Vacation of a Lifetime

This is a short fiction story that was fun to write. I never entered this in a contest. Sometimes I write for my enjoyment without a contest in mind.

I always look for unique ways to experience life, especially when taking the family on a vacation. Both of my kids are old enough to enjoy a mild adventure. My wife, however, is less enthusiastic about my vacation choices. Even when we are on a trip my wife chose, I try to find an adventurous side trip. Like on our Paris trip a few years ago, I signed us up on a tour of the catacombs.

Initially, I wanted it to be a surprise but reconsidered and confessed to my wife, I booked a special adventure for us, tomorrow.

“Really! Haven’t you learned anything from past adventures?

“Yes, you only live once.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “I should’ve been a cat . . . I need nine lives with you.” She frowned. “Remember the white water rafting trip in Colorado.”

“Yes, that was great fun and nobody died,” I reassured her.

“True no one died but I had diarrhea for a week I was so nervous about it.”

“The kids loved it,” I responded

“Yes, but they were nine and seven at the time and their brains weren’t fully developed. I can’t explain your brain. Remember we had to sign a waiver in case we died our relatives wouldn’t sue.”

“That was just a formality, besides the tour I booked for us tomorrow has no white water . . . maybe just a few puddles and drips.”

“What kind of tour is this?” She demanded.

“One word . . . Catacombs. You know, the tunnels underneath the city of lights. That’s where they used to bury their dead. It’ll be fun, right!”

“That’s what you call fun? Why don’t we just stroll around in the gutters of the red light district? Isn’t that dirty enough? Do we really need to go underground with the bats and the rats?

“I was told it’s perfectly safe. No need to worry.”

“Need I remind you about zip lining in Malaysia?”

“Oh, that’s low. It was a freak accident. It never happened before and I might add has never happened since.”

“It happened once that’s all I’m counting.”

“We don’t need to bring up the past. We all have a few war wounds from our adventures.” I smiled. “Guess what? I booked the deluxe tour and it includes dinner with wine.”

“Oh! Yummy.”

Everybody Preaches . . . Nobody’s Listening

There are a lot of people with opinions, strong opinions. It’s important. We need rules, they keep us in check, and it’s normal for rules and opinions to be challenged. But, I don’t believe it’s normal to have all the hostility toward an individual or a group if they have a different viewpoint. However, that seems to be the norm today.
     We preach our beliefs and accept no other opinions. Nobody likes to be preached to, so that could be why no one chooses to listen. Listening is a choice, a choice to learn about a different viewpoint. It may not change your beliefs but it shouldn’t create hostility.
     Compromise is not always the answer but sometimes it’s a good thing. In order to have a workable solution both sides need to listen without pre-judgement.
     I dread the coming election because I feel the hostility toward others will grow, merely because they have an opposing viewpoint. We can do better. “Just Saying . . .”

Cellar Dwellers

Screech! Swoosh! Crash!

"Did you hear that? What was that sound?’ Mom’s eyes darted around the room. 

“It’s just basement noises,” Dad turned the page of the evening Post Dispatch. 

“I think someone’s in the house.”

He would eventually get up to check the disturbance. The noises always seemed to come from the basement. 

“It was nothing.” That was always his response.“A shovel fell over. Nothing to worry about.”

“How could a shovel just, fall over? Mom said.

"Could be one of the turtles or maybe a cellar spirit,” he said jokingly.

“That’s not funny.”

Dad peered over his glasses. “Cellar dwellers are harmless unless . . . well, never mind.”

“What do you mean never mind? I don’t like never mind. Don’t tell me never mind.”

Dad wouldn’t answer. He would laugh, a hearty laugh. I knew he was joking, but I had a twinge of doubt and wondered if spirits really do live in the cellar.

Not long after that my pet chicken moved into the basement. My uncle, Clarence, took me to a carnival and won a prize throwing balls at milk jugs. The carnival worker told him he won a crisp dollar bill or a baby chick. Clarence told me to pick the prize for myself. I chose the chick, like any kid, a purple one. Peep Peep, that’s what I named him. Only purple until his feathers grew out and became a rooster. He wasn’t an attack chicken, obvious by his name. So, he wouldn’t help if the basement spirits got out of hand. He’d probably be more like the canary in a coal mine, but that’s still protective in a way.

