Onions and Pickles

I hate onions, especially raw onions, sometimes on burgers. The only redeeming factor is that they can easily be removed and tossed in the trash we’re they belong. I don’t mind the flavor they give the dish but I just don’t like the texture. If the onions are cooked until they soften then I can deal with them as long as they are cut into small pieces, minuscule.

I’ve met people who love onions, absolutely love them. I am not that person, of course you already know that now that you’ve read this far.

I like pickles. I like them on sandwiches or on the side. My friend John hates them as much as I hate onions. But despite this difference we remain friends. It’s pretty unusual in this day and age with our drastic difference in food preferences that we can still be friends. That may seem like a silly comment, but the truth is there are less significant differences that have driven people apart.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could ignore our differences and focus on the positive things in others. “Just Saying . . .?”

The Never-Ending List

On Saturday afternoon a mundane task turned into an event. My wife handed me a four-item shopping list.

“ Darlin, can you go to the store for me? I need a few items for the recipe.” My wife smiled. “I don’t have the time.” 

“Well, Of course, Sugar. Can’t resist that beautiful smile.”

She handed me the list then said, "Don't buy any more beer or wine. We have more than enough." That’s what she always told me, but I never listened. “And don’t dally, we have a lot to do before our guests arrive.”

"Yes Hun," I responded, knowing full well I would be returning with a new craft brew or Napa Cab. She knew this too. It was a game we played, but we each had our own set of rules. 

I knew there were always bargains to be found in the liquor department. My wife was unaware of this fact. Discovering an obscure craft beer or reserve vintage wine made the trip worth my time.

I drove to the Piggly Wiggly about three miles from our house. If you told someone from a northern state, you shopped for groceries at Piggly Wiggly, they would consider you unsophisticated. It’s true. The store’s name seems childish, like a three-year-old named it, but I'm from the South, so I didn’t matter. 

The parking lot was full, which didn’t bother me. I had a habit of parking a fair distance away from the entrance. It was important to me to avoid dents and dings from free-roaming shopping carts and the random door swings of adjacent cars. 

A little voice in the back of my mind kept saying, Don’t dally. I started to argue with that thought. I was being conscientious not dallying, but it didn’t seem worth the effort to argue or explain my position to a random thought.

            I quick-stepped walked to the store entrance. Patiently slowing or stopping for drivers pulling in and out of the spaces. My main job now was to reach the store entrance unscathed. Sounds easier than it is. Screaming kids, cell phones and pressing issues on their minds are all distractions to drivers. 

This is the South and we have a lot of thoughts occupying our brains. We love fried chicken, grits, outdoor grilling, grits, sweet tea, Christmas tamales, grits, buttermilk biscuits with gravy, breakfast tacos, grits, pecan pie, cowboy boots and line dancing just to name a few things. You may have noticed almost everything on the list is food. Did I mention grits? We have traditions that have been around for decades and we have no inclination to explain. 

When I entered the store, I headed straight for the liquor aisle to check out any deals. I was browsing at the high-dollar wines, something I always do. I hoped the clerk had marked a ninety-dollar Cabernet down to nine dollars, but that was never the case.

Someday I’ll find one that’s mismarked, but it wouldn’t be today. I picked up two bottles of another Cab more reasonably priced. The second Cab was a backup bottle. You always need a backup. Then, the little voice returned with a warning, Don't buy any more beer or wine, but I still grabbed two six-packs of Turkey Trot Mississippi brown craft beer. I placed them in my basket and took my shopping list out. 

James tapped me on the shoulder. "Y’all want me to bring some homebrew over tonight?" 

            “Is that the disgusting tar-based swill you gave me a few weeks ago?” 

            “The very same.” James laughed.

            “Well, of course. That was . . . tasty.” I noticed James with a bottle of whiskey in his basket. “Store bought?”

            “Yes, Southern Comfort. Sometimes I splurge.”

            “Janis Joplin’s favorite. Well . . . her and Bobby McGee.”

            James smiled. “She did know her whiskey.”

            “Bring that by tonight. I’ll help you with it.”

            “Not on your life.” James shook his head. ”You makin’ those rock-hard, dog ass biscuits for the chili?”

            “Absolutely, they also go well with that crappy, tar beer you’re bringing.”

            “All right, see you tonight.” James turned to walk away. “Hey, they got some good looking corn over in the produce section, since you’re shopping.”

“On the cob. Right? Not that packaged stuff.”

“Hell, yeah. Is there any other kind? It’s that fresh, sweet, white corn, two ears for a dollar.”

“Thanks, I’m not supposed to dilly dally,” I pushed my buggy down the aisle, then turned my head and yelled to James, “ but I’m not really shopping, just picking up a few items for the party.” 

