An Apple A Day

An Apple A Day was first published in Cirque Journal, Volume 10, Number One, in the Spring of 2019. 

It was the crack of dawn.  While his wife snoozed in their bed, Hank Edwards quietly put on an old t-shirt, faded jeans, and wool socks.  He picked up his book from the nightstand, took one last look at Marie, her mouth hanging slightly open, and slipped downstairs to brew a pot of coffee.  The smell of roasted beans permeated the kitchen. Hank stared out the window and watched the sun rise above the distant hills. Four months of sun rises.  All slightly different, but individually indistinguishable in memory. Hank eyed the growing beams of light. He noted the position of the wisps of cloud. The shift of every shadow.  He stared at the rising orb until dark spots flashed across his vision. The coffee went into a thermos. Hank put on an old pair of leather boots and slipped on his old Carhartt coat, noting the added weight in one of the pockets, and with the thermos and book in hand, went out the backdoor into the cool crisp air of fall.  

The ground was tinged with a thin layer of melting frost.  Hank inhaled deeply, smelling the air, scented with the rot and decay of what was once green and vibrant.  It was a strong smell. A good smell. The world was quiet. Every step across the fallen golden leaves went off like a string of firecrackers.  The closing of the door. The rustling of Hank’s clothing. The sharp note of a songbird. All was unnaturally resonant. Hank knew he had to enjoy the peace now while it lasted.  Soon the hills would echo with the sharp blasts of rifle fire. The first day of deer season had come.

The cellar door was held closed by an old screwdriver in the hasp.  The screwdriver’s wooden handle was gray with age. The darkness of the cellar was pushed away with the pull of a string. A single light bulb illuminated wooden boxes sitting on rough wooden shelves set against dirt walls. Apples, pears, potatoes, carrots, onions, and beets.  It had been a good growing year in Marie’s garden, and the boxes had all been refilled. Hank picked up an old metal pail and filled it with apples from one of the boxes.  They were medium sized and green, tart to the taste, and likely to lead to regrets if too many were eaten. Bucket in hand, Hank turned off the light, and returned to the world above, securing the cellar door with the screwdriver.  

Carrying the thermos, book, and bucket, Hank tromped down a well-trodden path from the house through packed wooden sentinels of elm and oak.  Dappled sunlight broke its way through the tangle of gnarled branches and the dying leaves which still held stubbornly on. The declining angle of the trail made Hank’s worn out knees scream in protest.  Once Hank had been a carpenter, until the sale of his father’s farm had made working unnecessary. What had been farmland was now a strip mall and houses. The sale had come in time to save Hank’s back, but not soon enough to save his knees.  

The first sounds of distant shots.  The rapid series of a semi-automatic which made Hank snort derisively at the lack of skill exhibited.  When his knees had still worked, deer season had been a big part of his year. The getting up before daylight.  The sitting in the stand high above the ground. The waiting. The tension. The release. He had always used a bolt action.  The slower reload time forcing a greater amount of patience and skill. His rifle, in its cabinet next to the washing machine, was covered with dust.     

A quarter mile from the house the path ended next to a fence of green metal posts and bright new barbwire.  Signs declaring government property and no trespassing were hung every hundred yards in both directions. A decaying lawn chair sat beneath an ancient oak.  A deer call hung by a string from a nail hammered into the tree. Hank took the deer call and gave it a couple loud blasts. He sat down in the lawn chair, pulled out his pocket knife, and started cutting the apples into quarters, throwing them just on the other side of the fence.  It did not take long. They came out of the trees showing no signs of fear. The does with their fawns trailing after. The bucks, with their antlers proudly held high, alone.