We continued to hear unexplained sounds, and there were also foul smells. Dad would just write off the odor, as basement smells or blamed it on the chicken. “After all the chicken is a fowl,” he said, laughing loudly. 

That wasn’t the right answer as far as Mom was concerned. Having a chicken living in the basement probably contributed to the smell. They weren’t the cleanest pets. In truth they weren’t typical pets, farm animals really.

The basement noises continued most nights. Dad tried to explain to Mom that the coal furnace produces sounds when the red-hot cinders shift, rattling of the pipes, clicking or banging. Mom understood, but that didn’t mean she liked them. The basement is where all the equipment is located that makes a house function, but it’s noisy.

In an attempt to make the basement a more welcoming place, my Dad, an amateur artist painted colorful cartoons on the basement walls featuring gigantic Disney characters.

Mickey, Goofy, and Donald Duck were always there to greet anyone who ventured downstairs . . . or lived there. Mom loved the cartooned additions on the basement wall, but I’m not sure she felt they would chase away the cellar spirits. Mom would not linger in the basement. She spent just enough time to finish the laundry and only during daylight hours.  

Things went well after that. Mom did her best to ignore the banging, clanging and crashing, until one stormy night she heard . . . 

* * * 

Mom decided the time had come to teach Dad a lesson. This was 1955. I was seven years old. She went to the king of the practical jokers, my uncle Clarence. He was the master. She convinced him to come over to the house and hide in the basement. Her only instructions were to make strange noises then scare Dad when he went downstairs to investigate. 

Clarence decided to add some flair by cutting an old dirty sheet up and dress like a mummy. He left some bandages lying on the floor by the cellar door. It was like baiting a fish. He also brought some old rusty chains and hung them in the cellar so they would bang on the door. Everything was ready; all he needed was his mark. 

* * * 

. . . until one stormy night, she heard . . . a horrendous crash.

The storm had caused the electric to go out. Unexpected, but welcomed.

It added to the mystique.

Mom told me to get a candle. It wasn’t our first time without electricity, so we were prepared.

The noise shocked Dad and he told Mom. “I better go check it out. That sounded bad.”

”Yes, please honey. The noise was deafening." She nudged him toward the basement stairs. "Here's a flashlight." An award-winning performance by Mom.

 I tried to match her acting skill. “Hurry Dad. I’m scared.” Although less convincing than Mom, my effort was still worthwhile.

            Dad went down the stairs to the basement. A few minutes later we heard a lot of noise and a scream then silence. 

Mom and I were giggling because we knew my uncle had gotten Dad. We listened patiently for Dad to respond. Too scared to go down after him, we waited and waited and waited some more. 

 A few moments later Mom took the candle, walked to the stairs and called down to him, “Is everything all right, Hon?”

There was no answer, dead silence. Spine-tingling silence. She yelled again, but her voice trembled this time. "Hello! Please answer. Don't play any games. I'm scared." 

Still, there was no answer. The house was pitch black, except for the glow from the candle.

Then . . . there was a knock on the front door. Both Mom and I jumped. She slowly walked to the door, candle in hand. I followed as though I was glued to her. As she held the candle up to the window in the door, my uncle stood waving at us. Mom looked both puzzled and shocked but opened the door. Clarence apologized for being late and wanted to know if Dad had gotten home yet. 

            “What are you talking about? You can’t be here. If you’re not downstairs, who is?” She brought her hand to her mouth.

            Clarence tried to explain, “I’m so sorry, I got stuck at work. I’ll go downstairs and check.”

            Mom and I turned around and came face to face with mummy Dad. He had draped himself with gauze-like bandages from head to toe. I saw her body go limp and watched her eyes flutter, right before Dad held the flashlight up to his face then uttered that one frightening word. 

"Boo!"

Missing Me

This is a Fictional Twilight Zone type story. I received an honorable mention in a club contest. I hope you enjoy it.

    Dead to the world, that’s how I slept. My eyelids, fused together, shut out the morning light. Truth be known, I didn’t know if it was morning or even what the day of the week. Muddled sounds came from a television in an adjacent room. 

