. He came back late that night with two buddies when the store was closed. They slipped in the back door hunting for mischief. They found it. The matches were kept in the back of the store, near some old forgotten dynamite. Kids will be kids especially the dumb ones. They started playing the stupid match game, tossing the matches at each other. 
     The shelves were made of wood, dry wood, easy to ignite. I guess I don't need to say much more. A fire started and spread quickly. The kids got out just before the explosion. There was nothing that the fire department could do but clean up afterward. Most everything burned, but they did find the charred remains of a club charter from a local gang The Real Cowboys. 
* * *
     The club had a dark history that originated twenty years ago. The charter listed Willard as the leader of the gang. Everyone suspected it, but no one knew for sure until now. Minutes from some of the meetings were also found that documented many of the crimes the Cowboys committed. It was enough to bring the remaining Cowboys up on charges. Willard was arrested on the spot.
     Karma struck back with a vengeance. With no imminent threat left, I rebuilt my entrance sign but changed the name of the property.  I proudly called it, The Weekender.

Tuesday, October 15, 2019

Message from the Heart

This was a second-place winner in a 2018 flash fiction contest
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     Ted stepped off the curb on to State Street, running late as usual. The traffic was light. A strong wind swirled the leaves and trash around forming a miniature funnel on the sidewalk. His sister, Merci would be on time, it was her nature.  She felt being late was an insult. Ted was rarely on time. Something always distracted him; today it was text messages. His tardiness annoyed Merci, something she did her best to ignore. The worry wrinkles in her forehead said otherwise.

     His laissez-faire attitude hampered his success in business and life. His sister’s promptness helped her succeed. Merci always looked at life from the serious side, Ted on the other hand, treated life like a never-ending party. Their differences caused friction, but Ted’s light-hearted personality made her laugh whenever things got tense at family gatherings. Thanksgiving his job was to bring potatoes. He brought Vodka, called it liquid potatoes.

*** 

     Late again, Merci rubbed her temple, even though she told him to be here a half-hour earlier than he needed to be. It’s uncanny how he knows when I’ve given him a false meeting time. He’ll be late to his own funeral. It’s a clichĂ©, I know, but in his case it’s true.

     “What’s your excuse today?” Merci grimaced.

     “I could tell you a lie or tell the truth,” Ted said with a twinkle in his eye.

     “How would I know the difference?” 

     “Feisty today, are we?” Ted asked. “You know, I love you. The favorite of all my siblings.”

     “That’s special since I’m your only sibling.”

     “So, why are we meeting today?” Ted pinched her cheek.

     She batted his hand away. “Its Mom, she’s getting worse.”

     “She’s Eighty-eight, no one gets better at that age.”

     “You’re exasperating. You know what I mean,” Merci said. “Her memory ... she hardly recognizes me anymore.”

     “Stop changing your hair color.”

     “Not funny, Ted,” Merci said. “Can’t you be serious for a minute?”

     “How will that help?” Ted continued. “It won’t change the diagnosis.”

     “There has to be something we can do.”

     “You’re right, there is.”

     “Like what, genius?” Merci challenged.

     “Visit her … make her smile, make her laugh,” Ted answered. “It’s not about the past, the lost memories. It’s about now, making each day in her life fun. She may not remember it, but you will. She may not recognize you, but she’ll enjoy the visits.”

     “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve always been the fun one,” Merci admitted. “I’m the problem solver.”

     “So, here’s the problem,” Ted said. “What’s best for Mom? Make the rest of her life fun or frustrate her by trying to resurrect lost memories?” 

     “Damn you, Ted. Just when I expect you to disappoint me, you surprise me and say something smart.”

     “Not to worry. There’ll be many more chances,” Ted laughed. “You’re buying lunch, right?”

     “Yes, as always … loser.” She grinned.

     Ted laughed as he waved to the waiter.  “A bottle of your finest Bordeaux.”