            I wandered over to the spice aisle and picked up what I read on the list. No matter what I bought, there were always a few items that ended up being the wrong brand, size or color. I was destined to fail whenever I attempted to fulfill my wife's shopping list. I penciled in wine and beer on the list just to make my first purchase legit.  

On the way to pick up fresh vegetables, I passed by the seafood section. Well! I didn’t actually pass, it was more like I lingered, which not at all like dallying. They had a new batch of prawns or shrimp to some. There's a difference. Prawns are bigger, but the taste is pretty much the same as shrimp. I love shrimp and grits. I decided to get a couple of pounds plus a pound of crawfish. There’s nothing more Southern than a crawfish boil. I added them to the list. 

We might be low on barbeque sauce. It would be a sin if we ran out. I’d better get a few bottles. It’s on the list. I made it over to the vegetable section. I fingered the list-peppers, cilantro, and basil. Hmm! What color peppers, red, yellow or green? I’ll get some of each. She’ll be pleased with my innovation and decision-making skills.

I grabbed an ear of corn and pulled back the shucks. James was right, these looked good. I grabbed six. I hate these flimsy plastic bags they have for produce. They're hard to open, and the corn drops right through them. Useless.

I wondered why they called them ears of corn. Google would know the answer, but I’m not supposed to dally, so I’ll check later. Walking toward the checkout, I grabbed three lemons. They’re used with everything – like bacon. Oh! That's another item I should get. I added corn, lemons, and bacon to the list. 

Ice, I need to get ice. Every party I’ve ever been to runs short on ice. One bag or two?  Two, we’ll need two. . . large bags. I should have picked it up when I got the beer. No, this is better. It might have melted, good decision. I wrote it down. Bacon was in the cooler next to the ice. That's a lucky break. No need to search for it. Two pounds should do it.

Time to check out. No need to dally. This took a lot longer than I expected. It was James, he slowed me down with all the chit chat.

As I stood in line, I wondered if I needed more beer. I should have gotten a case. Now the little voice sounded more like my wife. We have more than enough.

I looked at the checker, “I’ll be back in a jiffy.” I sprinted to the liquor aisle and picked up a case of Mud Dauber Black Gold. I’ve had it before. I didn’t want to take a chance with a full case of Turkey Trot Mississippi brown. I made it back to the checkout just before my last item was scanned. I grabbed a bag of M&M’s, the healthy ones with nuts and threw them on the conveyor belt next to the case of beer. The checker looked a little agitated, so I felt the need to explain my last purchase. 

“Chocolate gives me an energy boost and the nuts . . . well, they're healthy."

“Healthy?” he questioned.

“Healthyish.” I held my hands out like I had just turned water into wine, then added M&M’s to the list.

“Do you have a senior discount?”

“Yes, but you have to be sixty-five.” The clerk eyed me up and down. “How old are you?”

“Fifty-five.”

“So, not a senior.”

“Some places consider age fifty-five as a senior.”

"Sorry we don't, and senior discounts don’t apply to alcohol which would negate the majority of your purchase.”

            “Hey, be nice.” I noticed the roses by the checkout, an impulse item. “Add one of these to the total. It’s for my wife.”

            “No kidding,” the clerk commented. “Do you think a rose will make up for the wine and all the beer you’ve bought?” 

            “It’s a red rose.”

            “Thanks, I know most colors.”

They bagged my groceries. I paid, then wheeled my bounty out the door. Just as I crossed over the threshold to the parking lot, I caught the enticing scent of barbeque. I couldn’t believe my nose, but it never failed me in the past. I spotted a guy grilling BBQ ribs next to the cart corral. I asked what was going on. He said the store held barbeques twice a month and sold the ribs for ten dollars a slab. What a great idea and a great price as well. They’re already cooked. All I had to do was heat them up. I couldn't pass this up. The list had grown. There was no more space on the front side of the shopping list, so I flipped it over and added the ribs as the first item on the back.  

I was feeling confident on the drive home. I got some great bargains. I pulled in to the subdivision, and there were two young girls selling lemonade for charity. I stopped and got a glass and gave them a big tip. I paid cash, so no need to add this to the list. 

            I noticed my wife looked frazzled when I walked in. “It’s about time. What took you so long? You’re as slow as molasses in the wintertime.”

            “It was a pretty long list, but I got everything on it.”

            “It wasn’t long when I gave it to you. It only had four items on it.”

            “Four, you mean fourteen.” I waved her over. “Hey! These bags are heavy. Do you want to help me bring them in?”

            “Can’t you handle it? I’m busier than ants at a picnic.”

“Of course! Look! I bought you a rose.”

“Thanks. How much beer and wine did you buy?”

“It’s a . . . red rose.”

A Night to Remember

The building rocked, windows shattered and people panicked. An explosion. Mass panic was not unusual with the many terror attacks in 2018. But, first, let's step back to explain how the evening began.

