WRITING
And what, you ask does writing, teach us?
First and foremost, it reminds us that we are alive
and that it is a gift and a privilege, not a right.
Ray Bradbury
GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND
A Short Story by Robert Stephen
“Good evening baseball fans. Tonight the Dodger's are sending their ace Clayton Kershaw up against the Cincinnati Reds. They hope to stop the bleeding at ten games―”
Walter listened to the radio, the only time he ever did. Baseball and the Dodgers, nothing else. The rest of the time spent in the car he brooded over past events. Tonight would be different. Tonight the Dodgers were going to win, and he would right the wrongs in his life.
The game began as Walter's car inched its way down the Sepulveda Pass into the Valley along with thousands of other drivers. It took fifteen minutes to travel two miles. By that time the top half of the first inning was over and the Reds scored three runs off the Dodgers ace.
The announcer chimed in. “Hey fans get tickets for―”
Walter slapped the button on the dashboard to shut off the radio. He hated the incessant commercials selling new cars, prodding people to try their luck at local gambling casinos, weight loss programs, and other nonsense Walter deemed unnecessary. Alone in the silence his right eye twitched. It first materialized twenty years ago in high school when deep in thought his eye would flutter. He slapped the button again, his timing was perfect.
The announcer started. “Dodgers coming up to bat, down three nothing, they've got their work cut out for them.”
Walter's eye stopped quivering when he concentrated on the game. The traffic thinned out the further away he traveled from Los Angeles. By time he reached the turn off the game was in the seventh inning all tied three apiece. He heard a noise coming from the back of his SUV.
Walter could see the gas station's tall illuminated sign a mile ahead and pulled over. He stopped and got out opening up the rear lid, but before his captive could respond Walter tossed a blanket over him.
When he pulled into the station, there was one other car and one semi at the pumps. After filling up he stopped next store at the liquor store and bought water, a muffin, a package of paper cups, and a bottle of whiskey.
“There were all done now,” said Walter as he re-positioned himself behind the wheel. “How are you doing back there? Not much longer.”
“Mmmm, mmmm,” said his unwilling passenger.
Walter felt the vibration from several rapid kicks against the back seat.
If he knew what was good for him, he'd stop, thought Walter. Shit, let him kick all he wants, he's going to die, anyway.
Two exits later the SUV pulled off and climbed up the steep two lane road. Frustrated at the poor radio reception Walter punched the button and turned off the game. The Dodgers were at bat, bases loaded with two out.
“I'm missing the game cause of you.”
“Mmmmm, mmmmmm.”
In the cover of darkness it lost the Cheshire grin on Walter's face, but he was proud his plan was going smoothly. He passed the sign, “Elevation 2000 feet.” The marker told him their final destination was only another mile. Other than his SUV the road seemed deserted. By time he pulled onto the dirt road a light mist was falling. The cloud cover hid the three-quarter moon, which up here without city lights glowed like a high powered spot light.
He pulled to a stop and got out of the car, closed the driver's door, and waited. Within minutes his passenger started kicking up a fuss. Walter moved to the rear of the vehicle and lifted the back hatch. Its overhead light bulb missing. He grabbed the bound man and dragged him out of the back letting his captive fall to the ground with a loud thud. Walter kicked him in the rib cage and yanked off his gag.
The man curled up into a ball to protect himself. “Don't hurt me please.”
Grabbing his victim's collar Walter stood him up and the man's tone changed.
“What the fuck is this all about.”
“Shut up,” said Walter.
“Whad'ya say?”
“I said shut up.”
Unable to see his captor in the darkness the man shifted his head. “I know that voice. Walter, is that you?”
There was silence.
“That’s you isn't it? What the fuck?”
The captive threw his leg out in a halfhearted karate kick and knew he hit Walter. He tried to run but Walter grabbed his arm and flung his hostage backward against the car. With an open hand he slapped the man across his face several times.
“Stop it― ow, Wal―ter stop it ple―ase.”
Walter dropped his hand, but stood close enough for the man to hear heavy breathing.
“Damn it, why are you doing this Walter?” Silence. “Walter say something, why are you doing this?”
Annoyed Walter said, “You know why.”
“No, I don't, I thought we were friends.”
“Maybe when I worked for you we were friends, but that was then.”
“What did I do?”
“Don't be stupid you know what you did.”
“I don't, tell me.”
Walter balled up his hand and punched his hostage in the stomach doubling the man over.
Bending over his captive Walter whispered. “That was for Angie.”
The man coughed and attempted to catch his breath. Not moving he said, “So it's true, you and her.”
“I loved her.”
“She's married.”
“She hates her husband.”
“How long?”
“How long what?”
“You and Angie.”
“Five years, but now she won't talk to me since― since you fired her,” said Walter. He stood the man up and punched him again in the same area.
The man doubled over. “Damn it Walter stop it. Look she was telling you things about the business.”
“Fuck you, remember I worked for you and already knew the shit you were pulling. You didn't need to fire her.”
“I'll hire her back, just let me go.”
“It's more than that and you know it.”
“What, the other job. Why did you take it?”
“You have a selective memory; you've always been that way. I told you I was going through a divorce I needed a raise and what did you say.”
Silence
Furious his ex-boss didn't answer. “What did you say?”
“Don't hit me, please. I don't remember what did I say?”
“That's just it, you didn't. Four months. Each month I asked you and each time you said let me think about it. Fuck you. I was with you eight fucking years, we played golf together, ate dinner, you got drunk and I drove you home to your wife. Do you remember any of that shit?”
“I remember,” said the man.
In a somber tone Walter's captive asked, “But why Angie?”
“She was beautiful, and we hit it off. I fell in love.”
“Is that why you got a divorce, Walter? I mean you said you and her were screwing around for five years. If I'm right you got a divorce two and half years ago so you were married, weren't you?”
“Shut up.”
“You cheated on your wife. Did she find out is that why the divorce?”
In the dark Walter's captive never saw the punch coming. The crunching noise of fist meeting nose staggered the man. Walter rubbed his knuckle. He could feel blood on it.
“Owww, damn it Walter you broke my nose. Unite me I'm bleeding.”
Walter reached in his pocket and pulled out his used handkerchief. “Shut up, put your head back,” he said applying pressure.
“What are we doing up here? You going to kill me?”
Walter remained silent.
“You got me fired from the other job,” said Walter.
This time Walter's hostage remained silent.
“You got me―”
“You took your job to serious, what else could I do.”
“Could have paid the million dollars you owed. They gave me the job to collect it from you.”
“You were too good at your job Walter. You were putting me out of business, ruining me. I had no choice.”
“Fuck you, you were stealing from them, you knew it and so did I. You're right, I was doing my job. Then you get some stupid ass lawyer who files a lawsuit―”
“I had to. I had to stop you, but you didn't get fired till a year later.”
“For that year I was suddenly on a plane every week flying around the country. They wanted me out of the city, away from you.”
“That wasn't so bad was it?”
Walter kicked his hostage below his knee and the man fell to the ground.
“Stop hitting me, damn it.”
Walter kicked his captive again. “Eleven months la―ter the head off―ice fired Bellman, and you were be―hind it, I know you were.”
“Walter stop it. I’m sor― ow, ry.”
“Problem was he was to chicken shit and afraid of his own shadow. We both know the head office in Europe didn't know you owed the money, and they didn't know about me either.”
The man, in a prone position, looked into darkness. “That's right, but that's not my fault. It was Bellman. Why don't you go after him?”
“Two weeks after he got fired I received an email and they fired me. You must have been happy.”
In a voice with the sincerity of a chain saw the hostage said, “Walter, I didn't mean for all this shit to go down. Come back, I'll double your salary and sign a contract for a minimum of three years. I'll even give Angie back her job. Untie me, let's go somewhere and have a drink. We'll talk.”
Walter's ex-boss had no way of seeing the expression on Walter's face. “You think I'm stupid don't you. You won't do any of that shit.”
“I will I promise. I know you're mad and I don't blame you. If you would have told me about you and Angie, I would have turned the other way. Tell you the truth, I envy you because she's pretty hot.”
Walter kicked his hostage again.
“Uh, Walter, stop kicking me. You broke my nose and I think you broke a rib. He―help me up.”
Walter pulled his hostage up and shoved him against the SUV.
“Owww, I'm hurt Walter, I need a doctor. Stop this shit, I'm sorry. I’m an idiot. There are you satisfied. Untie me and let's work this out.
“How much do you owe them?”
With each breath the man winced. “Who― Europe?”
“Yeah.”
“You'll see how stupid they are. After you― and Bellman, two guys come out from the head office. Give me a mo―ment, okay,” said Walter's hostage trying to catch his breath. “Before they sit down, I introduce them to my attorney and show them the lawsuit. My attorney wants 10 million dollars. Before they left, they extended me more credit. Right now, you'll never believe this, I owe them two and a half million,” he said. It sounded like bragging to Walter, he was disgusted
“You’ll never pay them,” said Walter.
“I'll give you a hundred grand to let me go. We'll go to the bank in the morning.”
“You're a fucking liar. You won’t give me shit.”
“I promise Walter. You're the only one who knows everything. You uncovered it and outsmarted me. The hundred grand, plus you and Angie come back, okay? We got a deal?” The hostage twisted his body towards his captor. “I can't feel my fingers, please take the rope off my wrists.”
Walter's fading footsteps crunched across the gravel as he walked away.
“Where’re you going Walter?” the man asked.
He turned just as Walter opened the driver’s side door and removed a gun from his belt and toss into the vehicle.
“Whatta’ya you going to do with that gun?”
“Shut up.”
Walter reached into the car and retrieved the bottle of bourbon and a paper cup. Returning to his past employer, it satisfied Walter he’d hurt the man. In the dark Walter didn’t see the fear in the man’s eyes or the sweat dripping off his forehead. Walter grabbed his captive by his bound wrists and yanked him towards the front of the car. The man fell backward, but Walter, refusing to stop, dragged him through the dirt to the front of the vehicle. He grabbed hold of the man’s shirt and pulled him to his feet.
“Whatta’ya doing?” asked the man. Talk to me Walter.
“You don't deserve to live, you hurt people.”
The man said in a voice pleading for mercy. “Walter, don't do anything stupid. Please don't kill me. I’m wrong, I’ll do whatever you want, but please don’t do this.”
Walter paced back and forth. He yanked his hostage's bindings and pulled him back to the driver's side door. When the door opened the interior light illuminated his captive's face. For the first time Walter saw the damage he'd inflicted. A river of dried blood covered the man's upper lip and ran past his chin down his neck onto his shirt. The hostage saw the grin on Walter's face as he opened the bottle of bourbon filling the cup just shy of the top.
“When did you start drinking? You never drank―,” Walter tossed the liquid into his hostage's face. The dripping alcohol stung like a nest of bees, but the man wouldn't give his captor further satisfaction to see him in pain.
The man's lower jaw tightened and his bound hands behind his back balled into fists. “I guess I deserved that. Could I have one I can drink?”
Walter poured the cup to the top again and force fed it to the man until the cup was empty.
“Thanks.”
“I forgot you were an alcoholic,” said Walter.
“No, I'm not, unite me Walter. I promise what I said.”
“How do I know you'd keep your promise?”
“First thing in the morning we'll go to the bank.”
“Then I'll just keep you till then.”
“Walter let me go.”
“What about Angie?”
“What do you want me to do? I'll call her in the morning and give her job back. That's what you want isn't it?”
“With a fifty percent raise.”
“Walter that's steep she's not worth it.”
Walter swung his fist at the man but this time with the help of the car's interior light he deflected the attack. He knew under different circumstances not only could he take his captor, he’d kill Walter.
“Okay, yes, yes, a fifty percent raise. Untie me Walter.”
Tugging his hostage to the front of his car, Walter positioned him against the grill and returned to the driver's side window. He reached in and switched on the headlights to expose another surprise.
“You son of a bitch, you're the one who took my car?”
“With the help of two accomplices. One's at the bottom of this hill, the other’s parked outside your house.”
“Don't you fuckin' do anything to my family or I'll―”
“You'll what,” said Walter moving to within inches of his captive. “I don't have to let you go, I could get rid of you right here. I'll call the other guy and we bury you up here. Maybe we'll bury you alive, how would you like that. All I have to do is give him your car as payment. He's a guy who knows how to get rid of it.”
“I'm sorry Walter I'll do what you say.”
Walter paced around the car while his hostage nervously followed his movements. He remembered the gun on the front seat. Walter grabbed his hostage and pulled him over to the other car.
The Mercedes hugged the road, navigating smoothly around the bend. 35 mph. The road became steeper descending to the valley below, 45 mph. He thought to himself if only he had his cell phone he'd call his wife and warn her. Tell her to get out of the house.
Maneuvering around a corner the man stepped on the brakes. The Mercedes slowed to 40 miles per hour. He applied more pressure, but this time the pedal did not respond. Under his foot the pedal sank to floor.
“What the―” He continued pumping the brakes. 55 mph―58 mph―62 mph. The car catapulted through the dark like an erratic missile. Its driver knew the only way to slow down would be to aim the speeding vehicle against the embankment, but one miscalculation and the car would veer across the road and over the side.
The car raced past a sign, “Careful-Downhill Grade 4%.” He switched on the car's high beam. The road was straight and steep. 72 mph. Off to his left a wall of black. He saw a road sign fast approaching. 79 mph. The steering wheel slipped in his wet palms and almost lost control. The sign showed a sharp left turn ahead. “Pull the handbrake,” he said.
Grabbing the handle between the two seats he pulled it as far as it would go. Nothing. “Fuck,” he screamed.
His last chance, he unbuckled his seat belt. He envisioned his body hitting the pavement. “Remember stupid, roll.” He knew he could live with broken bones. In the split second he took his eyes off the road to locate the door handle a coyote scurried in front of the headlight beams. The driver swerved to avoid the animal. Unable to maneuver around the sharp turn he hit the embankment. The car catapulted across two lanes into the guardrail's concrete post. The Mercedes flipped high into the air sending the driver and his car into the darkness.
Walter turned left onto the paved road and drove sixty miles to another city where he checked into a motel. The next morning he stopped at a local diner to eat breakfast. Entering the establishment he passed a server and two regulars watching the morning news.
“Look at that car, what is it a Mercedes?” said the server.
“Boy, that guy must be the luckiest guy in the world,” replied one customer.
“Lucky, you call being in a coma lucky,” said his friend.
“What's going on,” asked Walter.
The server handing Walter a menu said, “This guy was driving drunk and flew over a cliff last night. Dropped a thousand feet, but he lived. He's in critical condition and a coma. What kind of idiot drives in the mountains drunk¾?” Her voice trailed off as she glanced back at the TV.
After breakfast, Walter sat in his car deciding his next move. David, his old boss, was not supposed to be alive.
“Son of a bitch,” he said pulling out of the parking lot pointing his car back over the hill, towards the hospital.
The End
Walter listened to the radio, the only time he ever did. Baseball and the Dodgers, nothing else. The rest of the time spent in the car he brooded over past events. Tonight would be different. Tonight the Dodgers were going to win, and he would right the wrongs in his life.
The game began as Walter's car inched its way down the Sepulveda Pass into the Valley along with thousands of other drivers. It took fifteen minutes to travel two miles. By that time the top half of the first inning was over and the Reds scored three runs off the Dodgers ace.
The announcer chimed in. “Hey fans get tickets for―”
Walter slapped the button on the dashboard to shut off the radio. He hated the incessant commercials selling new cars, prodding people to try their luck at local gambling casinos, weight loss programs, and other nonsense Walter deemed unnecessary. Alone in the silence his right eye twitched. It first materialized twenty years ago in high school when deep in thought his eye would flutter. He slapped the button again, his timing was perfect.
The announcer started. “Dodgers coming up to bat, down three nothing, they've got their work cut out for them.”
Walter's eye stopped quivering when he concentrated on the game. The traffic thinned out the further away he traveled from Los Angeles. By time he reached the turn off the game was in the seventh inning all tied three apiece. He heard a noise coming from the back of his SUV.
Walter could see the gas station's tall illuminated sign a mile ahead and pulled over. He stopped and got out opening up the rear lid, but before his captive could respond Walter tossed a blanket over him.
When he pulled into the station, there was one other car and one semi at the pumps. After filling up he stopped next store at the liquor store and bought water, a muffin, a package of paper cups, and a bottle of whiskey.
“There were all done now,” said Walter as he re-positioned himself behind the wheel. “How are you doing back there? Not much longer.”
“Mmmm, mmmm,” said his unwilling passenger.
Walter felt the vibration from several rapid kicks against the back seat.
If he knew what was good for him, he'd stop, thought Walter. Shit, let him kick all he wants, he's going to die, anyway.
Two exits later the SUV pulled off and climbed up the steep two lane road. Frustrated at the poor radio reception Walter punched the button and turned off the game. The Dodgers were at bat, bases loaded with two out.
“I'm missing the game cause of you.”
“Mmmmm, mmmmmm.”
In the cover of darkness it lost the Cheshire grin on Walter's face, but he was proud his plan was going smoothly. He passed the sign, “Elevation 2000 feet.” The marker told him their final destination was only another mile. Other than his SUV the road seemed deserted. By time he pulled onto the dirt road a light mist was falling. The cloud cover hid the three-quarter moon, which up here without city lights glowed like a high powered spot light.
He pulled to a stop and got out of the car, closed the driver's door, and waited. Within minutes his passenger started kicking up a fuss. Walter moved to the rear of the vehicle and lifted the back hatch. Its overhead light bulb missing. He grabbed the bound man and dragged him out of the back letting his captive fall to the ground with a loud thud. Walter kicked him in the rib cage and yanked off his gag.
The man curled up into a ball to protect himself. “Don't hurt me please.”
Grabbing his victim's collar Walter stood him up and the man's tone changed.
“What the fuck is this all about.”
“Shut up,” said Walter.
“Whad'ya say?”
“I said shut up.”
Unable to see his captor in the darkness the man shifted his head. “I know that voice. Walter, is that you?”
There was silence.
“That’s you isn't it? What the fuck?”
The captive threw his leg out in a halfhearted karate kick and knew he hit Walter. He tried to run but Walter grabbed his arm and flung his hostage backward against the car. With an open hand he slapped the man across his face several times.
“Stop it― ow, Wal―ter stop it ple―ase.”
Walter dropped his hand, but stood close enough for the man to hear heavy breathing.
“Damn it, why are you doing this Walter?” Silence. “Walter say something, why are you doing this?”
Annoyed Walter said, “You know why.”
“No, I don't, I thought we were friends.”
“Maybe when I worked for you we were friends, but that was then.”
“What did I do?”
“Don't be stupid you know what you did.”
“I don't, tell me.”
Walter balled up his hand and punched his hostage in the stomach doubling the man over.
Bending over his captive Walter whispered. “That was for Angie.”