When he had started four months ago they had been cautious.  They would approach slowly, stopping to wait and listen. Drawn by the apples, but spooked by the figure in the chair.  They were braver than they should be. They did not understand the meaning of the words wildlife preserve, but they knew that the land along the creek was safe.  Hank never made any sudden moves or noises. The first month he had just sat quietly in his chair, reading and drinking coffee, letting the repetition meld him into the surrounding scenery.  The second month he had started getting up and walking around. Spooking them at first, but slowly getting them used to his presence. The third and fourth months had been the hardest, but the effort had been well worth it.  Nearly every deer that regularly came when he called was willing to take a slice of apple from his hand.

Hank sipped his coffee, read his book, and waited.  He had been watching these deer since the buck’s antlers were still in velvet and the fawn’s tan hides were still covered in spots.  He knew their habits and their personalities. The six point was always the last to come. The six point was a magnificent specimen, a hunter’s dream.  He came walking towards the fence with the poise of a king, his widely set antlers a crown upon his head. Hank got up from his chair and with a slice of apple in his hand walked up to the fence.  The six point moved forward with the air of a master accepting a gift from a servant. Hank held his breath and willed his heart to slow its beating. The six point reached for the apple. Hank put his free hand into his coat pocket and withdrew it with a fluid and easy motion.  

The pistol shot echoed across the creek bottom.  Birds took flight, deer scattered and ran, and the six point fell dead to the ground.  Hank, adrenaline coursing through his veins, put the pistol back in his pocket, quickly climbed over the fence, hoisted the deer over, and then climbed back to his side of the line.     

Spaghetti Sauce

Spaghetti Sauce was first published in the Free State Review, Issue 10, in March of 2019. 

“Do you think Hoffman will put us in next game?”  

Jared was looking out the window of the small trailer.  Leo stopped scrubbing the cupboard door and looked up at his friend.  The question seemed out of place. For a moment Leo was flummoxed to find an answer.  Leo began to raise his hand to scratch his nose, but stopped himself. Both boys were wearing yellow kitchen gloves.  

“I don’t know.  Maybe.”

Jared kept staring out the window, his gloved hands clasped behind his bent back.  Leo dropped his sponge in the bucket of bleach water and rose up to look over Jared’s shoulder. There was nothing, just the side of Jared’s house across the top of his mother’s Buick.

“Hoffman said your layups have improved.  I’m betting he’ll put you in next week.”

Leo didn’t answer.  He just forced a half smile and then crouched back down to get back to work.  The possibility of playing in next week’s basketball game just wasn’t that important to him.  He wished Jared would quit staring out the window and get back to work. They had a job to do, and Leo would rather get it done sooner than later.  Leo pulled his sponge from the warm water and starting scrubbing again.

It wasn’t a big travel trailer.  Sixteen by eight foot. A small bed hidden behind a sliding door, crammed behind an even tighter enclosed space around the toilet.  The rest was taken up by a small kitchenette and a built in dining table for two. The walls and cupboards were a beechwood veneer. The floor was yellowing linoleum.  When they had first opened her up the table and floor had been covered with beer cans. Jared had insisted they bag them up for recycling. His dad had never been one for wasting nickels he claimed.  Despite the harsh scent of bleach in the bucket, the smell in the trailer was still terrible. Bad enough to make Leo’s stomach twinge. It’s just spaghetti sauce he reminded himself.

It was everywhere.  Dried splatters across the interior with a few random chunks mixed in.  It covered the linoleum and cupboards in a spray down the length of the trailer, spreading outward from the table.  The bench seats were vinyl, making them fairly easy to clean, but the curtains had to be thrown out, stained beyond hope.  All that was left was the hard surfaces, but it had been nearly a week and was taking more elbow grease than expected.

Jared snorted and spit a loogie out the open door into the tall grass growing next to the fence on the edge of the driveway.  He joined Leo on his hands and knees, took his sponge out of the water, and started scrubbing alongside. When their arms brushed Leo could feel a layer of clammy sweat on Jared’s skin.  They worked in silence that way for a little while until Jared threw his sponge back into the bucket and pulled himself around to sit in the doorway. Leo kept working, eradicating the red spots one by one.  Jared snorted and spit again.