It was boy’s night out, something I did with my college buddies once a month. We’d grab a few beers, and throw darts or play pool at the local sports bar, nothing dangerous or even adventurous ever happened. Our group had gotten smaller with people taking jobs in other cities and growing families. That night there were four of us, Benny, Tomàss (Thomas really but he thought Tomàss sounded upper class), Carl and me, Steve. That night I told Tomàss to call me Stefan just to give him a hard time.

            Boy’s night was a lame attempt to hold onto our youth. It was always at Juan Carlos O’Kelly’s, the Mexican restaurant with an Irish themed sports bar. They were well-known for the Irish tacos with cabbage and shredded corned beef. It doesn’t sound like a great combination but it was great with a Guinness or Corona. 

            We were playing darts when Sally, our waitress, brought the food. The game didn’t stop when the food arrived. She set the plates on a table next to our beers. We ate, drank and threw darts, taunting each other like high school kids. 

            “Benny, you throw like a girl.” Carl laughed.

            “Like … Wonder Woman.” Benny twirled the dart like a baton. 

            “Stop performing and throw the dart, Jackass.” Tomàss washed down the last bite of taco with his Guinness.

            “It’s Sir Jackass … Tomàss.” Benny threw his second dart and missed the board.

            “You’d make Wonder Woman weep.” Carl picked up his beer.

            Halfway through our match and munchies Tomàss stumble walked to the head, bumping into tables and knocking a women’s drink over. Not cool, a low-classmove forTomàss.Benny and Carl went out back for a smoke. I sat by myself when the night turned into an unexpected adventure. 

            It was hard to tell where the blast occurred. There was damage to the building but not like you would expect if a bomb were inside. Tomàss rushed out of the men’s room yelling my name. Seems funny how a traumatic event can sober you up instantly. Funny’s not the right word, but it works. 

            “Steve, where are you? It’s Tom.” He screamed. 

            “Over here, by the bar.” The pretentious use of Tomàss was gone.

“Are you alright?” He kicked a chair out of the aisle.

            “Yes.” I pushed a ceiling tile off the table. “Benny and Carl went out back for a smoke.”

            “We need to check on them.”

            “You’re right. Let’s go.”

            We carefully made our way toward the back door. It wasn’t far but the clutter from overturned tables and the panicked people slowed us down. It was a blessing for us since a second explosion coming from the back parking lot blew the back door off its hinges. Debris was scattered everywhere. This was anything but a blessing for Benny and Carl.

            Sirens blared. Help was on the way. The smoke-filled bar made it hard to see and breathe. We didn't know if the building was on fire, but we knew we had to find a way out. Was there another bomb? I hoped not, but I didn’t know.

            I looked at Tom. “We need to get out of here, now.”

            We helped each other to our feet and made it the rest of the way to the back door, not knowing what to expect. People blocked the doorway, pushing and shoving each other to escape. Everyone was in survival mode. Tom and I headed for a window that was blown out. I grabbed a chair leg and used it to knock out the shards of glass still left in the window frame. Once we climbed through to safety, others followed. Safety might be a poor choice of words. Safe is relative to the situation.

            Once outside, we saw the destruction, likea war zone. Vehicle parts were strewn around the parking lot like a junkyard. But, the biggest surprise was the money floating through the air like confetti. People who escaped the restaurant changed from survival mode to scavenger mode, running wildly to snatch as much of the free money as possible. 

            Tom looked around, then shook his head. “Let’s go around back to check on Benny and Carl.”

            I could see the damaged armored bank truck overturned and had a gaping hole in the side. People were climbing over the injured to reach the truck and the money inside. Fights were breaking out.

            Weaving our way through the crowd we made it to the back lot just as the police arrived. They came to help the injured but now were faced with looters as well.

            It was mass hysteria-bloodied bodies, looters pushing and shoving and the police trying to maintain control. We searched the parking lot as best we could, but found no sign of Benny or Carl. In a matter of minutes the police, EMT’s, and firefighters had things under control. The cops had corralled the looters; EMT’s were attending to the injured and the firefighters doing their thing. Neither, Benny or Carl answered their cell phones, so we had noother choice but to check with the local hospitals. This could go onall night.

            We had decided that we would split up and go to different hospitals. When I turned around to leave, I noticed a guy runaround the side of a building. It looked like Carl. I couldn’t be sure, but the jacket he wore was distinctive with a Spirits of St. Louis logo on the back. They were a defunct basketball team from the ABA. It was from his father’s obscure sports memorabilia collection. I doubted that there were more than a handful left. It had to be him.

            Tom had already taken off to check local hospitals, but couldn’t leave. I needed to find out why he was running. Maybe it wasn’t him, but the one other guy on the planet that wore the same jacket and happened to be in the same place as Carl. I took off chasing him. He was well ahead of me, I could see him turn left at a corner by Bailey's Range. By the time I got to the corner, he was gone. 