The man coughed and attempted to catch his breath. Not moving he said, “So it's true, you and her.”
“I loved her.”
“She's married.”
“She hates her husband.”
“How long?”
“How long what?”
“You and Angie.”
“Five years, but now she won't talk to me since― since you fired her,” said Walter. He stood the man up and punched him again in the same area.
The man doubled over. “Damn it Walter stop it. Look she was telling you things about the business.”
“Fuck you, remember I worked for you and already knew the shit you were pulling. You didn't need to fire her.”
“I'll hire her back, just let me go.”
“It's more than that and you know it.”
“What, the other job. Why did you take it?”
“You have a selective memory; you've always been that way. I told you I was going through a divorce I needed a raise and what did you say.”
Silence
Furious his ex-boss didn't answer. “What did you say?”
“Don't hit me, please. I don't remember what did I say?”
“That's just it, you didn't. Four months. Each month I asked you and each time you said let me think about it. Fuck you. I was with you eight fucking years, we played golf together, ate dinner, you got drunk and I drove you home to your wife. Do you remember any of that shit?”
“I remember,” said the man.
In a somber tone Walter's captive asked, “But why Angie?”
“She was beautiful, and we hit it off. I fell in love.”
“Is that why you got a divorce, Walter? I mean you said you and her were screwing around for five years. If I'm right you got a divorce two and half years ago so you were married, weren't you?”
“Shut up.”
“You cheated on your wife. Did she find out is that why the divorce?”
In the dark Walter's captive never saw the punch coming. The crunching noise of fist meeting nose staggered the man. Walter rubbed his knuckle. He could feel blood on it.
“Owww, damn it Walter you broke my nose. Unite me I'm bleeding.”
Walter reached in his pocket and pulled out his used handkerchief. “Shut up, put your head back,” he said applying pressure.
“What are we doing up here? You going to kill me?”
Walter remained silent.
“You got me fired from the other job,” said Walter.
This time Walter's hostage remained silent.
“You got me―”
“You took your job to serious, what else could I do.”
“Could have paid the million dollars you owed. They gave me the job to collect it from you.”
“You were too good at your job Walter. You were putting me out of business, ruining me. I had no choice.”
“Fuck you, you were stealing from them, you knew it and so did I. You're right, I was doing my job. Then you get some stupid ass lawyer who files a lawsuit―”
“I had to. I had to stop you, but you didn't get fired till a year later.”
“For that year I was suddenly on a plane every week flying around the country. They wanted me out of the city, away from you.”
“That wasn't so bad was it?”
Walter kicked his hostage below his knee and the man fell to the ground.
“Stop hitting me, damn it.”
Walter kicked his captive again. “Eleven months la―ter the head off―ice fired Bellman, and you were be―hind it, I know you were.”
“Walter stop it. I’m sor― ow, ry.”
“Problem was he was to chicken shit and afraid of his own shadow. We both know the head office in Europe didn't know you owed the money, and they didn't know about me either.”
The man, in a prone position, looked into darkness. “That's right, but that's not my fault. It was Bellman. Why don't you go after him?”
“Two weeks after he got fired I received an email and they fired me. You must have been happy.”
In a voice with the sincerity of a chain saw the hostage said, “Walter, I didn't mean for all this shit to go down. Come back, I'll double your salary and sign a contract for a minimum of three years. I'll even give Angie back her job. Untie me, let's go somewhere and have a drink. We'll talk.”
Walter's ex-boss had no way of seeing the expression on Walter's face. “You think I'm stupid don't you. You won't do any of that shit.”
“I will I promise. I know you're mad and I don't blame you. If you would have told me about you and Angie, I would have turned the other way. Tell you the truth, I envy you because she's pretty hot.”
Walter kicked his hostage again.
“Uh, Walter, stop kicking me. You broke my nose and I think you broke a rib. He―help me up.”
Walter pulled his hostage up and shoved him against the SUV.
“Owww, I'm hurt Walter, I need a doctor. Stop this shit, I'm sorry. I’m an idiot. There are you satisfied. Untie me and let's work this out.
“How much do you owe them?”
With each breath the man winced. “Who― Europe?”
“Yeah.”
“You'll see how stupid they are. After you― and Bellman, two guys come out from the head office. Give me a mo―ment, okay,” said Walter's hostage trying to catch his breath. “Before they sit down, I introduce them to my attorney and show them the lawsuit. My attorney wants 10 million dollars. Before they left, they extended me more credit. Right now, you'll never believe this, I owe them two and a half million,” he said. It sounded like bragging to Walter, he was disgusted
“You’ll never pay them,” said Walter.
“I'll give you a hundred grand to let me go. We'll go to the bank in the morning.”
“You're a fucking liar. You won’t give me shit.”
“I promise Walter. You're the only one who knows everything. You uncovered it and outsmarted me. The hundred grand, plus you and Angie come back, okay? We got a deal?” The hostage twisted his body towards his captor. “I can't feel my fingers, please take the rope off my wrists.”
Walter's fading footsteps crunched across the gravel as he walked away.
“Where’re you going Walter?” the man asked.
He turned just as Walter opened the driver’s side door and removed a gun from his belt and toss into the vehicle.
“Whatta’ya you going to do with that gun?”
“Shut up.”
Walter reached into the car and retrieved the bottle of bourbon and a paper cup. Returning to his past employer, it satisfied Walter he’d hurt the man. In the dark Walter didn’t see the fear in the man’s eyes or the sweat dripping off his forehead. Walter grabbed his captive by his bound wrists and yanked him towards the front of the car. The man fell backward, but Walter, refusing to stop, dragged him through the dirt to the front of the vehicle. He grabbed hold of the man’s shirt and pulled him to his feet.
“Whatta’ya doing?” asked the man. Talk to me Walter.
“You don't deserve to live, you hurt people.”
The man said in a voice pleading for mercy. “Walter, don't do anything stupid. Please don't kill me. I’m wrong, I’ll do whatever you want, but please don’t do this.”
Walter paced back and forth. He yanked his hostage's bindings and pulled him back to the driver's side door. When the door opened the interior light illuminated his captive's face. For the first time Walter saw the damage he'd inflicted. A river of dried blood covered the man's upper lip and ran past his chin down his neck onto his shirt. The hostage saw the grin on Walter's face as he opened the bottle of bourbon filling the cup just shy of the top.
“When did you start drinking? You never drank―,” Walter tossed the liquid into his hostage's face. The dripping alcohol stung like a nest of bees, but the man wouldn't give his captor further satisfaction to see him in pain.
The man's lower jaw tightened and his bound hands behind his back balled into fists. “I guess I deserved that. Could I have one I can drink?”
Walter poured the cup to the top again and force fed it to the man until the cup was empty.
“Thanks.”
“I forgot you were an alcoholic,” said Walter.
“No, I'm not, unite me Walter. I promise what I said.”
“How do I know you'd keep your promise?”
“First thing in the morning we'll go to the bank.”
“Then I'll just keep you till then.”
“Walter let me go.”
“What about Angie?”
“What do you want me to do? I'll call her in the morning and give her job back. That's what you want isn't it?”
“With a fifty percent raise.”
“Walter that's steep she's not worth it.”
Walter swung his fist at the man but this time with the help of the car's interior light he deflected the attack. He knew under different circumstances not only could he take his captor, he’d kill Walter.
“Okay, yes, yes, a fifty percent raise. Untie me Walter.”
Tugging his hostage to the front of his car, Walter positioned him against the grill and returned to the driver's side window. He reached in and switched on the headlights to expose another surprise.
“You son of a bitch, you're the one who took my car?”
“With the help of two accomplices. One's at the bottom of this hill, the other’s parked outside your house.”
“Don't you fuckin' do anything to my family or I'll―”
“You'll what,” said Walter moving to within inches of his captive. “I don't have to let you go, I could get rid of you right here. I'll call the other guy and we bury you up here. Maybe we'll bury you alive, how would you like that. All I have to do is give him your car as payment. He's a guy who knows how to get rid of it.”
“I'm sorry Walter I'll do what you say.”
Walter paced around the car while his hostage nervously followed his movements. He remembered the gun on the front seat. Walter grabbed his hostage and pulled him over to the other car.
The Mercedes hugged the road, navigating smoothly around the bend. 35 mph. The road became steeper descending to the valley below, 45 mph. He thought to himself if only he had his cell phone he'd call his wife and warn her. Tell her to get out of the house.
Maneuvering around a corner the man stepped on the brakes. The Mercedes slowed to 40 miles per hour. He applied more pressure, but this time the pedal did not respond. Under his foot the pedal sank to floor.
“What the―” He continued pumping the brakes. 55 mph―58 mph―62 mph. The car catapulted through the dark like an erratic missile. Its driver knew the only way to slow down would be to aim the speeding vehicle against the embankment, but one miscalculation and the car would veer across the road and over the side.
The car raced past a sign, “Careful-Downhill Grade 4%.” He switched on the car's high beam. The road was straight and steep. 72 mph. Off to his left a wall of black. He saw a road sign fast approaching. 79 mph. The steering wheel slipped in his wet palms and almost lost control. The sign showed a sharp left turn ahead. “Pull the handbrake,” he said.
Grabbing the handle between the two seats he pulled it as far as it would go. Nothing. “Fuck,” he screamed.
His last chance, he unbuckled his seat belt. He envisioned his body hitting the pavement. “Remember stupid, roll.” He knew he could live with broken bones. In the split second he took his eyes off the road to locate the door handle a coyote scurried in front of the headlight beams. The driver swerved to avoid the animal. Unable to maneuver around the sharp turn he hit the embankment. The car catapulted across two lanes into the guardrail's concrete post. The Mercedes flipped high into the air sending the driver and his car into the darkness.
Walter turned left onto the paved road and drove sixty miles to another city where he checked into a motel. The next morning he stopped at a local diner to eat breakfast. Entering the establishment he passed a server and two regulars watching the morning news.
“Look at that car, what is it a Mercedes?” said the server.
“Boy, that guy must be the luckiest guy in the world,” replied one customer.
“Lucky, you call being in a coma lucky,” said his friend.
“What's going on,” asked Walter.
The server handing Walter a menu said, “This guy was driving drunk and flew over a cliff last night. Dropped a thousand feet, but he lived. He's in critical condition and a coma. What kind of idiot drives in the mountains drunk¾?” Her voice trailed off as she glanced back at the TV.
After breakfast, Walter sat in his car deciding his next move. David, his old boss, was not supposed to be alive.
“Son of a bitch,” he said pulling out of the parking lot pointing his car back over the hill, towards the hospital.
The End
Hemingway-Every writers nightmare
A fictional Short Story BY Robert Stephen
Gerald stepped off the bus into a puddle of standing water. "Son of a bitch," he said as the hydraulic door closed behind him and the bus lumbered away. Its rear wheels crashed into the same puddle sending a stream of gutter water across his pant legs. His sopping wet shoes and socks epitomized his life.
Three years at the same dead end job, earning just enough if he lived in a small village in a third world country. Gerald lived in Queens with his girlfriend Mia. Every morning Mia reminded Gerald she was the best thing in his life. Moody and a bit self-centered he never told her she was right.
Every day to and from work he counted, one hundred and forty steps, the distance between the bus stop and the building where they lived. Another fifty-two steps from the sidewalk to the fifth floor apartment parked at the rear of a stale smelling hallway.
Squishing up the stoop Gerald reached the front door at the same time Mrs. Thompson, the building super, was leaving.
"Hello Gerald."
"Hi Mrs. Thompson," he said passing by.
In the young couple's quirky little neighborhood lived three people known more by their monikers than their given names. Benjamin "Franklin" Sattler, who lived across the street and was the spitting image of the great polymath. Alfred "Wiseguy" Torino, a gentleman in his late seventies who swore the movie The Godfather was his story. Even on hot summer days when going for his daily walk he'd wear a double-breasted wool suit. And then there was Eunice "Fixit" Thompson. Walking around in a pair of denim overalls, which was a size too big for her small frame. The cuffs rolled high above her ankles, and, rain or shine, the sleeves on her blue work shirt gathered above the elbows. There was always a cigarette nestled behind her ear although Eunice never smoked.
She managed the building with the attitude of an Alcatraz prison guard. No parties after 10 p.m. on weekdays, 10:45 p.m. Friday and Saturday nights. Children and animals were tolerated although barely. Tenants never complained or moved away, the rent was too reasonable.
She stopped at the sidewalk. "Mr. Gomez left several letters in your mailbox."
"Thank you, I'll check them." Every day, except Sunday, Eunice positioned herself in the hall right near the three rows of mailboxes. She stood crowding Mr. Gomez as he delivered the mail.
"Excuse me Eunice, I need to get in here," he would say. Eunice, the embodiment of a busybody, knew when tenants received checks, bills, past due bills, packages along with everything else.
"I think they were from different literary agencies. What did you do Gerald, write a―?"
Any other time Gerald would have been furious with Mrs. Thompson, but not now. Inside the first floor hallway, off to the left, sat three rows each of thirteen mailbox doors. Gerald focused on the last door on the top row, 5H. Fumbling with his keys he dropped them cursing his clumsiness, it was taking too long. The little brass door flew open and there, standing at attention in their metal cave, were ten self addressed envelopes. Eunice was correct, each from a different literary agency and each addressed to "Gerald Hemingway."
She guessed right, Gerald had, in fact, written a book. Slightly over two hundred pages, a sixty thousand word masterpiece his famous distant cousin would be proud of. Bounding up five flights of stairs, shoes squeaking and squishing, Gerald raced down the hall to the apartment. When he reached apartment 5H he again fumbled with his keys. "Damn-it"
Throwing open the door, he flew into the apartment tossing his jacket in the corner and bounced around the living room smiling and rubbing the ten envelopes against his cheeks.
"What are you doing?" said Mia coming in from the bedroom.
"I've got ten letters from agents."
"That's great, what do they say?"
"I don't know." Gerald wanted to experience this moment. Once the envelopes were opened he'd spend hours deciding which agent to sign with.
"Open them," Mia said, "you want me to make coffee?" She moved over to the paint chipped window and forced it open. "It’s stuffy in here."
"Let me help you with the coffee, I want you here when I open them."
Minutes later Mia and Gerald returned from the kitchen and the envelopes, once in a tidy stack on the coffee table, were scattered all over the floor.
"Damn, the wind must have blown them off," said Mia.
Feeling guilty, she placed the tray of coffee down and rushed around picking them up. She held out one from packet. "Open this one."
"I'm so nervous," Gerald said. Using his pocketknife as a letter opener he sliced open the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper. With the flick of his wrist he snapped it open.
"Looks like it's short and sweet," Gerald said his hands quivering.
"What's it say?"
As Gerald's eyes tripped over the brief but callous message his shoulders slumped forward and his heart rate vanished.
"Gerald?" Mia could see the change in her boyfriend's demeanor. At first he did not want to read it aloud but Mia insisted.
"Dear Mr. Hemingway,
Thank you for submitting the first 50 pages of your novel, but it took me less than 8 pages do determine this story was not for me.
Signed, Ralph Fish
The Fish Literary Agency."
Mia grabbed the paper out of Gerald's hand. "What does he know? Here read this one," she said replacing it with another white envelope. Gerald slit the envelope and flicked open the note.
"Dear Mr. Hemingway, if that is your real name.
Please remove my name from your list of agents. Not interested.
Jonathan James."
Gerald refrained from verbally responding but inside a thousand voices gathered around the funeral pyre. Mia gave her boyfriend a third envelope. "Dear Mr. Hemingway, If it is any consolation I liked the title 'THREE DAYS TO NOWHERE.' Based on the sample you submitted the title and the story were accurate. It goes nowhere. Please remove our agency from further submissions."
Mia saw that her boyfriend was visibly shaken. After witnessing this painful exhibition she was satisfied she had no interest in writing. She thought agents were terrible people.
"They don't know anything. You wait, one of them has to be positive," Mia said, hoping her words were comforting.
After several more cold-hearted rejections Gerald said, "They're right, I'm a hack. What made me think I could write a book like him? If he were alive, he'd probably tear it up."
"Don't say that, I read it it's good."
"Right now I don't need to be patronized."
"I'm not patronizing you."
"How many more do we have?"
Mia held up a pair of envelopes. "Two."
"Give them to me."
Gerald read both. The last one the agent was brutal in both his critique and the author's last name. "Dear Gerald, There is only one Hemingway. If I were you I'd change my last name because if he read this he'd convince you to kill yourself. I'm sure you have a day job, embrace it."
Before Mia could grab the paper away from Gerald, his cell phone rang. It was his mother. He laid the phone down on the coffee table, but Mia picked it up and answered.
"Hi Sally."
"Hi Mia, why did you pick up is Gerald alright?"
"Yes, he's here, but he's not in a good mood."
Gerald looked at Mia and silently mouthed, "Tell her I'm dead."
"Let me talk to my boy."
Mia pushed the phone into her boyfriend's hand. "Talk to your mother."
With the enthusiasm of a rock he said hello.
"What's wrong Gerald, tell me."
"Nothing."
"I'm your mother, I know something's wrong what is it?"
"My book."
"What happened with your book?"
"That's just it, nothing. No one likes it."
"Oh, that's not true. I liked it."
"Mom please, I mean real people."
"Thank you, son."
"Mom, you know what I mean. You'd think with our last time some of his talent would have rubbed off."
Dead silence filled the other end .
"Mom, are you there?"
"Ahh," she hesitated, "Yes Gerald, I'm here. I think I need to tell you something. Our last name is not really Hemingway. It's Goldfarb."
Gerald felt as if someone had dropped a piano on his head. As far as he was concerned his life at that moment, as he knew it, ended.
"Gerald are you there? When I was pregnant with you your father, that bastard, left. I decided to change my last name legally to Hemingway because I wanted nothing to do with him. I wanted my boy to be a writer and knew with this last name he would be. And look Gerald, I was right, you wrote a book!"
Gerald dropped his cell phone and walked over to his computer. He inserted a memory stick and retrieved the file, "THREE DAYS TO NOWHERE." He pressed delete.
Mia rushed over to her boyfriend's side, but it was too late. "Gerald, what are you doing?" He walked over to the window, pushed open the screen, and tossed the stick out.
"Gerald stop, are you crazy!"
Reaching into his briefcase he pulled out the only copy of "THREE DAYS TO NOWHERE," and brutally tore it to shreds.
Mia, with tears in her eyes, pulled at Gerald's arm, but he pushed her away. "Gerald, please stop, don't do this."
"Shut up, I'm a fake. I'm never going to write again. What was I thinking wasting my time?"
Ripped pages covered the floor except for the last page which Mia grabbed out of his hand.
"Give that to me," he said reaching for it. Mia flung her arm back accidentally releasing the sheet of paper. Together they watched it float aimlessly through the air landing under the sofa. Before Gerald could react, Mia retrieved it. It came to rest on a single unopened envelope.