    Rolling out of bed I fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes, bashing my knee on a small-cap from a bottle, a whiskey bottle. The stabbing pain sent tears down my cheek. I winced and held my knee. Then grabbed the cap that inflicted the damage and hurled it across the room. With the help of a night table, I pulled myself up to a standing position. Groggy and dazed, I limped to the kitchen while rubbing my knee. Nothing looked familiar. All the surroundings were strange, even bizarre in some ways.

    The furniture and decorations looked new but were 1950s’ style. That was almost seventy years ago. The kitchen appliances were from the same era, including the red Formica countertops with a silver metal band protecting the edges. No more whiskey, never again.

    I drunk-stumbled into the next room when I heard the TV playing. It was a black and white television in a wood console. Edward R. Murrow was reporting the news.

     “Good Evening. Tonight our lead story is about the mysterious disappearance of the famous Jazz musician, Thaddeus Taylor.” A photo appeared on the television.

    “Thaddeus Taylor, I screamed,” pointing at the TV, “but that’s my face.” I reached for my wallet to verify what I already knew. My name was Todd . . . Todd Madison, but the license betrayed me.I looked for my photo but there was none. Perspiration dripped from my temples. The license issued in 1954 had only a name that identified me as Thaddeus Taylor.No more whiskey, never ever again.

     “The police have no suspects at this time and urge anyone with information as to his whereabouts to come forward. Mister Taylor’s car was found but has yet to reveal any useful clues to his disappearance. Reporting from New York, that’s the news for September 7, 1955. Good Night and Good Luck.”

     I slumped to the floor, hitting my injured knee on a hard object. “Ouch.” A cap from a whiskey bottle. Maybe the same one I threw across the room in my fit of frustration.

    Now I was more confused than when I first came to. Then I was Todd . . .but the news is reporting a musician missing with my photo. No more whiskey, I swear, never again.

    There’s only one thing to do, get out of here and find out what’s really going on.Is someone pulling a complicated prank on me . . . what else could it be? After cleaning up I checked the closet to see if there were clothes that would fit me and of course, they all did.  

     I peered through the curtains. The street was busy with many vintage 1950 cars buzzing down the road. Calling an Uber would have been perfect because I was unfamiliar with this city, but that didn’t seem possible. A 1955 Chevy was parked out front. Were there keys in the house that might work? While looking around, I accidentally stepped on a hard object, “Shit.” I fell to the floor landing on my knee again, “Sonofabitch.”It was a set of car keys.

    The keys had the Chevy bowtie embossed on them.I went outside and tried them. They worked. Why wouldn’t they? Apparently, this was my car. It's a Chevy Impala, two-door, with a deluxe interior, and a wood dash trimmed in silver. Thaddeus Taylor must be doing well. I needed to go to the police station but didn’t know where it was. GPS wasn’t an option in a 1955 Chevy.

      I followed the busiest traffic hoping it would lead into town. I spotted a McDonald's. I pulled into the lot and looked for the drive-up window. There was none. I parked and strolled over to the outside order window to get a breakfast sandwich. To my surprise they didn’t offer breakfast— what was I thinking? Instead, I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke for forty-three cents. A shake was an additional ten cents, so I splurged and got the shake instead.  

    The burger kid told me I’d find the police station about two miles down the highway. I returned to the car and toward the station. I’d just finished my burger and fries as I pulled into the parking lot. With my shake in hand, I walked up the steps to the front door. A poster of the missing Thaddeus was taped on the window staring out at me.I tore it down and marched into the station.

    I expected to be surrounded by police officers wanting to know where I’d been, but that wasn’t the case. In fact, I had a difficult time getting anyone to pay attention to me. I held the poster up next to my face, so the clerk could easily see the resemblance. She just looked at me.

    “Can I help you?”

    “Yes, I found me. I’m not missing anymore.” I prominently displayed the poster.

    “And who the hell are you?” she questioned.

    “Who do I look like?” I said, shoving the poster in her face.  

    “Like every other idiot that walks in here.”

    I waved it like a flag. “See the poster. It’s me.” 

     Shaking her head, she said, “You’re not that good looking, buddy. Try again.”

     “Seriously, you don’t see a resemblance?”

     The clerk grabbed a poster and shook it at another officer standing nearby then shouted. “Hey, this guy thinks he looks like the poster. What do you think?”