I continued running. I looked down alleys and streets trying to spot him. At the second alley, I saw the jacket thrown over a dumpster. I rushed down the alley and picked it up. Carl’s name, C Bradshaw, was written in the liner. I was baffled; he loved this jacket. Why would he throwit away? Something strange was going on.

I started to leave but then spotted a hundred dollar bill on the ground, then another about ten feet farther down the alley. My guess was cash from the armored truck. The jacket was worth more than two hundred dollars. Did Carl have financial troubles? Was Benny with him? I decided to follow the money trail to see where it led. Could this be a crime of opportunity? Itdidn’t seem like something Carl would do.

My cell phone rang. It was Tom.

“Hey, I found Benny. He’s at St. Alexius. He has minorinjuries, but he’ll be fine.”

“Great! Will he have to stay in the hospital?”

“No, he’ll be released shortly. I’ll wait for him. Did you find Carl?”

“No, he’s disappeared. I thought I caught a glimpse ofhim, but I couldn’t catch up, so I’m not really sure it. I found his jacket on a dumpster. Crazy. He loved that thing.”

“You’re right, that makes no sense. Let me talk to Benny to see if he knows what happened to him. I’ll call you back if I find out anything.” Tom hung up.

Standing in the alley, I threw the jacket over my shoulder then turned to walk down the street. I nearly got run over by Carl as he rode past on a Lime bike. 

He yelled, “Get out now before it’s too late.” Then he tossed out handfuls of cash. They floated to the ground like snowflakes.

The ringing phone startled me. “Steve, it’s Carl. We need to talk.”

“Where are you? What the hell’s going on?”

“You know where the Eat-Rite Diner is on Chouteau?” Carl asked.

“Yes, I’m close.”

“I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes. I’ll explain everything.”

Carl was at the booth when I arrived at the diner. I slid into the seat across from him.

I thrust the jacket toward him. “What’s going on and don’t lie? “

“That’s not mine.” He said.

With a smug look, I pointed to C. Bradshaw, written in bold black letters in the liner. “It’s got your name in it.” My fist banged the table. “How many people named C. Bradshaw own a jacket like this?”

“Two that I know of … me and my twin brother Craig.”

“Twin brother?” A shiver went up my spine. “I’ve known you since we were freshman in college. That’s ten years ago. You’ve never mentioned a brother.”

“It’s a long story.” 

“I’ve got time.”

“My brother started hanging out with a bad crowd in high school. We went to different

colleges. He continued his bad behavior and got kicked out and never returned home. Craig was always looking for easy money, so he took to running scams. I sent him money from time to time over the last ten years to get him out of trouble, but I recently cut him off.” 

“Does this have something to do with the explosion and the armored truck?” I asked.

"I suspect he's involved. I just don't know how. But thereal problem is that 

I’ll be blamed. He’s vengeful and likes to create a disturbance.”

            "I saw you … er … Craig passes me on a Lime bike, throwing hundred dollar bills inthe air. Is that what you mean by causing a disturbance?”

“Exactly. I’m sure he’s been photographed by dozens of smartphones. His face is my face, so that’s bad for me.” Carl pointed to the TV.  Police had a suspect they wanted to question. It was a picture of Craig riding a bike tossing money in the air, and identified as Carl Bradshaw.

            Steve looked at Carl. “This isn’t good.”

“Now that my … his … that photo is on the news. He's going to drive away making

me the suspect. That’s what he does.” Carl rubbed his forehead. “But there’s more.” 

            “More? Holy crap, what else could there be?”

            “He came into town to ask for money. He was pissed when I turned him down. Without him knowing I put a tracker on his belt buckle. I know where he is. I need to get him before he leaves town, but I’ll need help.”

            “Let me call Tom and Benny.”

            "Thanks, we made need them. Craig's smart, but he has a routine. I know what it is. Here's what we'll do …" 

We all met at the 7-Eleven on Southwest Avenue. “Craig always stops for a Big Gulp. It will be either here or Gravois. Steve and I will go to Gravois. Call if you see him.”

            Benny looked puzzled. “Wait! How will we recognize him?”

“Huh! He’s my twin … look for me.”

Tom shook his head. “Benny, you’re sharp as a bowling ball.”

We tracked Craig to Gravois, and thankfully a cop was there getting coffee. Steve pointed him out to the officer. He was immediately recognized and cuffed. 

No one expects to be taken down because of a Big Gulp.

Later in his apartment, Carl smiled as he sat and counted a stack of crisp hundreds. He hoisted a cold Bud and laughed at how he finally got revenge on Craig for a lifetime of dirty tricks, even his friends were clueless. 

Knock, knock. “Open up, it’s the police.”

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’.