"Don't tell me that's another letter from one of those shits? I don’t want to read it."
"You're acting ridiculous Gerald. What did you think everyone was going to fall over each other and tell you how great you are? Grow up."
"I'm not a Hemingway, I'm a Goldfarb. I'm a fake."
"You could be Donald "fucking" Duck for all anyone cares," she said slicing open the last envelope. She read it and all the color in Mia's disappeared.
"Gerald." He was dropping pieces of his torn up manuscript into the paper shredder and ignoring Mia.
"Gerald, stop that." She grabbed his arm and shook the piece of paper in his face.
"What do you want Mia?"
"I want you to read this."
"No, I don't want to see anymore―"
She began, "Dear Mr. Hemingway, Thank you for submitting a sample of THREE DAYS TO NOWHERE. I am very excited and would like to see the full manuscript. I spoke to two publishers and sent both copies of the first 20 pages. They have both responded favorably. I was unable to contact you since you did not provide a phone number or an email address.
Please Mr. Hemingway, contact me immediately to discuss representation and bring your manuscript with you. This industry is crazy, please contact me at once. Sincere regards, Henry Appleman."
THE END
#ernest hemingway,#hemingway,#oldmanandthesea,#thesunalsorises,#writing,#shortstory,#author,#imagination
Three years at the same dead end job, earning just enough if he lived in a small village in a third world country. Gerald lived in Queens with his girlfriend Mia. Every morning Mia reminded Gerald she was the best thing in his life. Moody and a bit self-centered he never told her she was right.
Every day to and from work he counted, one hundred and forty steps, the distance between the bus stop and the building where they lived. Another fifty-two steps from the sidewalk to the fifth floor apartment parked at the rear of a stale smelling hallway.
Squishing up the stoop Gerald reached the front door at the same time Mrs. Thompson, the building super, was leaving.
"Hello Gerald."
"Hi Mrs. Thompson," he said passing by.
In the young couple's quirky little neighborhood lived three people known more by their monikers than their given names. Benjamin "Franklin" Sattler, who lived across the street and was the spitting image of the great polymath. Alfred "Wiseguy" Torino, a gentleman in his late seventies who swore the movie The Godfather was his story. Even on hot summer days when going for his daily walk he'd wear a double-breasted wool suit. And then there was Eunice "Fixit" Thompson. Walking around in a pair of denim overalls, which was a size too big for her small frame. The cuffs rolled high above her ankles, and, rain or shine, the sleeves on her blue work shirt gathered above the elbows. There was always a cigarette nestled behind her ear although Eunice never smoked.
She managed the building with the attitude of an Alcatraz prison guard. No parties after 10 p.m. on weekdays, 10:45 p.m. Friday and Saturday nights. Children and animals were tolerated although barely. Tenants never complained or moved away, the rent was too reasonable.
She stopped at the sidewalk. "Mr. Gomez left several letters in your mailbox."
"Thank you, I'll check them." Every day, except Sunday, Eunice positioned herself in the hall right near the three rows of mailboxes. She stood crowding Mr. Gomez as he delivered the mail.
"Excuse me Eunice, I need to get in here," he would say. Eunice, the embodiment of a busybody, knew when tenants received checks, bills, past due bills, packages along with everything else.
"I think they were from different literary agencies. What did you do Gerald, write a―?"
Any other time Gerald would have been furious with Mrs. Thompson, but not now. Inside the first floor hallway, off to the left, sat three rows each of thirteen mailbox doors. Gerald focused on the last door on the top row, 5H. Fumbling with his keys he dropped them cursing his clumsiness, it was taking too long. The little brass door flew open and there, standing at attention in their metal cave, were ten self addressed envelopes. Eunice was correct, each from a different literary agency and each addressed to "Gerald Hemingway."
She guessed right, Gerald had, in fact, written a book. Slightly over two hundred pages, a sixty thousand word masterpiece his famous distant cousin would be proud of. Bounding up five flights of stairs, shoes squeaking and squishing, Gerald raced down the hall to the apartment. When he reached apartment 5H he again fumbled with his keys. "Damn-it"
Throwing open the door, he flew into the apartment tossing his jacket in the corner and bounced around the living room smiling and rubbing the ten envelopes against his cheeks.
"What are you doing?" said Mia coming in from the bedroom.
"I've got ten letters from agents."
"That's great, what do they say?"
"I don't know." Gerald wanted to experience this moment. Once the envelopes were opened he'd spend hours deciding which agent to sign with.
"Open them," Mia said, "you want me to make coffee?" She moved over to the paint chipped window and forced it open. "It’s stuffy in here."
"Let me help you with the coffee, I want you here when I open them."
Minutes later Mia and Gerald returned from the kitchen and the envelopes, once in a tidy stack on the coffee table, were scattered all over the floor.
"Damn, the wind must have blown them off," said Mia.
Feeling guilty, she placed the tray of coffee down and rushed around picking them up. She held out one from packet. "Open this one."
"I'm so nervous," Gerald said. Using his pocketknife as a letter opener he sliced open the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper. With the flick of his wrist he snapped it open.
"Looks like it's short and sweet," Gerald said his hands quivering.
"What's it say?"
As Gerald's eyes tripped over the brief but callous message his shoulders slumped forward and his heart rate vanished.
"Gerald?" Mia could see the change in her boyfriend's demeanor. At first he did not want to read it aloud but Mia insisted.
"Dear Mr. Hemingway,
Thank you for submitting the first 50 pages of your novel, but it took me less than 8 pages do determine this story was not for me.
Signed, Ralph Fish
The Fish Literary Agency."
Mia grabbed the paper out of Gerald's hand. "What does he know? Here read this one," she said replacing it with another white envelope. Gerald slit the envelope and flicked open the note.
"Dear Mr. Hemingway, if that is your real name.
Please remove my name from your list of agents. Not interested.
Jonathan James."
Gerald refrained from verbally responding but inside a thousand voices gathered around the funeral pyre. Mia gave her boyfriend a third envelope. "Dear Mr. Hemingway, If it is any consolation I liked the title 'THREE DAYS TO NOWHERE.' Based on the sample you submitted the title and the story were accurate. It goes nowhere. Please remove our agency from further submissions."
Mia saw that her boyfriend was visibly shaken. After witnessing this painful exhibition she was satisfied she had no interest in writing. She thought agents were terrible people.
"They don't know anything. You wait, one of them has to be positive," Mia said, hoping her words were comforting.
After several more cold-hearted rejections Gerald said, "They're right, I'm a hack. What made me think I could write a book like him? If he were alive, he'd probably tear it up."
"Don't say that, I read it it's good."
"Right now I don't need to be patronized."
"I'm not patronizing you."
"How many more do we have?"
Mia held up a pair of envelopes. "Two."
"Give them to me."
Gerald read both. The last one the agent was brutal in both his critique and the author's last name. "Dear Gerald, There is only one Hemingway. If I were you I'd change my last name because if he read this he'd convince you to kill yourself. I'm sure you have a day job, embrace it."
Before Mia could grab the paper away from Gerald, his cell phone rang. It was his mother. He laid the phone down on the coffee table, but Mia picked it up and answered.
"Hi Sally."
"Hi Mia, why did you pick up is Gerald alright?"
"Yes, he's here, but he's not in a good mood."
Gerald looked at Mia and silently mouthed, "Tell her I'm dead."
"Let me talk to my boy."
Mia pushed the phone into her boyfriend's hand. "Talk to your mother."
With the enthusiasm of a rock he said hello.
"What's wrong Gerald, tell me."
"Nothing."
"I'm your mother, I know something's wrong what is it?"
"My book."
"What happened with your book?"
"That's just it, nothing. No one likes it."
"Oh, that's not true. I liked it."
"Mom please, I mean real people."
"Thank you, son."
"Mom, you know what I mean. You'd think with our last time some of his talent would have rubbed off."
Dead silence filled the other end .
"Mom, are you there?"
"Ahh," she hesitated, "Yes Gerald, I'm here. I think I need to tell you something. Our last name is not really Hemingway. It's Goldfarb."
Gerald felt as if someone had dropped a piano on his head. As far as he was concerned his life at that moment, as he knew it, ended.
"Gerald are you there? When I was pregnant with you your father, that bastard, left. I decided to change my last name legally to Hemingway because I wanted nothing to do with him. I wanted my boy to be a writer and knew with this last name he would be. And look Gerald, I was right, you wrote a book!"
Gerald dropped his cell phone and walked over to his computer. He inserted a memory stick and retrieved the file, "THREE DAYS TO NOWHERE." He pressed delete.
Mia rushed over to her boyfriend's side, but it was too late. "Gerald, what are you doing?" He walked over to the window, pushed open the screen, and tossed the stick out.
"Gerald stop, are you crazy!"
Reaching into his briefcase he pulled out the only copy of "THREE DAYS TO NOWHERE," and brutally tore it to shreds.
Mia, with tears in her eyes, pulled at Gerald's arm, but he pushed her away. "Gerald, please stop, don't do this."
"Shut up, I'm a fake. I'm never going to write again. What was I thinking wasting my time?"
Ripped pages covered the floor except for the last page which Mia grabbed out of his hand.
"Give that to me," he said reaching for it. Mia flung her arm back accidentally releasing the sheet of paper. Together they watched it float aimlessly through the air landing under the sofa. Before Gerald could react, Mia retrieved it. It came to rest on a single unopened envelope.
"Don't tell me that's another letter from one of those shits? I don’t want to read it."
"You're acting ridiculous Gerald. What did you think everyone was going to fall over each other and tell you how great you are? Grow up."
"I'm not a Hemingway, I'm a Goldfarb. I'm a fake."
"You could be Donald "fucking" Duck for all anyone cares," she said slicing open the last envelope. She read it and all the color in Mia's disappeared.
"Gerald." He was dropping pieces of his torn up manuscript into the paper shredder and ignoring Mia.
"Gerald, stop that." She grabbed his arm and shook the piece of paper in his face.
"What do you want Mia?"
"I want you to read this."
"No, I don't want to see anymore―"
She began, "Dear Mr. Hemingway, Thank you for submitting a sample of THREE DAYS TO NOWHERE. I am very excited and would like to see the full manuscript. I spoke to two publishers and sent both copies of the first 20 pages. They have both responded favorably. I was unable to contact you since you did not provide a phone number or an email address.
Please Mr. Hemingway, contact me immediately to discuss representation and bring your manuscript with you. This industry is crazy, please contact me at once. Sincere regards, Henry Appleman."
THE END
#ernest hemingway,#hemingway,#oldmanandthesea,#thesunalsorises,#writing,#shortstory,#author,#imagination
The chain's noise ratcheting against the pulley reverberated in Gil's head as he lifted the metal door. The back of his skull pounded as if someone were slapping him with a phone book. It had been a rough weekend which began at Friday's pre New Year's office party, and today his body was paying the price.
Too drunk to drive that day Susan, his wife, picked him up from work and drove home where he drank himself into oblivion. Two days later he welcomed in the New Year passed out on the living room floor. When Gil woke, it was one minute after midnight January 2nd. He missed New Year's Day and the Rose Parade, which Susan waited all year for them to see in person. She left a note in his wallet she'd had enough and was leaving.
Gil stood still in the cool air of the warehouse rotating his head in hopes the ugly hangover would spill out of his ears.
Pete entered the building in the same if not worse condition than Gil, his hand extended. "Happy New Year how you feeling?"
"Happy New Year, like shit, how bout you?"
"Breathing."
"Happy New Year," said young Tony lumbering up to the two men in far better condition.
"Same to you."
Pete, eyes closed, rested the back of his head against the concrete wall. "Wonder how Uri's doing?"
"How about Bob?" asked Tony.
"Yeah, that was funny. Uri giving him that drink."
"What was in it?"
"What wasn't, I thought old Bob was going to fall over," said Tony laughing with the other two men.
"One drink, that's it, what a pussy," said Pete. "Here's Uri."
The big Ukrainian strolled up appearing rested. "Happy New Year," he said a slight raspiness in his voice, a sign of a rough weekend.
"I knew it," said Gil, "how you feeling?"
"Like dead rat," Uri said in his thick accent. "Where's Bob?"
Pete lit up a cigarette and let it dangle from the corner of his mouth. "Why, you want to see him drink another special drink."
"My country we'd call him milkmaid. Wait, you'll see when he comes in."
Tony Glanced at the cars in the parking lot shared by neighboring businesses. "He's late he's usually here by now."
"So's Rich," said Pete.
"He'll be here."
"We got work today," asked Pete.
"Couple of service calls, but I want to see Bob," said Gil.
Tony glanced over at his coworkers. "You know he doesn't drink."
"Bullshit, who lives that long and doesn't drink. He's just a pussy," said Pete.
"Here's Rich," said Gil.
Four pairs of eyes watched their boss pull into his parking spot and sit in his vehicle.
"What's he doing," said Pete, stamping out his cigarette and kicking away. "Hey Rich come on get out of your car."
While the four waited Pete said out of the corner of his mouth, "Bet you guy's he's hung over too."
The middle-aged man slowly stepped out and headed towards the four men. They could see a troubled look on his face.
"Something's wrong," said Gil.
Pete stepped forward with his hand outstretched. "Hey Rich, Happy New Year,"
"Yeah same to you guys," said Rich avoiding eye contact.
Working five years for Rich Gil knew his boss. "What's wrong?"
"You didn't hear?"
"Hear what," they asked in a chorus.
"Bob, he's dead."
"What, what happened?"
"From what I know after he left here he was driving home and swerved off the road hitting a tree, died instantly."
"What do you mean after he left, how long after?" asked Tony.
Rich's eyes glared at Uri. "Two miles from here, he was the first fatality of the New Year's weekend. They said he was drunk, but he doesn't drink."
"No, that was not from one drink. He must have had drink elsewhere. No, not one drink," said the Ukrainian stepping away from the others.
"How do you know it was Bob?" asked Gil.
"Regina saw it on the news. They had a picture of the back of his car crushed against a tree. She recognized it. There's more."
"What more?"
"He hit a woman on a bike, she's dead."
Pete thoughtlessly reached for a cigarette. "Can't be, did they say his name?"
Rich wanted to remind Pete of the no smoking rule. Under the circumstances decided not to. "I don't know, but the police are going to ask questions."
Pete took a long drag of his Marlboro. "I'm sure he had insurance, they'll go after that."
Rich wrestled to hide his anger and wanted to slap Pete. "We had a party here, remember. You forced him to drink and he looked like shit."
"It was only one drink I told you he was a pussy."
"Shut up Pete," said Gil. "What was in the drink Uri?"
Everyone turned and looked at the Ukrainian who backed away. "No, you no blame me."
"What was in the drink?" asked Rich.
"I poured vodka, Pete added more."
Gil's head spun to his coworker. "What did you add Pete?"
"Just some tequila, bourbon, and maybe a splash of gin."
Rich's hands curled into fists. "Are you fucking out of your mind, why did he drink it?"
Pete looked away and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know."
"Yes you do," said Uri. "Tell them."
"Tell us what?" asked Gil.
"Nothing."
Tony stepped up to Pete. The young worker liked Bob. The old man had been kind to him. "Tell us Pete."
"Alright, I bet him forty dollars he wouldn't drink it."
"You idiot, you know the guy's broke. He'd do anything for forty dollars."
Pete glanced around the room in search of a sympathetic face. "I didn't know."
"Well, now you do and this is serious. This could ruin me," said Rich.
"Not if we don't say anything boss," said Pete. "We don't tell anyone."
"Pretend it never happened is that what you're saying?"
"Boss, Bob had no friends or family," said Gil. "Who's going to ask about him?"
"You too, just act like nothing happened." Disappointed with the conversation's tone, Rich walked into the building.
"I can't go back to Ukraine, they'll kill me."
"You're not going back to Ukraine," said Gil.
"Look for another job Uri," said Tony, "I am."
Gil glanced at both men. "What are you saying, shut up both of you and let's get to work."
"Best thing I've heard," said Pete walking into the building to retrieve his tools.
As they entered another car pulled into the parking lot. "Here comes Regina, everyone be cool," said Gil.
Approaching the group Regina looked beside herself. She had two crooked mascara lines running down her wet cheeks, her eyes were puffy and watery.
"H―i, hi, I'm so sad. I lik―ed Bob, he was a kind man."
"We're all sad Regina," said Gil.
"I―I cal―led some places about arrangements."
Pete dropped his tool bag down. "You did what? What do you mean you called about arrangements? Are you crazy?"
"What's wrong with you, we're his only family."
"We're not his fucking family. He's dead, I'm sorry. No way I'm paying money to bury the guy,"
"You killed him, you and Uri,"
The four men froze when they heard Regina's words. Pete stepped up to the young girl towering over her by almost a foot. His teeth clenched and his nostrils flaring like a crazy bull facing the matador. Regina did not back away.
"That's bullshit, don't talk like that."
"You made him drink, Pete. He can't drink, Bob had a condition, he told me."
"What do you want me to do, I didn't know."
"He's at the morgue alone with no one. We bury him that's what we're going to do. That's what my parents say is the right thing to do."
"You told your parents?" asked Gil.
"We're fucked," said Pete. "Hey where are you going?"
Tony slipping into his car looked back. "I quit, I'm not staying here."
"Wait Tony, let's talk about this," said Pete. "Uri, stop him he can't leave."
The big Ukrainian fist broke Tony's window. He reached in pulling the car keys out of the ignition. "You can't leave."
The large man walked towards the building with Tony's keys in his hand. The expression on Uri's face indicated he was not a stranger to shattering car windows with his fist.
Tony jumped out of his car and gawked at the damage. Last week Tony made the last payment, the certificate of ownership was in his wallet. He became infuriated.
"What the fuck, you broke my window. Give me my keys damn it."
Charging the big man Uri punched the young boy in his face dropping Tony like a bag of rocks. Regina raced over to the unconscious boy and looked at his broken nose spewing blood.
"Call 911," she said. None of the men moved.
Holding Tony's head in her lap. "What's wrong with all of you? First you kill Bob and now this."
"Drag him inside," said Pete pushing Uri towards the body.
Minutes later everyone was inside the small warehouse. Tony was still out cold, his head resting again on Regina's lap.
"Call 911," she repeated.
Pete began rolling down the metal door. "No, he'll be okay just leave him."
"Leave the door alone Pete," said Gil.
"He needs help he's turning blue," said Regina looking at the swelling around the boy's nose. She reached in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. Before she could dial Pete grabbed it out of her hand.
"Give me back my phone."
Pete held the phone out of Regina's reach. "No, let's just stay calm."
"Pete, give Regina back her phone," said Gil.
"I'm not going to jail again and they'll deport Uri, doesn't anyone care?"
"Did you forget about Bob, asshole," said Regina.
Tony groaned and began to move.
"See I told you he'd be okay. Let's not get excited. We need to think this thing through."