    The officer grinned. “Well, he’s white and the guy in the poster is black . . . so no.”

    Confused but determined to prove my point, I pulled out my wallet. “See here’s my license.” I folded my arms and displayed a smug look as I laid the license next to the poster.

     “You’re right,” the officer said, “the license says, Thaddeus Taylor . . . but the poster shows me you’re not him.” His forehead wrinkled and eyes scrunched. “How did you get his license?” He then walked around the counter and took my arm. “You need to come with me.”

    “What about my rights? You know, the Miranda rights?” I challenged.

    “I don’t know Miranda, but I know your rights ended when you showed me that license.”

    He took me into a small interrogation room and started asking questions about how I got the license for the missing Thaddeus Taylor. How could I explain without sounding like I belonged in a mental hospital? So, instead, I made up an elaborate lie.

    “I was at a bar when this girl started to flirt with me. I didn’t want to tell her my real name so I told her my name was Thaddeus. It was the name of a guy I met earlier that day at the gym. Our lockers were next to each other. We were about the same height and build and with a similar taste in clothes. He dressed and left before me. That’s when I noticed he put on my pants and left his. He had my wallet and I hadhis. It was just a mistake, nothing to be concerned about.”

    "Why didn't you look him up in the telephone book and call him about the mix-up?" The detective tapped his pen on the table.

    “I intended to, but when I got back from the bar I was blind drunk. In the morning I saw the news. You know, about him being missing. I knew this wouldn’t turn out well, but I couldn’t avoid the fact that I had his license and he was missing. That’s when I came here to offer my help.”

    “What a load of crap! You came in the station claiming to be him.”

    “I was really messed up. I think that gal at the bar slipped me something that gave me hallucinations. Even I started to wonder who I really was. It became apparent I was confused when the officer at the station pointed out our obvious differences.” I laid my head on the table then rubbed the back of my neck and moaned.

     The door opened and closed. The detective left the room. I’m not sure how long I had my head on the table, but when I awoke I was in a daze. When the door reopened, I jerked my head to an erect position and wrenched my neck. As I massaged my neck, I noticed the room was different, more modern. It had changed dramatically from when I first walked in. A detective entered the room, one Ihadn’tmet. He introduced himself as Thaddeus Taylor II. The cheap suit he wore was more in line with the style of Millennials, not Baby Boomers.

    “Who?” I said, not believing my ears.

    He repeated his name. "How did you get my grandfather’s drivers license?" 

    “Your grandfather?”

    “Yes. He went missing in 1955 without a trace. They found a gypsy red 55 Chevy, his brand new car, but nothing else. Now it’s a cold case because it’s been over sixty years since his disappearance.”

    I could see the resemblance between the detective and the poster. Then it struck me. “Detective, you said sixty years?”

    “Sixty-three years to be exact. After all, this is 2018.”

    Unsure and confused,I echoed.“2018?”

     “You look like hell. I’ve seen prisoners in solitary that looked better. You need to get your shit together.” Detective Taylor looked at his cell phone then grimaced. “I don’t know what you’ve been drinking, but you need to stay away from it.”

    "Yes, sir," I responded. 

     He handed me a license. “I can’t hold you on a 63-year-old case since you weren’t even born yet. But, don’t leave town, I’ll be in touch.” He clicked his pen and wrote on a pad. “ I’m keeping the license you brought in . . . my grandfather’s. You can go since there are no charges against you . . . right now.”

     “Thanks.” I took a quick look at the license to verify my name. It was Todd Madison, with my photo. “Where did you get this?”

     “It was in your wallet. One license was yours, and the other was for Thaddeus Taylor, my grandfather.” He pushed the chair back to the table. “By the way, that’s a nice car you’re driving. I’d like to take a closer look sometime.”

     “Thanks, officer.” I got up and walked out of the door. The compliment didn’t register in my brain. Reaching into my pocket I felt my car keys and I pulled them out. I expected to find keys for my BMW, but there was no key fob. Instead, I discovered keys to an older model Chevy . . . a ‘55 Chevy like the one in my delusional dream. 

    The parking lot was full of late-model police cruisers, few other vehicles, and one 1955 Chevrolet . . . a shiny red one. That’s when I noticed the key chain charm . . . a saxophone with the words ‘JAZZ Lives Here’.