Pete bent over the unresponsive boy. "Hey man sorry for what happen, so's Uri, right Uri."
"Yeah, sorry."
"Give me back my phone Pete."
"Not yet."
Placing Tony's head gently on the concrete Regina stood up and charged at Pete.
"Give me the damn phone," she said slapping him across his face.
Pete's eyes flooded with anger. He lifted his hand to strike her. "You bitch―"
"Stop were you are," said one of two police officers standing at the mouth of the warehouse.
Rich returned from his office. "I called the police."
Too drunk to drive that day Susan, his wife, picked him up from work and drove home where he drank himself into oblivion. Two days later he welcomed in the New Year passed out on the living room floor. When Gil woke, it was one minute after midnight January 2nd. He missed New Year's Day and the Rose Parade, which Susan waited all year for them to see in person. She left a note in his wallet she'd had enough and was leaving.
Gil stood still in the cool air of the warehouse rotating his head in hopes the ugly hangover would spill out of his ears.
Pete entered the building in the same if not worse condition than Gil, his hand extended. "Happy New Year how you feeling?"
"Happy New Year, like shit, how bout you?"
"Breathing."
"Happy New Year," said young Tony lumbering up to the two men in far better condition.
"Same to you."
Pete, eyes closed, rested the back of his head against the concrete wall. "Wonder how Uri's doing?"
"How about Bob?" asked Tony.
"Yeah, that was funny. Uri giving him that drink."
"What was in it?"
"What wasn't, I thought old Bob was going to fall over," said Tony laughing with the other two men.
"One drink, that's it, what a pussy," said Pete. "Here's Uri."
The big Ukrainian strolled up appearing rested. "Happy New Year," he said a slight raspiness in his voice, a sign of a rough weekend.
"I knew it," said Gil, "how you feeling?"
"Like dead rat," Uri said in his thick accent. "Where's Bob?"
Pete lit up a cigarette and let it dangle from the corner of his mouth. "Why, you want to see him drink another special drink."
"My country we'd call him milkmaid. Wait, you'll see when he comes in."
Tony Glanced at the cars in the parking lot shared by neighboring businesses. "He's late he's usually here by now."
"So's Rich," said Pete.
"He'll be here."
"We got work today," asked Pete.
"Couple of service calls, but I want to see Bob," said Gil.
Tony glanced over at his coworkers. "You know he doesn't drink."
"Bullshit, who lives that long and doesn't drink. He's just a pussy," said Pete.
"Here's Rich," said Gil.
Four pairs of eyes watched their boss pull into his parking spot and sit in his vehicle.
"What's he doing," said Pete, stamping out his cigarette and kicking away. "Hey Rich come on get out of your car."
While the four waited Pete said out of the corner of his mouth, "Bet you guy's he's hung over too."
The middle-aged man slowly stepped out and headed towards the four men. They could see a troubled look on his face.
"Something's wrong," said Gil.
Pete stepped forward with his hand outstretched. "Hey Rich, Happy New Year,"
"Yeah same to you guys," said Rich avoiding eye contact.
Working five years for Rich Gil knew his boss. "What's wrong?"
"You didn't hear?"
"Hear what," they asked in a chorus.
"Bob, he's dead."
"What, what happened?"
"From what I know after he left here he was driving home and swerved off the road hitting a tree, died instantly."
"What do you mean after he left, how long after?" asked Tony.
Rich's eyes glared at Uri. "Two miles from here, he was the first fatality of the New Year's weekend. They said he was drunk, but he doesn't drink."
"No, that was not from one drink. He must have had drink elsewhere. No, not one drink," said the Ukrainian stepping away from the others.
"How do you know it was Bob?" asked Gil.
"Regina saw it on the news. They had a picture of the back of his car crushed against a tree. She recognized it. There's more."
"What more?"
"He hit a woman on a bike, she's dead."
Pete thoughtlessly reached for a cigarette. "Can't be, did they say his name?"
Rich wanted to remind Pete of the no smoking rule. Under the circumstances decided not to. "I don't know, but the police are going to ask questions."
Pete took a long drag of his Marlboro. "I'm sure he had insurance, they'll go after that."
Rich wrestled to hide his anger and wanted to slap Pete. "We had a party here, remember. You forced him to drink and he looked like shit."
"It was only one drink I told you he was a pussy."
"Shut up Pete," said Gil. "What was in the drink Uri?"
Everyone turned and looked at the Ukrainian who backed away. "No, you no blame me."
"What was in the drink?" asked Rich.
"I poured vodka, Pete added more."
Gil's head spun to his coworker. "What did you add Pete?"
"Just some tequila, bourbon, and maybe a splash of gin."
Rich's hands curled into fists. "Are you fucking out of your mind, why did he drink it?"
Pete looked away and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know."
"Yes you do," said Uri. "Tell them."
"Tell us what?" asked Gil.
"Nothing."
Tony stepped up to Pete. The young worker liked Bob. The old man had been kind to him. "Tell us Pete."
"Alright, I bet him forty dollars he wouldn't drink it."
"You idiot, you know the guy's broke. He'd do anything for forty dollars."
Pete glanced around the room in search of a sympathetic face. "I didn't know."
"Well, now you do and this is serious. This could ruin me," said Rich.
"Not if we don't say anything boss," said Pete. "We don't tell anyone."
"Pretend it never happened is that what you're saying?"
"Boss, Bob had no friends or family," said Gil. "Who's going to ask about him?"
"You too, just act like nothing happened." Disappointed with the conversation's tone, Rich walked into the building.
"I can't go back to Ukraine, they'll kill me."
"You're not going back to Ukraine," said Gil.
"Look for another job Uri," said Tony, "I am."
Gil glanced at both men. "What are you saying, shut up both of you and let's get to work."
"Best thing I've heard," said Pete walking into the building to retrieve his tools.
As they entered another car pulled into the parking lot. "Here comes Regina, everyone be cool," said Gil.
Approaching the group Regina looked beside herself. She had two crooked mascara lines running down her wet cheeks, her eyes were puffy and watery.
"H―i, hi, I'm so sad. I lik―ed Bob, he was a kind man."
"We're all sad Regina," said Gil.
"I―I cal―led some places about arrangements."
Pete dropped his tool bag down. "You did what? What do you mean you called about arrangements? Are you crazy?"
"What's wrong with you, we're his only family."
"We're not his fucking family. He's dead, I'm sorry. No way I'm paying money to bury the guy,"
"You killed him, you and Uri,"
The four men froze when they heard Regina's words. Pete stepped up to the young girl towering over her by almost a foot. His teeth clenched and his nostrils flaring like a crazy bull facing the matador. Regina did not back away.
"That's bullshit, don't talk like that."
"You made him drink, Pete. He can't drink, Bob had a condition, he told me."
"What do you want me to do, I didn't know."
"He's at the morgue alone with no one. We bury him that's what we're going to do. That's what my parents say is the right thing to do."
"You told your parents?" asked Gil.
"We're fucked," said Pete. "Hey where are you going?"
Tony slipping into his car looked back. "I quit, I'm not staying here."
"Wait Tony, let's talk about this," said Pete. "Uri, stop him he can't leave."
The big Ukrainian fist broke Tony's window. He reached in pulling the car keys out of the ignition. "You can't leave."
The large man walked towards the building with Tony's keys in his hand. The expression on Uri's face indicated he was not a stranger to shattering car windows with his fist.
Tony jumped out of his car and gawked at the damage. Last week Tony made the last payment, the certificate of ownership was in his wallet. He became infuriated.
"What the fuck, you broke my window. Give me my keys damn it."
Charging the big man Uri punched the young boy in his face dropping Tony like a bag of rocks. Regina raced over to the unconscious boy and looked at his broken nose spewing blood.
"Call 911," she said. None of the men moved.
Holding Tony's head in her lap. "What's wrong with all of you? First you kill Bob and now this."
"Drag him inside," said Pete pushing Uri towards the body.
Minutes later everyone was inside the small warehouse. Tony was still out cold, his head resting again on Regina's lap.
"Call 911," she repeated.
Pete began rolling down the metal door. "No, he'll be okay just leave him."
"Leave the door alone Pete," said Gil.
"He needs help he's turning blue," said Regina looking at the swelling around the boy's nose. She reached in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. Before she could dial Pete grabbed it out of her hand.
"Give me back my phone."
Pete held the phone out of Regina's reach. "No, let's just stay calm."
"Pete, give Regina back her phone," said Gil.
"I'm not going to jail again and they'll deport Uri, doesn't anyone care?"
"Did you forget about Bob, asshole," said Regina.
Tony groaned and began to move.
"See I told you he'd be okay. Let's not get excited. We need to think this thing through."
Pete bent over the unresponsive boy. "Hey man sorry for what happen, so's Uri, right Uri."
"Yeah, sorry."
"Give me back my phone Pete."
"Not yet."
Placing Tony's head gently on the concrete Regina stood up and charged at Pete.
"Give me the damn phone," she said slapping him across his face.
Pete's eyes flooded with anger. He lifted his hand to strike her. "You bitch―"
"Stop were you are," said one of two police officers standing at the mouth of the warehouse.
Rich returned from his office. "I called the police."
RECKLESS
Nicole pulled into one of the narrow parking slots of the small inn minutes before daylight surrendered to darkness. She was intentionally early. It had been too many years since she had seen the fall foliage and today’s mountain drive was perfect. The trees were on fire with shades of red and gold. She lowered the back windows enough to allow cold air to creep into the car’s cabin, neutralized with warm air from the heater.
Her thoughts were in hyper-drive, she was thinking about tonight with Devin. Would they make love or talk? She didn’t want to talk. Richard, her husband, would find the note when he came home. His plane was due in at 10 pm; he’d be home by 11.
Over and over she recited the ice cold note in her head, “Richard, there is no easy way to say this. I’ve been unhappy for a long time and decided to leave. You can have the house and everything I just have to go. I’ll pick up my clothes on Monday. Nicole.”
Then there was the text from Devin, “Late start, will be there at 8. Sorry!”
“I wonder if he left a note for Amy or told her and walked out,” thought Nicole.
“Afternoon,” said the white-haired man sitting behind the counter, “can I help you?”
“Reservation for two, the name is Tanner.”
“Let me see,” he said, sorting through only two cards, “yes, here we are Mrs. Tanner.”
Nicole didn’t correct him, soon enough she would be.
“You two made it just in time, storm’s coming in and it’s going to be big. Your room has a fireplace, extra cozy. I don’t see Mr. Tanner.”
“He’s running a couple of hours late, isn’t that like a man.”
“Doesn’t sound like he’s the sharpest,” said the innkeeper, eyeing the pretty young woman.
“You’re room is up the stairs at the end of the hall, enjoy your stay Mrs. Tanner.”
When she entered the room, the sun was a minute or two from disappearing behind the mountains. She could see the massive wall of black clouds moving into the area. She turned on the lamp next to the bed and inspected the room. It was perfect. King size bed, overstuffed goose feather comforter, two leather wingback chairs facing the fire place. French doors opening to a covered balcony.
Nicole deliberated how she should greet Devin. In the Victoria Secret outfit she bought for tonight or should she be naked. “Hell, he’s going to be late, maybe I’ll just keep my clothes on, make him work for it,” she said, a lustful smile dancing on her lips at the thought.
It had been years since Devin had been up at the small mountain inn. He and Amy were here a few years after college. They spent most of that week making love both indoors and outdoors. They were deeply in love back then. Tonight though, life was playing an ugly trick on Devin. Ten years later he was returning to the inn. In love with another woman, but he had to tell Nicole he was not leaving Amy. Earlier today he discovered he was going to be a father.
Lost in thoughts of his predicament, Devin ignored the thick layer of wet leaves blanketing the ground as he sped around the oncoming curve and spun out of control. His SUV swirled around in circles twice before coming to a halt on the uneven embankment. Devin’s heart pounded, his hands clutching the steering wheel like a vice, it took him a moment to recognize he was safe, that the car was motionless. He exhaled.
He peered out the passenger’s window into empty darkness. There were no lights, and he had no idea where he was. The car had stalled out. Placing the gearshift in park, he started the engine and shifted into drive. Stepping on the accelerator, the car drifted sideways as the rear wheels spun in the thick mud, but before Devin could react the car tumbled over the side into a ravine, two hundred feet below.
Thumbing through a magazine, Nicole nestled comfortably by the warm fire in one of the heavily upholstered leather chairs. She was irritated, 8:30 and no Devin. She called and texted but he didn’t respond. For the first time she noticed she was a nervous tapper her fingers rhythmically danced on the chair’s arm.
Cold water seeped into the car. It had rolled down the hill into a stream bed and was lying on its side. But it was no longer a stream, it had become a river. Devin’s pinned legs felt the rising water first, shocking him into consciousness. His eyes opened to darkness, unaware of his setting. He screamed as he attempted to move, lightning bolts of pain shot through his broken legs up to his chest. His heart pounding, Devin could feel the pulsing in his teeth. He needed his blood pressure medicine. Gasping, Devin needed to lower the window for air. He reached for the ignition it was empty the keys were gone.
“Help, anybody, help me, please.”
Angrily Nicole threw her cell phone across the room hitting a pillow and tumbling to the floor. “Where the hell are you Devin,” she said. Had he changed his mind, were these last two years nothing more than a game? What was I, just an easy piece of ass for this bastard? The ugly thoughts clogged her mind. “You’ve got twenty minutes then I’m leaving,” she said shoveling her personal items into her Gucci overnight bag.
When Nicole stomped downstairs the white-haired man was talking to a deputy sheriff.
“Good evening Mrs. Tanner, have you heard from your husband?”
“Why, is anything wrong?”
“The deputy and me were discussing the weather. Heavy rain is due in less than an hour and the beaver dam a mile upstream is going to break. We won’t be affected, but further down the mountain there’s going to be problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“We’re telling everybody in Chester, the small town at the bottom of the mountain, to be ready for a flash flood. It’ll close the road for a while.”
“How long?”
The deputy glanced over at the innkeeper before her spoke. “Probably til mid next week, there’s a lot of water backed up,” said the deputy.
“I recommend you get your husband on the phone and tell him to turn around and not come up here. You probably should leave too,” said the innkeeper.
Nicole stepped off to the side and dialed Devin, still no answer. Staring out the window the rain was coming down in sheets. She had resisted thinking about the note until now. She had no choice. If she left right away, there was a chance she could retrieve it before Richard got home.
“Help,” cried Devin, the water had crawled seeped in through the floor and was up to his chest. He feared the relentless pounding rain would shatter the car’s windows. “I can’t die this way, please God no.” He didn’t see the beam of light wash over the car.
Nicole’s eyes were flooded with tears as she carefully maneuvered her car down the mountain’s slippery road. She was driving away from dreams of a new life. As she drove around the curve her car’s headlights exposed the white guard rail. Terror flashed in her eyes and her chest constricted, the barrier was broken in half.
She stepped out into the rain as the deputy’s car rolled to a stop behind her.
“Mrs. Tanner, what are you doing, get back in your car,” he said.
She ignored him running across the road into the dark. With flashlight in hand he chased after her.
“Wait, don’t move any further,” he said clutching her arm.
Standing next to her he had to raise his voice above the deluge of water. “What are you doing Mrs. Tanner?”
“Something’s wrong, please shine your light”
The beam passed over Devin’s flooded car.
Inside the car, the water level had reached Devin’s chin.
“I’m here, help, help,” he screamed, his hands clawing against the window.
“That’s Devin’s car, look he’s inside, do you see? That’s him I’ve got to get to him.”
The deputy grabbed Nicole before she slipped down the embankment.
“It’s too steep and dangerous, you can’t go down there.”
The strong deputy held Nicole as she tried to break away.
“We’ve got to get to him.”
Underfoot, the surrounding ground shook followed by a deep rumbling down inside the canyon. Heavy branches snapped like twigs and boulders tumbled. Shining his light the deputy and Nicole saw a large fast moving wave of water and debris. Chester Stream, once placid was now a violent river. The current lifted Devin’s car as though it were a small toy and crushed it against the rocks. Nicole screamed, “No,” and her knees buckled at the sight of the car tumbling over a waterfall, disappearing into the black.
He held his phone in his hand and listened to her greeting on loudspeaker “It's Nicole, leave a message.”
“Nicole, its Richard. I got home early and found your note.”
Her thoughts were in hyper-drive, she was thinking about tonight with Devin. Would they make love or talk? She didn’t want to talk. Richard, her husband, would find the note when he came home. His plane was due in at 10 pm; he’d be home by 11.
Over and over she recited the ice cold note in her head, “Richard, there is no easy way to say this. I’ve been unhappy for a long time and decided to leave. You can have the house and everything I just have to go. I’ll pick up my clothes on Monday. Nicole.”
Then there was the text from Devin, “Late start, will be there at 8. Sorry!”
“I wonder if he left a note for Amy or told her and walked out,” thought Nicole.
“Afternoon,” said the white-haired man sitting behind the counter, “can I help you?”
“Reservation for two, the name is Tanner.”
“Let me see,” he said, sorting through only two cards, “yes, here we are Mrs. Tanner.”
Nicole didn’t correct him, soon enough she would be.
“You two made it just in time, storm’s coming in and it’s going to be big. Your room has a fireplace, extra cozy. I don’t see Mr. Tanner.”
“He’s running a couple of hours late, isn’t that like a man.”
“Doesn’t sound like he’s the sharpest,” said the innkeeper, eyeing the pretty young woman.
“You’re room is up the stairs at the end of the hall, enjoy your stay Mrs. Tanner.”
When she entered the room, the sun was a minute or two from disappearing behind the mountains. She could see the massive wall of black clouds moving into the area. She turned on the lamp next to the bed and inspected the room. It was perfect. King size bed, overstuffed goose feather comforter, two leather wingback chairs facing the fire place. French doors opening to a covered balcony.
Nicole deliberated how she should greet Devin. In the Victoria Secret outfit she bought for tonight or should she be naked. “Hell, he’s going to be late, maybe I’ll just keep my clothes on, make him work for it,” she said, a lustful smile dancing on her lips at the thought.
It had been years since Devin had been up at the small mountain inn. He and Amy were here a few years after college. They spent most of that week making love both indoors and outdoors. They were deeply in love back then. Tonight though, life was playing an ugly trick on Devin. Ten years later he was returning to the inn. In love with another woman, but he had to tell Nicole he was not leaving Amy. Earlier today he discovered he was going to be a father.
Lost in thoughts of his predicament, Devin ignored the thick layer of wet leaves blanketing the ground as he sped around the oncoming curve and spun out of control. His SUV swirled around in circles twice before coming to a halt on the uneven embankment. Devin’s heart pounded, his hands clutching the steering wheel like a vice, it took him a moment to recognize he was safe, that the car was motionless. He exhaled.
He peered out the passenger’s window into empty darkness. There were no lights, and he had no idea where he was. The car had stalled out. Placing the gearshift in park, he started the engine and shifted into drive. Stepping on the accelerator, the car drifted sideways as the rear wheels spun in the thick mud, but before Devin could react the car tumbled over the side into a ravine, two hundred feet below.
Thumbing through a magazine, Nicole nestled comfortably by the warm fire in one of the heavily upholstered leather chairs. She was irritated, 8:30 and no Devin. She called and texted but he didn’t respond. For the first time she noticed she was a nervous tapper her fingers rhythmically danced on the chair’s arm.
Cold water seeped into the car. It had rolled down the hill into a stream bed and was lying on its side. But it was no longer a stream, it had become a river. Devin’s pinned legs felt the rising water first, shocking him into consciousness. His eyes opened to darkness, unaware of his setting. He screamed as he attempted to move, lightning bolts of pain shot through his broken legs up to his chest. His heart pounding, Devin could feel the pulsing in his teeth. He needed his blood pressure medicine. Gasping, Devin needed to lower the window for air. He reached for the ignition it was empty the keys were gone.
“Help, anybody, help me, please.”
Angrily Nicole threw her cell phone across the room hitting a pillow and tumbling to the floor. “Where the hell are you Devin,” she said. Had he changed his mind, were these last two years nothing more than a game? What was I, just an easy piece of ass for this bastard? The ugly thoughts clogged her mind. “You’ve got twenty minutes then I’m leaving,” she said shoveling her personal items into her Gucci overnight bag.
When Nicole stomped downstairs the white-haired man was talking to a deputy sheriff.
“Good evening Mrs. Tanner, have you heard from your husband?”
“Why, is anything wrong?”
“The deputy and me were discussing the weather. Heavy rain is due in less than an hour and the beaver dam a mile upstream is going to break. We won’t be affected, but further down the mountain there’s going to be problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“We’re telling everybody in Chester, the small town at the bottom of the mountain, to be ready for a flash flood. It’ll close the road for a while.”
“How long?”
The deputy glanced over at the innkeeper before her spoke. “Probably til mid next week, there’s a lot of water backed up,” said the deputy.
“I recommend you get your husband on the phone and tell him to turn around and not come up here. You probably should leave too,” said the innkeeper.
Nicole stepped off to the side and dialed Devin, still no answer. Staring out the window the rain was coming down in sheets. She had resisted thinking about the note until now. She had no choice. If she left right away, there was a chance she could retrieve it before Richard got home.
“Help,” cried Devin, the water had crawled seeped in through the floor and was up to his chest. He feared the relentless pounding rain would shatter the car’s windows. “I can’t die this way, please God no.” He didn’t see the beam of light wash over the car.
Nicole’s eyes were flooded with tears as she carefully maneuvered her car down the mountain’s slippery road. She was driving away from dreams of a new life. As she drove around the curve her car’s headlights exposed the white guard rail. Terror flashed in her eyes and her chest constricted, the barrier was broken in half.
She stepped out into the rain as the deputy’s car rolled to a stop behind her.
“Mrs. Tanner, what are you doing, get back in your car,” he said.
She ignored him running across the road into the dark. With flashlight in hand he chased after her.
“Wait, don’t move any further,” he said clutching her arm.
Standing next to her he had to raise his voice above the deluge of water. “What are you doing Mrs. Tanner?”
“Something’s wrong, please shine your light”
The beam passed over Devin’s flooded car.
Inside the car, the water level had reached Devin’s chin.
“I’m here, help, help,” he screamed, his hands clawing against the window.
“That’s Devin’s car, look he’s inside, do you see? That’s him I’ve got to get to him.”
The deputy grabbed Nicole before she slipped down the embankment.
“It’s too steep and dangerous, you can’t go down there.”
The strong deputy held Nicole as she tried to break away.
“We’ve got to get to him.”
Underfoot, the surrounding ground shook followed by a deep rumbling down inside the canyon. Heavy branches snapped like twigs and boulders tumbled. Shining his light the deputy and Nicole saw a large fast moving wave of water and debris. Chester Stream, once placid was now a violent river. The current lifted Devin’s car as though it were a small toy and crushed it against the rocks. Nicole screamed, “No,” and her knees buckled at the sight of the car tumbling over a waterfall, disappearing into the black.
He held his phone in his hand and listened to her greeting on loudspeaker “It's Nicole, leave a message.”
“Nicole, its Richard. I got home early and found your note.”
How to Be Aware of Lovesickness
I think that question is the same as asking, “How do I know when I have a cold?”
Lovesickness comes with a variety of ailments.
Walking face first into a wall and saying, “excuse me.”
Writing endless dribble about your undying love and not be embarrassed.
Singing off key to your favorite love song on the radio in your car, with the windows down.
Standing fifteenth in line at Starbucks, you’re a half hour late for work, and you don’t give a damn.
People are concerned because you have a distant look on your face and they think your hearing is failing. They often ask, “Are you listening to me?”
You stop twenty two times while walking down the street to take selfies which you send with the title, “Thinking about you always.”
You watch, “Love Actually,” and have memorized each character’s lines.
You take up rock climbing without a harness because life is beautiful.
You feel the “Love Gods” have personally selected you to receive this gift.
Lovesickness comes with a variety of ailments.
Walking face first into a wall and saying, “excuse me.”
Writing endless dribble about your undying love and not be embarrassed.
Singing off key to your favorite love song on the radio in your car, with the windows down.
Standing fifteenth in line at Starbucks, you’re a half hour late for work, and you don’t give a damn.
People are concerned because you have a distant look on your face and they think your hearing is failing. They often ask, “Are you listening to me?”
You stop twenty two times while walking down the street to take selfies which you send with the title, “Thinking about you always.”
You watch, “Love Actually,” and have memorized each character’s lines.
You take up rock climbing without a harness because life is beautiful.
You feel the “Love Gods” have personally selected you to receive this gift.
|
You go shopping for new clothes because your clothes, those month old rags, are too big on you. Lovesickness has done what no diet could.
You think his constant twitch and front gold tooth are cute, especially when he smiles. You’re deathly afraid of needles, but your thinking about getting tattoos that are so elaborate it will take five sessions. “I LOVE YOU,” in nine different languages all in different fonts. You are a very private person, but he calls you “snookie doodle” in public and you don’t mind. Love is the only currency that matters, even if your real bank says your account is overdrawn. You’ve been told that sleep deprivation is a good sign and you believe it. You will find that plenty of orange juice and two aspirin will not clear up your Lovesickness. Unfortunately, with time it disappears. #love,#young love,#love sickness,#falling in love,#stupid in love |
A Faint Glow Behind The Door
a Halloween tale
"You got everything," asked Bobby.
"Yeah," replied Adam.
"That's your costume?"
"Yeah, what's wrong with it?"
"A top hat, that's it? Nothing more, no makeup, no mask, just a top hat."
"It was my granddad's."
"Is that how he dressed? C'mon let's go."
"Wait is that your costume?"
"What's wrong with my costume?"
"An arrow through your neck, really Bobby?"
"Okay, that's it. You're wearing a top hat and I have an arrow through my neck. They're great. Can we go now?"
"Sure, where are we going?"
"You know where we're going."
"Uh-uh, not that house."
"It's Halloween and I've been waiting for this all year. We go up there, ring the bell, and I have trick I want play. Then we run like hell."
"What are you talking about?"
"Look what I've got," said Bobby reaching into his pocket.
"Is that--?"
"Yep, a cherry bomb."
"What do you plan to do with it?"
"What do we plan to do with it?"
"Huh."
"I ring the bell; I'll be holding this in my hand. You light it and I toss it in when they open the door."
"Bobby, are you crazy? There are no 'they' in that house, there's an it or a thing, but there ain't no they."
"That's nothing but rumors it's an old person living up there."
"Ever see this OLD PERSON?"
"No, but-,"
"But nothing, no one has ever seen this old person, no one lives there. It's empty."
"Adam, it's empty except on Halloween and no one has the guts to go there."
"I'll wait here and wish you the best. Does your mom have any candy."
"Look, it's all a joke. It's some college guys who hide inside. This will scare them."
"They'll chase us and beat us up."
"No they won't cause I've already been up there and set a booby trap when they come out."
"When?"
"Two days ago. C'mon let's do this."
"Bobby, one more question."
"What is it?"
"Do you have matches?"
"Wait here, I'll be right back."
Adam and Bobby walked through the neighborhood which was busy with children in all sorts of costumes running from house to house. At the end of the third block they turned right.
It was as though they entered another dimension. The two lone street lights, one on each side of the street, flickered sporadically and the night air grew colder. Adam glanced over his shoulder, the area was deserted.
"Bobby, I'm not getting a good feeling."
"This is what Halloween is all about. We're supposed to be scared. Tomorrow we'll laugh about this once we go up there and you'll see it's nothing. Two more blocks, that's all. I also have a surprise for you."
"What is it and it better not be a trick."
"Look at this, you call this a trick," said Bobby pulling out two small pieces of paper.
"What's that?"
"Tickets to the 8:30 show at the Cinema. We do this and run all the way to see Stephen King's 'IT'. On me."
"You're kidding."
"Still want to turn around, because if you do no movie."
"Damn you Bobby."
The boys stood by the rusted gate of the old house sitting up on a small bluff. Thirty stairs separated them from the front door. It was an old house, it's wooden siding skin had all been plucked away. Most of the windows with either cracked or broken except for the large one over the door. Nine small panes of glass all clean, not a scratch on any, and the wood, barely weathered.
"What's that inside," asked Adam, grabbing his friend's arm."
They saw a faint glow float across the window and vanish.
"It's just those college guys that's all. They're trying to scare us."
"They've succeeded. Let's leave, I'll pay for the movie."
"No way, I've been planning this for two months and I'm not turning around."
Each wooden step groaned under the weight of boys. The nails embedded in the old wooden planks popped like buttons on a shirt three sizes too small. As a covert operatives Bobby and Adam failed miserably.
"Shhh," I don't want them to hear us coming.
"Maybe you should have oiled each step when you were here two days ago."
"Shhh."
The boys were extra careful on the last two steps doing everything they could not to make any more noise. When they were at the front door Bobby whispered his plan to his friend.
"Here are the matches. I'm going to hold the cherry bomb in my left hand. When I knock, light it."
"Then what?"
"They'll open the door, I toss it, we run."
"What's your booby trap?"
"The last four steps jump, because I cut them just enough that when they come down they'll snap under their weight. First college guy goes down, the other's will trip."
If Bobby could see Adam's face, "That's your idea of a booby trap. Cutting four stairs at the bottom."
"You have a better idea?"
"Not being here for one."
"Shhh, I hear something."
There were heavy footsteps coming towards the door.
"Adam light the cherry bomb."
"What?"
"Light the bomb," Bobby said loudly.
Adam, hand shaking, opened the pack of matches and pulled out a match. He struck the match, but it flew out of his hand. The footsteps were coming closer.
"Adam, light it!"
"I'm trying."
The second match lit the explosive just as the door flew open, a large hand grabbed Adam and Bobby, and closed with a crash. The cherry bomb exploded on the front porch.
"Did you hear that," said one of the four kids walking by the old house.
"Yeah, I wonder what it was," replied another.
"Let's go see," said the third, "Jimmy, you got your flashlight?"
"Yeah, but I'm not going."
"Let me have it, I'll be right back. I just want to shine a light on the door."
The boy stepped on the first stair snapping it in half under the weight of his footfall.
"Come on John, that's enough. This place is creepy and that's a sign to stay out."
As the four kids walked away they were too far to see the faint glow inside the old house. There was no light source to explain its origin, as it moved slowly up the staircase to an open door where it drifted into a blackened room. The owners of the fake arrow and top hat, which were lying on the floor had vanished.
Remnants of the cherry bomb sprinkled the porch along with two unused tickets to the movies that Halloween night.
"Yeah," replied Adam.
"That's your costume?"
"Yeah, what's wrong with it?"
"A top hat, that's it? Nothing more, no makeup, no mask, just a top hat."
"It was my granddad's."
"Is that how he dressed? C'mon let's go."
"Wait is that your costume?"
"What's wrong with my costume?"
"An arrow through your neck, really Bobby?"
"Okay, that's it. You're wearing a top hat and I have an arrow through my neck. They're great. Can we go now?"
"Sure, where are we going?"
"You know where we're going."
"Uh-uh, not that house."
"It's Halloween and I've been waiting for this all year. We go up there, ring the bell, and I have trick I want play. Then we run like hell."
"What are you talking about?"
"Look what I've got," said Bobby reaching into his pocket.
"Is that--?"
"Yep, a cherry bomb."
"What do you plan to do with it?"
"What do we plan to do with it?"
"Huh."
"I ring the bell; I'll be holding this in my hand. You light it and I toss it in when they open the door."
"Bobby, are you crazy? There are no 'they' in that house, there's an it or a thing, but there ain't no they."
"That's nothing but rumors it's an old person living up there."
"Ever see this OLD PERSON?"
"No, but-,"
"But nothing, no one has ever seen this old person, no one lives there. It's empty."
"Adam, it's empty except on Halloween and no one has the guts to go there."
"I'll wait here and wish you the best. Does your mom have any candy."
"Look, it's all a joke. It's some college guys who hide inside. This will scare them."
"They'll chase us and beat us up."
"No they won't cause I've already been up there and set a booby trap when they come out."
"When?"
"Two days ago. C'mon let's do this."
"Bobby, one more question."
"What is it?"
"Do you have matches?"
"Wait here, I'll be right back."
Adam and Bobby walked through the neighborhood which was busy with children in all sorts of costumes running from house to house. At the end of the third block they turned right.
It was as though they entered another dimension. The two lone street lights, one on each side of the street, flickered sporadically and the night air grew colder. Adam glanced over his shoulder, the area was deserted.
"Bobby, I'm not getting a good feeling."
"This is what Halloween is all about. We're supposed to be scared. Tomorrow we'll laugh about this once we go up there and you'll see it's nothing. Two more blocks, that's all. I also have a surprise for you."
"What is it and it better not be a trick."
"Look at this, you call this a trick," said Bobby pulling out two small pieces of paper.
"What's that?"
"Tickets to the 8:30 show at the Cinema. We do this and run all the way to see Stephen King's 'IT'. On me."
"You're kidding."
"Still want to turn around, because if you do no movie."
"Damn you Bobby."
The boys stood by the rusted gate of the old house sitting up on a small bluff. Thirty stairs separated them from the front door. It was an old house, it's wooden siding skin had all been plucked away. Most of the windows with either cracked or broken except for the large one over the door. Nine small panes of glass all clean, not a scratch on any, and the wood, barely weathered.
"What's that inside," asked Adam, grabbing his friend's arm."
They saw a faint glow float across the window and vanish.
"It's just those college guys that's all. They're trying to scare us."
"They've succeeded. Let's leave, I'll pay for the movie."
"No way, I've been planning this for two months and I'm not turning around."
Each wooden step groaned under the weight of boys. The nails embedded in the old wooden planks popped like buttons on a shirt three sizes too small. As a covert operatives Bobby and Adam failed miserably.
"Shhh," I don't want them to hear us coming.
"Maybe you should have oiled each step when you were here two days ago."
"Shhh."
The boys were extra careful on the last two steps doing everything they could not to make any more noise. When they were at the front door Bobby whispered his plan to his friend.
"Here are the matches. I'm going to hold the cherry bomb in my left hand. When I knock, light it."
"Then what?"
"They'll open the door, I toss it, we run."
"What's your booby trap?"
"The last four steps jump, because I cut them just enough that when they come down they'll snap under their weight. First college guy goes down, the other's will trip."
If Bobby could see Adam's face, "That's your idea of a booby trap. Cutting four stairs at the bottom."
"You have a better idea?"
"Not being here for one."
"Shhh, I hear something."
There were heavy footsteps coming towards the door.
"Adam light the cherry bomb."
"What?"
"Light the bomb," Bobby said loudly.
Adam, hand shaking, opened the pack of matches and pulled out a match. He struck the match, but it flew out of his hand. The footsteps were coming closer.
"Adam, light it!"
"I'm trying."
The second match lit the explosive just as the door flew open, a large hand grabbed Adam and Bobby, and closed with a crash. The cherry bomb exploded on the front porch.
"Did you hear that," said one of the four kids walking by the old house.
"Yeah, I wonder what it was," replied another.
"Let's go see," said the third, "Jimmy, you got your flashlight?"
"Yeah, but I'm not going."
"Let me have it, I'll be right back. I just want to shine a light on the door."
The boy stepped on the first stair snapping it in half under the weight of his footfall.
"Come on John, that's enough. This place is creepy and that's a sign to stay out."
As the four kids walked away they were too far to see the faint glow inside the old house. There was no light source to explain its origin, as it moved slowly up the staircase to an open door where it drifted into a blackened room. The owners of the fake arrow and top hat, which were lying on the floor had vanished.
Remnants of the cherry bomb sprinkled the porch along with two unused tickets to the movies that Halloween night.
THE END-FLASH SCIENCE FICTION
They didn’t know, the damn scientists just didn’t know. Sure they speculated, but the end of the world? Who knew? Only those fools who ran around saying, “The world is coming to an end.” As usual, we all laughed.
From what they can tell the Earth will implode like a cheap soda can, then it will explode into oblivion. How do they know that? They’re idiots. They say the earth will explode but they didn’t know about the air? The atmosphere is dissipating. Like something threw a blanket over the planet. Breathable oxygen is dropping and the earth’s air will be gone in less than two days.
It started in Bolivia and Peru. There are four cities resting over two miles above sea level. Everyone suffocated and died in a matter of hours.
Yesterday, a cameraman filmed the streets in Denver. It showed people rushing to escape and dropping dead. The guy holding the camera was wearing an oxygen mask and a mob attacked him trying to pull it off him before he and the rest of the people died. By all calculations the air in Los Angeles will be gone by mid-night tonight. Ten hours. There's not a cloud in the sky, but the color is a gray I've never seen before, and it keeps intensifying. The Sun is brighter but there's no heat. It's strange.
Because it's below sea level people are driving to Death Valley, what an appropriate name for one’s final resting place. Normally, it’s three hours away but traffic is backed up for over one hundred miles. The looting's begun, there’s no police or military, everyone is on their own.
It’s maddening watching the world come to an end like this. No explosion or earthquake, just the air we breathe is disappearing in a matter of a couple of days. Day after tomorrow, the earth will be nothing more than a dead planet, floating aimlessly.
My decision was right, I won’t be judged even by a greater power. They were mercy killings, Diane and the boys. I couldn’t let them suffer. I have one bullet left.
#the end of the world,#flash science fiction,#short story,#apocalypse
From what they can tell the Earth will implode like a cheap soda can, then it will explode into oblivion. How do they know that? They’re idiots. They say the earth will explode but they didn’t know about the air? The atmosphere is dissipating. Like something threw a blanket over the planet. Breathable oxygen is dropping and the earth’s air will be gone in less than two days.
It started in Bolivia and Peru. There are four cities resting over two miles above sea level. Everyone suffocated and died in a matter of hours.
Yesterday, a cameraman filmed the streets in Denver. It showed people rushing to escape and dropping dead. The guy holding the camera was wearing an oxygen mask and a mob attacked him trying to pull it off him before he and the rest of the people died. By all calculations the air in Los Angeles will be gone by mid-night tonight. Ten hours. There's not a cloud in the sky, but the color is a gray I've never seen before, and it keeps intensifying. The Sun is brighter but there's no heat. It's strange.
Because it's below sea level people are driving to Death Valley, what an appropriate name for one’s final resting place. Normally, it’s three hours away but traffic is backed up for over one hundred miles. The looting's begun, there’s no police or military, everyone is on their own.
It’s maddening watching the world come to an end like this. No explosion or earthquake, just the air we breathe is disappearing in a matter of a couple of days. Day after tomorrow, the earth will be nothing more than a dead planet, floating aimlessly.
My decision was right, I won’t be judged even by a greater power. They were mercy killings, Diane and the boys. I couldn’t let them suffer. I have one bullet left.
#the end of the world,#flash science fiction,#short story,#apocalypse
BEHIND THE DARK GLASSES
She sits at a small corner table at the local Starbucks. Beautiful tall blue eyed blonde, but no one could tell the color of her eyes. Not behind those dark sunglasses. Those two pieces of glass with a designer's name stamped on the side of the frame. They hide everything about her from the outside world, but also keep her a prisoner.
She sits staring at the small screen, like everyone else, scrolling through nothing in particular. Men fall over themselves to talk to her, but she politely carves them up into pieces and sends them on their way, destroying their fragile egos. She sits there alone because it is better than sitting alone in her apartment. She doesn't want to admit life is passing her by. Her self-absorbed world is grinding to a halt. She is becoming common.
Once upon a time, she was known by thousands and the center of attention. An expert at smiling. A Geisha wearing a kabuki mask concealing an empty shell. She was a fairy tale princess without a prince. Always guarded, her heart would never allow someone in. She wants to look to the future, but the goblins of her past will not allow that. With only her past glories, alone, she hides in plain sight.
#SUNGLASSES,#LONELY,#ONCE FAMOUS,#STARBUCKS,#DARK GLASSES,#SAD,#NARCISSIST,#ALONE
She sits at a small corner table at the local Starbucks. Beautiful tall blue eyed blonde, but no one could tell the color of her eyes. Not behind those dark sunglasses. Those two pieces of glass with a designer's name stamped on the side of the frame. They hide everything about her from the outside world, but also keep her a prisoner.
She sits staring at the small screen, like everyone else, scrolling through nothing in particular. Men fall over themselves to talk to her, but she politely carves them up into pieces and sends them on their way, destroying their fragile egos. She sits there alone because it is better than sitting alone in her apartment. She doesn't want to admit life is passing her by. Her self-absorbed world is grinding to a halt. She is becoming common.
Once upon a time, she was known by thousands and the center of attention. An expert at smiling. A Geisha wearing a kabuki mask concealing an empty shell. She was a fairy tale princess without a prince. Always guarded, her heart would never allow someone in. She wants to look to the future, but the goblins of her past will not allow that. With only her past glories, alone, she hides in plain sight.
#SUNGLASSES,#LONELY,#ONCE FAMOUS,#STARBUCKS,#DARK GLASSES,#SAD,#NARCISSIST,#ALONE
Weeping Oak Holler
Many things came easy to Sam but currently, living was not one of them. Born on a rural farm in Kentucky two years before the beginning of World War 2 he was the youngest of five boys. The oldest Jim was 19 and the next Billy had just turned 18. Sam's parents Jonah and Rachel Lambert were second generation farmers in these parts.
The fourteen year old twins, Jake and Calvin, were two of the most mischievous boys in the whole county. They were so much trouble that Rachel and Jonah drove them to town one day and paid Sheriff Patton one dollar to keep them locked up for three days so the family could get some rest.
When the twins knew what their parents were up to the boys being the sly devils they were convinced their baby brother Sam to ride into town and break them out of jail. With a full moon high in the clear sky Sam rode the only horse the Lambert's owned, Cornstalk, in the middle of the night straight into town.
There was only one problem for the child and his horse. They had to go through Weeping Oak Holler. During the day Weeping Oak Holler blocked the sun even on the brightest summer day. Six year old Sam had no idea until it was too late that Cornstalk drifted off the trail and got lost.
As the pale golden spears of the morning sun edged their way over the mountains the Lambert's rooster repeatedly sounded the alarm that something was wrong on the farm. Jonah thought a fox was in the hen house and came running out still in his long johns with shotgun in his hand but quickly realized Cornstalk was missing.
"Jonah, Jonah, Sam is not in his bed."
"Cornstalk is not in the corral," said Jonah.
"What's wrong," asked Jim.
"Sam is missing. Get your brother," said Rachel.
"What are we going to do Rachel? We're supposed to take the boys to town. The bus arrives in two hours."
"We're not going anywhere until we find Sam," said Jim. Billy standing next to him nodding in agreement.
"What if you miss your bus, will you get into trouble," asked Jonah.
"This is our little brother the War can go on without us," said Jim.
The Lambert's got into the pickup truck with Billy sitting on the hood studying the ground. He knew Cornstalk's hoof prints.
"It looks like they went this way," said Billy.
"Where did this boy go," asked Jonah.
"Looks like he was headed to town," said Jim.
"I'll bet you the twins have something to do with this," said Rachel.
Jonah drove extra slow down the dirt road so Billy could read the tracks. Almost an hour passed when the Lambert family reached the edge of Weeping Oak Holler. Billy raised his hand and Jonah stopped the truck.
"What's wrong?"
"The tracks lead into Weeping Oak."
"My boy went in there in the dark," cried Rachel.
"We don't know that for sure," said Jonah.
"I'm going to have to walk and you can follow, but it won't be easy," said Billy.
"I'm walking with Billy," said Jim. "Every twenty seconds honk the horn."
As the family entered Weeping Oak the daylight began to vanish and it became increasingly difficult for Billy and Jim to see the ground.
"Turn on the lights," said Jim.
"What do you think they'll do to us? Think we're deserters?"
"I don't care. This is Sam our brother and I'm not leaving until I know he's safe."
"I didn't say anything to ma or pa about shipping out overseas."
"I know either did I."
"Where is Normandy anyway."
"Somewhere in Europe. Sam, Sam, Sam," yelled his brothers.
"Look Jim, I think that Cornstalk's tracks turn off here."
"Looks like it."
"That's some rough ground to cover, even on foot," said Jim.
Turning to Jonah and Rachel Jim said,"We're going to check, stay here and honk the horn."
The boys veered off the road and walked close to a half mile when they heard a noise. It was Cornstalk. He had lost his footing and fell down a small ravine throwing Sam who was lying on the ground unconscious.
"Sam, Sam, can you hear us," said Jim, rushing to his little brother.
"Hmmm,"said Sam weakly.
Jim lifted his brother and carried him back to the truck with Billy nursing Cornstalk and his injured leg. Jonah and Rachel came rushing up to their boys and drove as fast as possible into town to Doc McKee's. Sam had a concussion and was in the four bed hospital for three days.
When Rachel discovered the twins convinced their little brother to break them out of prison she took up a town collection raising $2.50. She gave the money to Sheriff Patton who kept the boys another four days. The Sheriff stood over the boys and made them paint the Widow Creely's house and barn during the day only to return them to their cells at night.
Jim and Billy arrived at the army base and with the help of Jonah explained to the their commanding officer the circumstances. They spent three weeks peeling potatoes and cleaning the latrines before shipping out with the next wave of soldiers to Europe. They missed June 4th, 1944, the Normandy invasion by two weeks.
Sam and Cornstalk never ventured in Weeping Oak Holler again.
by Robert Stephen
5/4/17
The fourteen year old twins, Jake and Calvin, were two of the most mischievous boys in the whole county. They were so much trouble that Rachel and Jonah drove them to town one day and paid Sheriff Patton one dollar to keep them locked up for three days so the family could get some rest.
When the twins knew what their parents were up to the boys being the sly devils they were convinced their baby brother Sam to ride into town and break them out of jail. With a full moon high in the clear sky Sam rode the only horse the Lambert's owned, Cornstalk, in the middle of the night straight into town.
There was only one problem for the child and his horse. They had to go through Weeping Oak Holler. During the day Weeping Oak Holler blocked the sun even on the brightest summer day. Six year old Sam had no idea until it was too late that Cornstalk drifted off the trail and got lost.
As the pale golden spears of the morning sun edged their way over the mountains the Lambert's rooster repeatedly sounded the alarm that something was wrong on the farm. Jonah thought a fox was in the hen house and came running out still in his long johns with shotgun in his hand but quickly realized Cornstalk was missing.
"Jonah, Jonah, Sam is not in his bed."
"Cornstalk is not in the corral," said Jonah.
"What's wrong," asked Jim.
"Sam is missing. Get your brother," said Rachel.
"What are we going to do Rachel? We're supposed to take the boys to town. The bus arrives in two hours."
"We're not going anywhere until we find Sam," said Jim. Billy standing next to him nodding in agreement.
"What if you miss your bus, will you get into trouble," asked Jonah.
"This is our little brother the War can go on without us," said Jim.
The Lambert's got into the pickup truck with Billy sitting on the hood studying the ground. He knew Cornstalk's hoof prints.
"It looks like they went this way," said Billy.
"Where did this boy go," asked Jonah.
"Looks like he was headed to town," said Jim.
"I'll bet you the twins have something to do with this," said Rachel.
Jonah drove extra slow down the dirt road so Billy could read the tracks. Almost an hour passed when the Lambert family reached the edge of Weeping Oak Holler. Billy raised his hand and Jonah stopped the truck.
"What's wrong?"
"The tracks lead into Weeping Oak."
"My boy went in there in the dark," cried Rachel.
"We don't know that for sure," said Jonah.
"I'm going to have to walk and you can follow, but it won't be easy," said Billy.
"I'm walking with Billy," said Jim. "Every twenty seconds honk the horn."
As the family entered Weeping Oak the daylight began to vanish and it became increasingly difficult for Billy and Jim to see the ground.
"Turn on the lights," said Jim.
"What do you think they'll do to us? Think we're deserters?"
"I don't care. This is Sam our brother and I'm not leaving until I know he's safe."
"I didn't say anything to ma or pa about shipping out overseas."
"I know either did I."
"Where is Normandy anyway."
"Somewhere in Europe. Sam, Sam, Sam," yelled his brothers.
"Look Jim, I think that Cornstalk's tracks turn off here."
"Looks like it."
"That's some rough ground to cover, even on foot," said Jim.
Turning to Jonah and Rachel Jim said,"We're going to check, stay here and honk the horn."
The boys veered off the road and walked close to a half mile when they heard a noise. It was Cornstalk. He had lost his footing and fell down a small ravine throwing Sam who was lying on the ground unconscious.
"Sam, Sam, can you hear us," said Jim, rushing to his little brother.
"Hmmm,"said Sam weakly.
Jim lifted his brother and carried him back to the truck with Billy nursing Cornstalk and his injured leg. Jonah and Rachel came rushing up to their boys and drove as fast as possible into town to Doc McKee's. Sam had a concussion and was in the four bed hospital for three days.
When Rachel discovered the twins convinced their little brother to break them out of prison she took up a town collection raising $2.50. She gave the money to Sheriff Patton who kept the boys another four days. The Sheriff stood over the boys and made them paint the Widow Creely's house and barn during the day only to return them to their cells at night.
Jim and Billy arrived at the army base and with the help of Jonah explained to the their commanding officer the circumstances. They spent three weeks peeling potatoes and cleaning the latrines before shipping out with the next wave of soldiers to Europe. They missed June 4th, 1944, the Normandy invasion by two weeks.
Sam and Cornstalk never ventured in Weeping Oak Holler again.
by Robert Stephen
5/4/17
THE VALOROUS
Twilight, and the ocean breaks against the wooden hull of the Valorous. She's a four-masted ship who has sailed the seas and oceans unchallenged. Forty-seven days ago we sailed into uncharted waters. The vessel is crewed by thirty-five of the toughest able-bodied seamen the world has ever seen, but even the crew was unprepared.
Captain Nathan Prichard an ill-tempered man, a seaman of forty years, has the tolerance of a puritan at the recent witch trials. His men nicknamed him "fishbone," because of his long thin neck, but pity the man who would utter the nickname to the Captain's face. His anger has boiled over for he could not explain with authority our current circumstance. When he is displeased he has the disposition of an executioner who enjoys his work while lopping off heads.
I mention these uncharted waters because they seem to be where the devil and his minions must reside. I mention forty-seven days ago because that is when the unanswered began. Today, the forty-seventh day I must be aware when I write "we" referring to the crew I mislead the reader for I am the only person on the Valorous.
I begin;
We had been at sea for the better part of two months and sailed past the equator without mishap. We turned in a southeasterly direction and within hours were fighting winds so powerful the Valorous curled sideways, its topsail almost touching the ocean. Every man held on with not one uttering a sound of distress. That is how much we trusted our captain.
When the storm subsided we stood motionless in the middle of endless nowhere. The water was still and quiet much like death. Clear but to what depth unknown because no sea life past before our eyes. The heat of the sun beat down as though standing only a foot away from roaring fire.
Without warning the first swell hit the Valorous sideways followed by two more, each larger than the previous. Everyone looked over the side of the ship expecting to see a pod of whales, but there was nothing. An hour later it began again and continued for the better part of thirty minutes. What troubled every man including the Captain was the absence of wind. The sails flapped listlessly as the ship stagnated in the water.
Tobin McCourt, a burly man with a body made of iron and two large hands, which almost fit around the neck of a small horse had sailed with Prichard for nearly two decades. He was as agile as a monkey when he climbed the ship's rigging and had no fear standing on the tallest mast. I've seen grown men fall ill watching Tobin dance at the very top without holding on to a single safety line. Though there was one caution about Tobin McCourt, his drinking. When Tobin was drunk even Prichard gave him a wide lane.
Tobin scurried up to the crows nest, but rather than to hop inside he hung by one arm floating fearlessly.
"Nothing Captain. No whales, no sea creatures, nothing," he said from atop.
Without waiting for further instructions Tobin leaped to a rope and slid down until he was ten feet from the deck, which he navigated with a single jump and landed on his feet.
Night fell and Keegan Biddle, the ship's cook served the Captain in his quarters. The rest of the men ate either above and below deck as the ship remained spiritless in the water. At nine bells the waves suddenly crashed mercilessly against the ship but still no wind. One wave after the other until eleven bells then stillness. Even the strongest of us, Captain Prichard, was somewhat unnerved.
On the morning of the second day, we awoke to the unholy screams of Eddy Jefferies on deck. Several of the crew appeared with weapons at the ready expecting a fight but were shocked to find Captain Prichard dead. His body had been lifted thirty feet above the deck and had been nailed to the foremast. His hands were placed directly above his head with several nails embedded into his palms. His feet were crossed like the Savior's at the crucifixion. Not even Tobin McCourt was cable of this foul deed.
Captain Nathan Prichard an ill-tempered man, a seaman of forty years, has the tolerance of a puritan at the recent witch trials. His men nicknamed him "fishbone," because of his long thin neck, but pity the man who would utter the nickname to the Captain's face. His anger has boiled over for he could not explain with authority our current circumstance. When he is displeased he has the disposition of an executioner who enjoys his work while lopping off heads.
I mention these uncharted waters because they seem to be where the devil and his minions must reside. I mention forty-seven days ago because that is when the unanswered began. Today, the forty-seventh day I must be aware when I write "we" referring to the crew I mislead the reader for I am the only person on the Valorous.
I begin;
We had been at sea for the better part of two months and sailed past the equator without mishap. We turned in a southeasterly direction and within hours were fighting winds so powerful the Valorous curled sideways, its topsail almost touching the ocean. Every man held on with not one uttering a sound of distress. That is how much we trusted our captain.
When the storm subsided we stood motionless in the middle of endless nowhere. The water was still and quiet much like death. Clear but to what depth unknown because no sea life past before our eyes. The heat of the sun beat down as though standing only a foot away from roaring fire.
Without warning the first swell hit the Valorous sideways followed by two more, each larger than the previous. Everyone looked over the side of the ship expecting to see a pod of whales, but there was nothing. An hour later it began again and continued for the better part of thirty minutes. What troubled every man including the Captain was the absence of wind. The sails flapped listlessly as the ship stagnated in the water.
Tobin McCourt, a burly man with a body made of iron and two large hands, which almost fit around the neck of a small horse had sailed with Prichard for nearly two decades. He was as agile as a monkey when he climbed the ship's rigging and had no fear standing on the tallest mast. I've seen grown men fall ill watching Tobin dance at the very top without holding on to a single safety line. Though there was one caution about Tobin McCourt, his drinking. When Tobin was drunk even Prichard gave him a wide lane.
Tobin scurried up to the crows nest, but rather than to hop inside he hung by one arm floating fearlessly.
"Nothing Captain. No whales, no sea creatures, nothing," he said from atop.
Without waiting for further instructions Tobin leaped to a rope and slid down until he was ten feet from the deck, which he navigated with a single jump and landed on his feet.
Night fell and Keegan Biddle, the ship's cook served the Captain in his quarters. The rest of the men ate either above and below deck as the ship remained spiritless in the water. At nine bells the waves suddenly crashed mercilessly against the ship but still no wind. One wave after the other until eleven bells then stillness. Even the strongest of us, Captain Prichard, was somewhat unnerved.
On the morning of the second day, we awoke to the unholy screams of Eddy Jefferies on deck. Several of the crew appeared with weapons at the ready expecting a fight but were shocked to find Captain Prichard dead. His body had been lifted thirty feet above the deck and had been nailed to the foremast. His hands were placed directly above his head with several nails embedded into his palms. His feet were crossed like the Savior's at the crucifixion. Not even Tobin McCourt was cable of this foul deed.
|
No man would remove Captain Prichard's body, not out of respect, but out of fear. Eccles Aziz, a native from an island I cannot recall, told the men to leave the captain until we were out of the "Devil Waters," he called them.
Every night the waves crashed and every morning another crew member vanished. After fifteen days our numbers shrunk to twenty and by now even the strongest was shaken. We broke into groups of five and never allowed a man to be alone even if he had to relieve himself or worse. Later that day myself, Oliver Furlong, Boland Ashmand, Allard Till, and Glen Fitton were returning from below deck. Nothing looked out of the ordinary and I was the first to climb the narrow ladder up topside. I was followed by everyone except Allard Till. "Where is Till," I asked. "Right behind me. He said after you mad'am," said Oliver Furlong. "Allard, Allard," we yelled, but he did not respond. "Let's go down there," I said, but everyone froze. Tobin came over and I told him about Till. With pistols in our hands and long knives in our belts we descended into the hole. There was no sign of Alard Till anywhere on the Valorous. The madness continued and men vanished but no one witnessed anyone disappear. It was as though they jumped ship and swam away. Even when men stood watch somehow one of the sleeping men would fade from sight and in the morning that man would be gone. They spoke of sleeping in a group each man's leg tied to another, but when one needed to turn over or stand up the group rebelled. |
He pulled Mawson, who was still alive his innards seeping out, to the side of the ship and threw his body overboard. Biddle looked down at the dying man floating while wiping the blade on his trousers and when the cook turned around Tobin was standing behind him. Without a second thought, he wrapped his right hand around Biddle's throat. No one moved to intervene as Tobin effortlessly lifted the cook off the ground body twitching and spasming in his fight to escape. In horror, we watched as the large man folded his hand around Bittle's neck squeezing tightly. Tobin closed his hand until his ring finger touched his palm crushing the man's windpipe and in a single motion flung the cook's lifeless body over the side.
Tobin walked away, but the rest of us rushed to the side and peered over looking down at the two bodies floating like discarded debris. We waited for the fins to break the surface and waited. We heard a thump and realized it was Bittle's body bumping against the hull.
"This place is not human," said Tobin returning to the group. He was referring to the fact that after twenty minutes no sharks appeared to claim their dinner.
"Lower a longboat," Tobin yelled.
"What are you doing Tobin," I asked.
"I am leaving and I'll take any man who wants to leave with me."
"No, we stay we cannot leave."
Tobin's eyes cut me in half with his stare. Not minutes ago he murdered a man. Taking another life would not bother him. I reasoned for a moment that Tobin, in fact, was the Devil whose house we are standing in.
Tobin walked away, but the rest of us rushed to the side and peered over looking down at the two bodies floating like discarded debris. We waited for the fins to break the surface and waited. We heard a thump and realized it was Bittle's body bumping against the hull.
"This place is not human," said Tobin returning to the group. He was referring to the fact that after twenty minutes no sharks appeared to claim their dinner.
"Lower a longboat," Tobin yelled.
"What are you doing Tobin," I asked.
"I am leaving and I'll take any man who wants to leave with me."
"No, we stay we cannot leave."
Tobin's eyes cut me in half with his stare. Not minutes ago he murdered a man. Taking another life would not bother him. I reasoned for a moment that Tobin, in fact, was the Devil whose house we are standing in.
|
With teeth gritted he said, "We are leaving this ship with or without you.
Suddenly, Captain Prichard's body fell from foremast and landed on the ship's deck. His rotted body had slipped from the nails and now it lay motionless at our feet. His layer of skin was now almost all gone exposing just brittle bones. Men's eyes darted from the Captain's corpse to one another messaging their need to abandon ship. As four men moved towards the longboat no one saw the first oncoming wave. It hit the ship with a force knocking everyone to their knees, but before we could stand up another wave crashed on top of us. One wave after the other pounded the Valorous with a surge of violence we had never encountered. Each man was tossed around the ship's deck like a child's small doll then abruptly just as the waves had begun they stopped. Attempting to regain our senses a sound began as a low whistle alerting each of us. It grew in intensity as it approached and screamed like a thousand banshees forcing us to cover our ears. I do not know about the others, but the noise seeped into my head through the cracks between my fingers. Closing my eyes I screamed louder than I have ever screamed. My head was about to burst. |
|
The noise tailed off evaporating into the sky and silence returned. I believe I was the first to notice and said, "Where is the Captain's body?"
We moved around the ship as a group and searched everywhere on the deck but his body was nowhere to be found.
"Lower a longboat," yelled Tobin as he along with the six men in tow began lowering it down.
Each man, except for myself, dropped over the side, down into the waiting rowboat, and when I looked over seven pairs of eyes were staring back at me.
"Come with us Tom," they urged.
With no further words, Tobin stood up and used an oar to push away from the Valorous. Three pairs of men began rowing while Tobin stood at the rudder steering the boat away.
I stood quietly on the deck watching the craft fade from view when, even at this distance, I spied waves churning. From my vantage point, the longboat appeared like a small piece of driftwood floating aimlessly just beyond the surf. A single wave, as tall as the Valorous, lifted the longboat and dropped it back into the water. Giant waves, their size I am at a loss for words to describe, picked the boat up then slammed it back down. I could see whitecaps the size of wagons riding the backs of these waves and like everything else in these unholy waters they soon ceased.
As though by magic the raging water was now nothing more than a gentle body of idle bluish gray liquid. There was no sign of the longboat or the seven men. I was alone.
For days I sat on the deck never moving from my location. The first night I was able to remain awake through the night, but eventually, I drifted into a dark sleep. When I awoke hours later I grabbed my hands and arms. I was still alive. In my time here on earth, I have noticed that each man faces fear differently. I am the only survivor and I do not know if I should call myself fortunate or cursed.
For weeks now I roam the ship freely. I eat and sleep where ever I choose without interference although supplies are beginning to run low. On day forty and forty-two the waves crashed against the hull. But today, day forty-seven as I am writing I hear something moving, crawling, on along the hull. Wood is shattering but I will not investigate.
I hear a loud noise below deck like scratching. I hear movement from below, I.........
We moved around the ship as a group and searched everywhere on the deck but his body was nowhere to be found.
"Lower a longboat," yelled Tobin as he along with the six men in tow began lowering it down.
Each man, except for myself, dropped over the side, down into the waiting rowboat, and when I looked over seven pairs of eyes were staring back at me.
"Come with us Tom," they urged.
With no further words, Tobin stood up and used an oar to push away from the Valorous. Three pairs of men began rowing while Tobin stood at the rudder steering the boat away.
I stood quietly on the deck watching the craft fade from view when, even at this distance, I spied waves churning. From my vantage point, the longboat appeared like a small piece of driftwood floating aimlessly just beyond the surf. A single wave, as tall as the Valorous, lifted the longboat and dropped it back into the water. Giant waves, their size I am at a loss for words to describe, picked the boat up then slammed it back down. I could see whitecaps the size of wagons riding the backs of these waves and like everything else in these unholy waters they soon ceased.
As though by magic the raging water was now nothing more than a gentle body of idle bluish gray liquid. There was no sign of the longboat or the seven men. I was alone.
For days I sat on the deck never moving from my location. The first night I was able to remain awake through the night, but eventually, I drifted into a dark sleep. When I awoke hours later I grabbed my hands and arms. I was still alive. In my time here on earth, I have noticed that each man faces fear differently. I am the only survivor and I do not know if I should call myself fortunate or cursed.
For weeks now I roam the ship freely. I eat and sleep where ever I choose without interference although supplies are beginning to run low. On day forty and forty-two the waves crashed against the hull. But today, day forty-seven as I am writing I hear something moving, crawling, on along the hull. Wood is shattering but I will not investigate.
I hear a loud noise below deck like scratching. I hear movement from below, I.........
WIFFLE BALL AND STEVE CHICK
4/9/17
As a kid growing up 10-15 years old I loved to play baseball in all kinds of forms. Not terrific in playing organized baseball, no I liked any other form. Stick ball, using a tennis ball and a bat, three man teams were great, but another story. This one involves the game using a wiffle Ball. For all who do not know what a wiffle ball is here is how Wikipedia describes it.
Wiffle ball is a variation of the sport of baseball designed for indoor or outdoor play in confined areas. The game is played using a perforated, light-weight, resilient plastic ball and a long, typically yellow, plastic bat
That's correct a plastic perforated ball, but we did not use plastic bats. Only wood. Some of the game had to remain real.
I love the game of baseball, but not for what I believe are the traditional reasons people love baseball. I'm not one to go to the stadium and sit with myriads of roaring fans, nor do I sit down in front of a television and watch every play, or know every statistic. I like spring training because of the dreams and optimism that permeate the atmosphere.
The stories new and old are great. The success and disappointments of individuals and teams, managers and umpires, even trainers and bat boys. I imagine I look at photography in a similar way. One photographer can capture a beautiful landscape and it is in truth beautiful. However, another photographer can capture a single leaf lying near the boundary of a cluster of pampas grass in the late afternoon. The sun leaks through the high gaunt straw like stalks which spread gentle shadows across the dried up foliage. That's me the latter. I walk around with my camera and enjoy the small detail rather than the grand panorama unless I can similarly make it appealing.
Nevertheless, I digress, back to baseball, wiffle ball to be precise.
In junior high and high school, I had a friend named Steve Chick. Not too tall but a wiry kid, mischievous as hell, which without going into a lot of detail all the kids I knew that were wiry had that look. You know the one where the corners of their mouth tilted upwards before a word was even uttered. You knew some shit was about to happen and rather than to stop whatever mayhem would befall the two of you; you were complicit in the incident, of course, that is if you were not caught. If you did, the rules changed in a heartbeat and you raced to throw each other under the bus rather than to face the consequences.
Friendship, another story another time, I digress. Back to wiffle ball and Steve Chick.
The principle behind wiffle ball is exactly the same as it is in baseball. The pitcher throws the ball and attempts to strike out the batter. Conversely, the batter attempts to hit the ball somewhere that is safely out of reach of the opposing team, or if it is one on one, out of the reach of your opponent.
Steve Chick's house was halfway between my house and school, which made it convenient to play outside of his house. Regulation baseball has a book of rules, softball the same, little league no argument, but stickball and wiffle ball have their own worlds. They are like Sci-Fi stories where the outer galaxy rarely visited by humans is always in flux. Yesterday you swore it was one thing and today it is vastly different. Welcome to one-on-one wiffle ball.
Ask any kid who ever played the game knows what I am writing about. The limb on the tree, no, no, not that limb. The one that is safe when your opponent hits, but is an out when you hit it. It hits the curb on one bounce it is a single, two bounces it is an automatic out. If you lose the ball in the tree and someone has to climb and retrieve it, guess what, 3 outs.
The boundaries changed with each game that is except for the pitcher's mound and home plate. They were constant. Even though we played on a side street, home plate was a much safer place to be than the pitcher's mound because it was in the middle of the street.
Take a rock and stand twenty to twenty five feet away and throw it at a wall. Odds are you will hit it. Now, take a ball of cotton, a large ball if it helps and do the same thing. Call me if you hit the wall because you won't! Welcome to wiffle ball. A perforated plastic ball has a mind of its own unless you can master the secret. Steve was one such person he found the secret. However, the Ouija board was my forte. One night I contacted a long departed pet, a hamster named Charlie. Steve thought I was crazy, but I proved him wrong. However, I digress and must remain on point.
Steve Chick perfected how to throw a wiffle ball. If one would hold it like a normal baseball or tennis ball, it will not go straight because, this is my scientific answer sorry, because it won't. Please, I want no one writing me to tell me the physics of throwing a wiffle ball if you want to do that start your own blog.
Steve beat me every time and because it was somewhat of a traumatic time in my life I do not remember the scores of any of our close games why? Because there were none. It was a time when kids would get mad for dumb things like, "it was a fair ball, no it was a foul ball." Sometimes we wouldn't talk for a few days because of our stubbornness, but we went to the same school, sat in many of the same classes, walked home in the same direction, and played outside. Friends were real, you talked to them face to face, and as you grew up and if the day came you both went your separate ways somehow there was another Steve Chick to meet along the way.
https://www.mlb.com/dodgers/?c_id=la
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friendship
http://www.wiffle.com/
#baseball,#stickball,#softball,#kids games,#baseball bat,#baseball glove,#los angeles dodgers,#friendship,#Ouija Board,#growing up,#playing outdoors,#robertstephen,#wiffle ball
As a kid growing up 10-15 years old I loved to play baseball in all kinds of forms. Not terrific in playing organized baseball, no I liked any other form. Stick ball, using a tennis ball and a bat, three man teams were great, but another story. This one involves the game using a wiffle Ball. For all who do not know what a wiffle ball is here is how Wikipedia describes it.
Wiffle ball is a variation of the sport of baseball designed for indoor or outdoor play in confined areas. The game is played using a perforated, light-weight, resilient plastic ball and a long, typically yellow, plastic bat
That's correct a plastic perforated ball, but we did not use plastic bats. Only wood. Some of the game had to remain real.
I love the game of baseball, but not for what I believe are the traditional reasons people love baseball. I'm not one to go to the stadium and sit with myriads of roaring fans, nor do I sit down in front of a television and watch every play, or know every statistic. I like spring training because of the dreams and optimism that permeate the atmosphere.
The stories new and old are great. The success and disappointments of individuals and teams, managers and umpires, even trainers and bat boys. I imagine I look at photography in a similar way. One photographer can capture a beautiful landscape and it is in truth beautiful. However, another photographer can capture a single leaf lying near the boundary of a cluster of pampas grass in the late afternoon. The sun leaks through the high gaunt straw like stalks which spread gentle shadows across the dried up foliage. That's me the latter. I walk around with my camera and enjoy the small detail rather than the grand panorama unless I can similarly make it appealing.
Nevertheless, I digress, back to baseball, wiffle ball to be precise.
In junior high and high school, I had a friend named Steve Chick. Not too tall but a wiry kid, mischievous as hell, which without going into a lot of detail all the kids I knew that were wiry had that look. You know the one where the corners of their mouth tilted upwards before a word was even uttered. You knew some shit was about to happen and rather than to stop whatever mayhem would befall the two of you; you were complicit in the incident, of course, that is if you were not caught. If you did, the rules changed in a heartbeat and you raced to throw each other under the bus rather than to face the consequences.
Friendship, another story another time, I digress. Back to wiffle ball and Steve Chick.
The principle behind wiffle ball is exactly the same as it is in baseball. The pitcher throws the ball and attempts to strike out the batter. Conversely, the batter attempts to hit the ball somewhere that is safely out of reach of the opposing team, or if it is one on one, out of the reach of your opponent.
Steve Chick's house was halfway between my house and school, which made it convenient to play outside of his house. Regulation baseball has a book of rules, softball the same, little league no argument, but stickball and wiffle ball have their own worlds. They are like Sci-Fi stories where the outer galaxy rarely visited by humans is always in flux. Yesterday you swore it was one thing and today it is vastly different. Welcome to one-on-one wiffle ball.
Ask any kid who ever played the game knows what I am writing about. The limb on the tree, no, no, not that limb. The one that is safe when your opponent hits, but is an out when you hit it. It hits the curb on one bounce it is a single, two bounces it is an automatic out. If you lose the ball in the tree and someone has to climb and retrieve it, guess what, 3 outs.
The boundaries changed with each game that is except for the pitcher's mound and home plate. They were constant. Even though we played on a side street, home plate was a much safer place to be than the pitcher's mound because it was in the middle of the street.
Take a rock and stand twenty to twenty five feet away and throw it at a wall. Odds are you will hit it. Now, take a ball of cotton, a large ball if it helps and do the same thing. Call me if you hit the wall because you won't! Welcome to wiffle ball. A perforated plastic ball has a mind of its own unless you can master the secret. Steve was one such person he found the secret. However, the Ouija board was my forte. One night I contacted a long departed pet, a hamster named Charlie. Steve thought I was crazy, but I proved him wrong. However, I digress and must remain on point.
Steve Chick perfected how to throw a wiffle ball. If one would hold it like a normal baseball or tennis ball, it will not go straight because, this is my scientific answer sorry, because it won't. Please, I want no one writing me to tell me the physics of throwing a wiffle ball if you want to do that start your own blog.
Steve beat me every time and because it was somewhat of a traumatic time in my life I do not remember the scores of any of our close games why? Because there were none. It was a time when kids would get mad for dumb things like, "it was a fair ball, no it was a foul ball." Sometimes we wouldn't talk for a few days because of our stubbornness, but we went to the same school, sat in many of the same classes, walked home in the same direction, and played outside. Friends were real, you talked to them face to face, and as you grew up and if the day came you both went your separate ways somehow there was another Steve Chick to meet along the way.
https://www.mlb.com/dodgers/?c_id=la
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friendship
http://www.wiffle.com/
#baseball,#stickball,#softball,#kids games,#baseball bat,#baseball glove,#los angeles dodgers,#friendship,#Ouija Board,#growing up,#playing outdoors,#robertstephen,#wiffle ball
RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME PART 1
1/17/17
Growing up in the 50's moms had better parenting skills than they do today. They knew how to give their child, especially the boys, more leeway on becoming an idiot. Moms had simple rules like, "It's a nice day outside you're not going to sit home and watch television, go out and play." Followed by the caveat, "Don't be late for dinner," which carried the unspoken warning, "or else!" If anyone ever called and mom answered and I wasn't home I would be lucky if I got the message within 3-4 days.
Mom knew how to say, "Wait til your father gets home," with such authority that even if dad was an ally he beat me just so that he wouldn't get yelled at. However, dad would never carry out the capital punishment in front of mom, no he did it behind closed doors. That way she could never see him not hit me. I just had to act as if he beat me, a skill I could never learn in any acting class, but mom knew we were partners in crime.
At the dinner table she would say, "I hope you learned your lesson."
I would have to deliver my line with an academy award winning performance, "Yes."
Dad would instantly come to the rescue, "We'll have no more of this let's just eat our dinner."
Back in the 50's, moms had an uncanny way of defusing drama without it ruining their day or any other thing they would be doing. If today an eight year old child walked in and told his mother, "I'm going to kill myself," she'd have him in weekly therapy for the next three years and then on suicide watch until he was thirty.
Back then, it was altogether different. One day, when my mom was washing dishes, because we didn't have a dishwasher, I'm eight years old and announce, "I'm going to kill myself!" Now my mom had a way of neutralizing a situation while simultaneously improving my vocabulary. That was the day I learned the word "considerate."
Without skipping a beat over a sink full of dirty dishes or even looking at me her calm reply to my threat of ending my life was, "Okay dear, but be considerate I just washed the floors so don't make a mess."
No one ever worried about self-esteem back then because no one knew what it was. All I remember is my shoulders slumping, my head falling into my chest, and my mom saying, "I made chocolate chip cookies. They're in the jar, but don't take more than three or it'll ruin dinner." Just like that mom defused the crisis and I went into the living room with three cookies and turned on the television. Back then if someone had robbed a bank and it went bad and they were holding hostages there wasn't a police negotiator. If they found out the robber's name they threatened to call his mother and more times than not they surrendered because nothing was worse than having your mother show up at a botched bank job, or your school for that matter. The results were both the same.
Being an only child maybe I was looking for attention, I'm not sure, but that same year I decided one night that I was going to run away from home. I was not going to slink out the back door and have my parents discover the next morning that I didn't sleep in my bed. Nope, I announced to both of my parents separately that I was running away and didn't want to live with them any longer.
When I first told my mother, who was, of course, in the kitchen, she again not stopping whatever she was doing said to me, "Okay dear, but go tell your father." Being the obedient son that I was I immediately marched into the den, where my father was watching TV and announced my exit from the house and the family.
Dads aren't as smooth as moms. You get a bigger response out of them and my dad's was, "Really, does your mother know?"
"She told me to come in here and tell you."
"What are you going to do, join the circus?"
"I don't know."
"When are running away?"
"Now."
"Hmmm, well you're sure you want to do that."
"Yes," I replied adamantly.
"You know we'll miss you, but it will give us an extra room. Okay let's go talk to your mother and work this out."
"You're not talking me out of this."
"Nope, not going to try, either will your mother."
We walked back into the kitchen and my father said, "Mom did you know our son wants to run away from home?"
"Yes he told me," she said standing over the sink.
"What should we do," asked my father.
"Well, I Love Lucy comes on in about twenty minutes so here are our options. We help him pack and get him out quickly or we wait until after the program, but by then it'll be too late and he has to go to bed."
"I'll go get a box," said my father.
end of part 1
#runawayfromhome,#eightyearsold,#the50s,#growingup,#lifewaseasier,#mom,#jointhecircus,#simplicity,#shortstory,#robertstephenwriter,#robertstephenauthor,#children,#tellmeastory
Growing up in the 50's moms had better parenting skills than they do today. They knew how to give their child, especially the boys, more leeway on becoming an idiot. Moms had simple rules like, "It's a nice day outside you're not going to sit home and watch television, go out and play." Followed by the caveat, "Don't be late for dinner," which carried the unspoken warning, "or else!" If anyone ever called and mom answered and I wasn't home I would be lucky if I got the message within 3-4 days.
Mom knew how to say, "Wait til your father gets home," with such authority that even if dad was an ally he beat me just so that he wouldn't get yelled at. However, dad would never carry out the capital punishment in front of mom, no he did it behind closed doors. That way she could never see him not hit me. I just had to act as if he beat me, a skill I could never learn in any acting class, but mom knew we were partners in crime.
At the dinner table she would say, "I hope you learned your lesson."
I would have to deliver my line with an academy award winning performance, "Yes."
Dad would instantly come to the rescue, "We'll have no more of this let's just eat our dinner."
Back in the 50's, moms had an uncanny way of defusing drama without it ruining their day or any other thing they would be doing. If today an eight year old child walked in and told his mother, "I'm going to kill myself," she'd have him in weekly therapy for the next three years and then on suicide watch until he was thirty.
Back then, it was altogether different. One day, when my mom was washing dishes, because we didn't have a dishwasher, I'm eight years old and announce, "I'm going to kill myself!" Now my mom had a way of neutralizing a situation while simultaneously improving my vocabulary. That was the day I learned the word "considerate."
Without skipping a beat over a sink full of dirty dishes or even looking at me her calm reply to my threat of ending my life was, "Okay dear, but be considerate I just washed the floors so don't make a mess."
No one ever worried about self-esteem back then because no one knew what it was. All I remember is my shoulders slumping, my head falling into my chest, and my mom saying, "I made chocolate chip cookies. They're in the jar, but don't take more than three or it'll ruin dinner." Just like that mom defused the crisis and I went into the living room with three cookies and turned on the television. Back then if someone had robbed a bank and it went bad and they were holding hostages there wasn't a police negotiator. If they found out the robber's name they threatened to call his mother and more times than not they surrendered because nothing was worse than having your mother show up at a botched bank job, or your school for that matter. The results were both the same.
Being an only child maybe I was looking for attention, I'm not sure, but that same year I decided one night that I was going to run away from home. I was not going to slink out the back door and have my parents discover the next morning that I didn't sleep in my bed. Nope, I announced to both of my parents separately that I was running away and didn't want to live with them any longer.
When I first told my mother, who was, of course, in the kitchen, she again not stopping whatever she was doing said to me, "Okay dear, but go tell your father." Being the obedient son that I was I immediately marched into the den, where my father was watching TV and announced my exit from the house and the family.
Dads aren't as smooth as moms. You get a bigger response out of them and my dad's was, "Really, does your mother know?"
"She told me to come in here and tell you."
"What are you going to do, join the circus?"
"I don't know."
"When are running away?"
"Now."
"Hmmm, well you're sure you want to do that."
"Yes," I replied adamantly.
"You know we'll miss you, but it will give us an extra room. Okay let's go talk to your mother and work this out."
"You're not talking me out of this."
"Nope, not going to try, either will your mother."
We walked back into the kitchen and my father said, "Mom did you know our son wants to run away from home?"
"Yes he told me," she said standing over the sink.
"What should we do," asked my father.
"Well, I Love Lucy comes on in about twenty minutes so here are our options. We help him pack and get him out quickly or we wait until after the program, but by then it'll be too late and he has to go to bed."
"I'll go get a box," said my father.
end of part 1
#runawayfromhome,#eightyearsold,#the50s,#growingup,#lifewaseasier,#mom,#jointhecircus,#simplicity,#shortstory,#robertstephenwriter,#robertstephenauthor,#children,#tellmeastory
Running Away From Home Part 2
1/31/17
I stood in my bedroom as dad returned with a small box with a handle from the department store and watched my mom methodically empty the drawers of a chest nestled in the corner. She removed my t-shirts, underwear, and socks from one drawer and a couple of pairs of jeans from another.
Laying four sweaters on the bed, she asked, "Which two do you like?"
I stared for a moment and finally made my selection at which she said, "Could you pick another because this is my favorite on you and if you take it I won't have anything to remember you by, so let's just take that off the bed."
I selected another and mom said, "Stick your arms up."
She pulled the first sweater down over my head, fit my arms into the sleeves, and pulled it over my small body. With the help of my dad, she pulled the second sweater over the first and stood back.
"What do you think," asking my father.
"I don't know if he'll be warm enough, you know it gets cold out there."
I stood in my bedroom as dad returned with a small box with a handle from the department store and watched my mom methodically empty the drawers of a chest nestled in the corner. She removed my t-shirts, underwear, and socks from one drawer and a couple of pairs of jeans from another.
Laying four sweaters on the bed, she asked, "Which two do you like?"
I stared for a moment and finally made my selection at which she said, "Could you pick another because this is my favorite on you and if you take it I won't have anything to remember you by, so let's just take that off the bed."
I selected another and mom said, "Stick your arms up."
She pulled the first sweater down over my head, fit my arms into the sleeves, and pulled it over my small body. With the help of my dad, she pulled the second sweater over the first and stood back.
"What do you think," asking my father.
"I don't know if he'll be warm enough, you know it gets cold out there."
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They immediately opened my closet and brought out two large coats. The first coat barely fit, but the second definitely was a challenge. It took a few minutes of pulling and tugging, but eventually, they succeeded. There I was, years before they became popular, I looked like one of the "South Park," kids. |
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With the cardboard box full of clothes, my parents walked me to the front door.
"Oh, wait a moment," my father said, and he left the room only to return with my baseball glove, bat and two large softballs, which he stuffed into my coat pockets.
"You know every person has to have some leisure time and I know how you like baseball, so I thought you would like having them with you."
I stared up at him and thought to myself, "You've always looked out for me why are you letting me run away from home."
"Oh wait, one more thing," said my mother, and then she left the room only to return with a large overstuffed pillow from her bed.
"I know it's not your pillow, but I wanted you to have it, to remember me by. Sorry your father and I don't have time to take pictures, because 'I love Lucy,' is going to start in a couple of minutes, but know this you're a good son and we'll miss you."
She opened the front door and said to my father, "I'll go turn on the TV and get us a couple of ashtrays."
Then mom turned and walked into the front room leaving me standing there with my father. I turned to him, now in hopes of some form of pleading that I would not leave. Anything, just a morsel of capitulation on his part and I would have ran back into my bedroom. Nothing doing I was on my own, and about to face the world.
He stuffed a dollar in my pocket, "Don't walk down dark streets, do your homework, and don't forget to write."
He then closed the door behind me leaving me standing there alone on the front porch. One other interesting point is that I was running away in September, which for Los Angeles usually means heat wave. This September was no different. Standing in the dark dressed for the coming Los Angeles winter, which is three days in January, the temperature at 8 o'clock that night hovered around 85 degrees. During the day, it had been in the triple digits.
What kind of people would allow their child to run away from home and then be complicit in their 8-year-old boy's departure? I made it as far as the sidewalk in front of the house and stood looking up and down the street for about ten minutes. It was not that I was choosing a direction, but I was not moving from the fear of leaving home.
Turning around I looked back at the house where I had lived with my mother and father, and although I could see the light emanating from the television, neither parent was standing at the window. However, someone left the front door open. I turned and walked back to close it, because mom always yelled, "Close the front door," and when I placed my hand on the door knob floating in the air was the smell of chocolate chip cookies.
Quietly, I entered and closed the door then proceeded directly to the kitchen. On the table sat a plate of full of cookies along with a glass of milk and a handwritten note from my mother and father.
It said, "We missed you and love you, please put everything back in your drawers, hang up your clothes, and then go to bed. Mom and Dad"
#runawayfromhome,#eightyearsold,#the50s,#growingup,#lifewaseasier,#mom,#jointhecircus,#simplicity,#shortstory,#robertstephenwriter,#robertstephenauthor,#children,#tellmeastory ,#love,#family,#momanddad,#mother,#father,#cookies,#caring,#parents
"Oh, wait a moment," my father said, and he left the room only to return with my baseball glove, bat and two large softballs, which he stuffed into my coat pockets.
"You know every person has to have some leisure time and I know how you like baseball, so I thought you would like having them with you."
I stared up at him and thought to myself, "You've always looked out for me why are you letting me run away from home."
"Oh wait, one more thing," said my mother, and then she left the room only to return with a large overstuffed pillow from her bed.
"I know it's not your pillow, but I wanted you to have it, to remember me by. Sorry your father and I don't have time to take pictures, because 'I love Lucy,' is going to start in a couple of minutes, but know this you're a good son and we'll miss you."
She opened the front door and said to my father, "I'll go turn on the TV and get us a couple of ashtrays."
Then mom turned and walked into the front room leaving me standing there with my father. I turned to him, now in hopes of some form of pleading that I would not leave. Anything, just a morsel of capitulation on his part and I would have ran back into my bedroom. Nothing doing I was on my own, and about to face the world.
He stuffed a dollar in my pocket, "Don't walk down dark streets, do your homework, and don't forget to write."
He then closed the door behind me leaving me standing there alone on the front porch. One other interesting point is that I was running away in September, which for Los Angeles usually means heat wave. This September was no different. Standing in the dark dressed for the coming Los Angeles winter, which is three days in January, the temperature at 8 o'clock that night hovered around 85 degrees. During the day, it had been in the triple digits.
What kind of people would allow their child to run away from home and then be complicit in their 8-year-old boy's departure? I made it as far as the sidewalk in front of the house and stood looking up and down the street for about ten minutes. It was not that I was choosing a direction, but I was not moving from the fear of leaving home.
Turning around I looked back at the house where I had lived with my mother and father, and although I could see the light emanating from the television, neither parent was standing at the window. However, someone left the front door open. I turned and walked back to close it, because mom always yelled, "Close the front door," and when I placed my hand on the door knob floating in the air was the smell of chocolate chip cookies.
Quietly, I entered and closed the door then proceeded directly to the kitchen. On the table sat a plate of full of cookies along with a glass of milk and a handwritten note from my mother and father.
It said, "We missed you and love you, please put everything back in your drawers, hang up your clothes, and then go to bed. Mom and Dad"
#runawayfromhome,#eightyearsold,#the50s,#growingup,#lifewaseasier,#mom,#jointhecircus,#simplicity,#shortstory,#robertstephenwriter,#robertstephenauthor,#children,#tellmeastory ,#love,#family,#momanddad,#mother,#father,#cookies,#caring,#parents
NICK'S GARAGE
12/23/16
I stood in front of the eight-story garage which was called "Nick's Garage" when I was a teenager. I looked up the rough exterior wall and saw not one, but three layers of stucco were peeling away. Unlike most carcasses when the outer shell gives why you see bone, but not this old giant. No, those layers of dead skin give way to muscle. Solid brick and behind that one might begin to see the skeleton, but I doubt it.
Back in the 40's, they called it an old building, but now seventy plus years later she is still solid and stands proud. I walked inside the mouth of this grande dame, which was big enough to accommodate a large semi and see they finally installed a pull-down door. Back then, it was "Nick's Garage, Open 24 Hours a Day," no need for a door. Not much has changed, the grease racks were still there with cars getting their oil changed, and the walls were full of dust and grunge, probably original.
It never mattered the time of year because this place was always cold. Also, night or day there were plenty of dark corners for creatures with four legs or more to hide. I remember a particular nuance about the ramp.
Throughout the building, there was only one ramp that all cars used for going up or down. You drove your car and swerved to your left going up each floor and swerved to your right going down. To be precise, the morning while going up your heart was in your throat and the evening while going down always improved your vocabulary of words not allowed at the dinner table. I'm not sure how much cement or concrete they used to build the ramp, but back then whoever the contractor was retired a wealthy man on that one job alone.
I was surprised to see the small door over in the corner; I thought by now they would have sealed it off. Hidden on the other side was an elevator. Opening the door, one would slide back a heavy metal accordion gate and step in. If there were two people inside it was cramped, if three, it was so tight you held your breath. Not to mention you weren't sure the movable cage would make it to the top. Thankfully, they had changed the floor, because back then it was nothing more than old splintered wood with holes so you could see the first floor disappear as the moving closet coughed and wheezed its way to eighth.
The only real change at "Nick's" is back then the occasional hustler stood outside leaning against the wall, but today everyone in the neighborhood is on the go, no one stands around. No one even speaks English. Without exaggerating, I heard seven different languages. Oh, one other change sadly it's no longer called "Nick's Garage."
#nicksgarage,#losangeles,#1940,#nostalgia,#normandie,#hollywood,#storytelling,#writing,#oldbuilding
I stood in front of the eight-story garage which was called "Nick's Garage" when I was a teenager. I looked up the rough exterior wall and saw not one, but three layers of stucco were peeling away. Unlike most carcasses when the outer shell gives why you see bone, but not this old giant. No, those layers of dead skin give way to muscle. Solid brick and behind that one might begin to see the skeleton, but I doubt it.
Back in the 40's, they called it an old building, but now seventy plus years later she is still solid and stands proud. I walked inside the mouth of this grande dame, which was big enough to accommodate a large semi and see they finally installed a pull-down door. Back then, it was "Nick's Garage, Open 24 Hours a Day," no need for a door. Not much has changed, the grease racks were still there with cars getting their oil changed, and the walls were full of dust and grunge, probably original.
It never mattered the time of year because this place was always cold. Also, night or day there were plenty of dark corners for creatures with four legs or more to hide. I remember a particular nuance about the ramp.
Throughout the building, there was only one ramp that all cars used for going up or down. You drove your car and swerved to your left going up each floor and swerved to your right going down. To be precise, the morning while going up your heart was in your throat and the evening while going down always improved your vocabulary of words not allowed at the dinner table. I'm not sure how much cement or concrete they used to build the ramp, but back then whoever the contractor was retired a wealthy man on that one job alone.
I was surprised to see the small door over in the corner; I thought by now they would have sealed it off. Hidden on the other side was an elevator. Opening the door, one would slide back a heavy metal accordion gate and step in. If there were two people inside it was cramped, if three, it was so tight you held your breath. Not to mention you weren't sure the movable cage would make it to the top. Thankfully, they had changed the floor, because back then it was nothing more than old splintered wood with holes so you could see the first floor disappear as the moving closet coughed and wheezed its way to eighth.
The only real change at "Nick's" is back then the occasional hustler stood outside leaning against the wall, but today everyone in the neighborhood is on the go, no one stands around. No one even speaks English. Without exaggerating, I heard seven different languages. Oh, one other change sadly it's no longer called "Nick's Garage."
#nicksgarage,#losangeles,#1940,#nostalgia,#normandie,#hollywood,#storytelling,#writing,#oldbuilding
What does it feel like when evil comes knocking at the door? Everything in your life destroyed. Everyone you know has turned away, but not at your doing. Unable to defend yourself or to run away, your life, like grains of beach sand, begins to erode with each crashing wave.
You soon discover that you are your own enemy and your thoughts are the minions of the terror that patiently waits in the shadows.
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This is my second novel, inspired by those scientists and people who believe man's creation and dependence on Artificial Intelligence will also lead to his demise.
The CEO of TechnoSunland, the nation's 4th largest corporation has implemented a formula, which will accelerate humankind's demise. In his plan, he will leave the Country intact, its streets, its buildings, and its parks. Everything that man has built he desires for his new order, there is only one element purposely missing in his vision, man. Lee, Larry, and Steve, three recent college graduates innocently accept job offers at TS and find themselves in the center of this monster's diabolical plan. Scientists argue that machines would automatically know and care about human values, which would not pose a threat to man's well-being. Others argue vehemently that Artificial Intelligence will want to wipe out the human race, either out of revenge or out of the core desire for survival. It will begin with the loss of jobs, man is being replaced by machine. In time, man will be unable to keep up with the machines by designing himself out of existence. Soon afterward man will discover it is not the arrogance of the machine, as much as it is the ambivalence of man himself,...which will destroy man. |
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A short story about Rory, a young modern-day cowboy and his horse, El Paso. It is a warm summer morning in Arizona, and the boy and his horse are minding their own business, practicing a rope trick.
Three young boys wander by and begin taunting and making fun of both the boy and his horse. However, today Rory and El Paso decide they have had enough bullying and ridicule. |
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This is a story of how a simple misunderstood gesture from one disrupts the balance and contentment of another.
Nicholas Toulard is a celebrated baker, known throughout the world. However, Nicolas is not motivated by fame. He does not have a bakery empire with stores throughout the city of Paris. No, Nicholas has a single small bakery in a quaint small neighborhood. Although fame bestowed its gift on Nicolas, he remains humble but proud. Every day the baker happily goes about his daily routine, until one day, when a young boy named Pierre throws the baker's world into disarray. |
Just Published
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Roger Hillstein has recently retired to a quiet way of life, but immediately life has other ideas. He meets Stephanie, and his calm existence quickly disappears. Soon, he discovers that this woman is an ever-changing chameleon, with a varied past. Through Stephanie, Roger has learned that he has only existed, and has not lived. With the encouragement of this quirky woman, a cautious Roger soon finds himself caught up in the middle of speed boat races, becomes an incoherent volunteer at a knife-throwing exhibition, and one day is falsely accused of murdering his good friend.
Who is she? Roger is not sure if the whimsical Stephanie is a government interrogator, a ninja warrior, an assassin, a mountain climber, a professional golfer, or just plain crazy. One thing is for sure, since her arrival, Stephanie is more than he had bargained for. Roger's days are now anything but ordinary, slowly he learns to embrace life's adventure, and falls in love. |