“Thanks for helping man.”

Leo stopped long enough to look up.

“No problem.”

“No, I mean really thanks, it means a lot.  I don’t think Mom would’ve been able to handle it.”

Leo nodded and started scrubbing again.  The dried droplets were everywhere.

“How’s your mom doing?”  

“Okay I guess.  I don’t know. I think she’s still pretty upset with him.”  

Leo glanced over his shoulder at Jared.  He was staring at nothing again. Leo kept working.  It would never get done if they kept stopping.

“How about you?”  

“I don’t know.  Probably better than having him living in the driveway.”  

There was something in Jared’s tone that didn’t sound right, but Leo didn’t let himself think about it too much.  He just concentrated on his work. He heard Jared spit again.

“I mean hell, it wasn’t even like he was my real dad or something.”  

Leo wished Jared would just stop talking.  It wasn’t a fair wish, but he wished it nonetheless.  At the very least maybe Leo could get him to change the subject.

“What do you think your mom’s going to do with the trailer?”  

“I don’t know, sell it maybe, though I can’t imagine who the hell would buy it around here.  Probably we’ll have to take it into the city or something.”

Leo nodded though Jared couldn’t see.  The cupboard door he was working on looked clean, but he opened it just to make sure.  There were a few splatters along the edge. He scrubbed them off and closed it.

“You know Amanda wanted to help, but I wouldn’t let her.”  

“That girl loves the shit out of you.”

“Yeah.  I know.”  

“I’ve got to take a break.”  

Leo put his sponge in the bucket and Jared got out of his way so he could get out.  It was cold outside, but Leo didn’t mind. It felt good to be out in the fresh air. Jared sat back down in the doorway.  

“It’s just hard to believe the son of a bitch is gone.  You know, he used to take me fishing all the time, get so damn drunk I’d have to drive us back home, even back when I just had a learners permit.  Crazy son of a bitch.”

Leo smiled a little bit.  Jared continued, not noticing.  

“He wasn’t that bad.  Even when he got to drinking too hard and Mom kicked him out.  His heart was always in the right place.”

Leo could see the tears in his friend’s eyes so he politely turned away.  It didn’t feel quite right, but none of the other options felt right either.  The sun was getting low. The exterior of the trailer didn’t look too bad. It was actually in pretty good condition all things considered, the white aluminum siding immaculate but for a small round hole at eye level, blown out from the inside.     

Photo courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons user Lumpytrout

Nickels and Dimes

Nickels and Dimes was first published in Gravel, in the March of 2019 issue. 

Donald had a total of three shopping carts.  The whole affair moved like a caterpillar. Donald would push the front cart ten feet forward, run back for the second, push it forward, and then run back again for the third.  In this way he moved slowly and surely through the long green space of the park towards the bench where Douglas sat. The cart wheels rattled on the sidewalk seams. Every jostle eliciting the tinny sound of clinking aluminum.  The three carts were filled to overflowing. Black and white garbage bags stuffed full of cans. In the basket, hanging from the sides, and piled high on top. Strange postmodernist mushrooms of waste, held together by plastic, tape, string, and rotting bungee cords.  Every now and again a rogue can would manage to escape from the confines of one of the bags, dropping to the ground, a sudden flash of bright color in a world beginning to fade to grays and browns. Donald would quickly scoop it up and shove it back into the collection.  

It took close to twenty minutes from the time Douglas first saw him for Donald to get close. Douglas didn’t mind. It was a nice distraction from watching Lane across the way thirty feet or so, sitting on his own bench beneath the big oak tree, covering himself with a tarp so nobody could see him injecting himself.  Lane had needs that weren’t all that fun to watch. It was starting to get cold out. Not as cold as it was going to be later in the year, but there was definitely starting to be a chill. Douglas didn’t like thinking about it.  Donald and his antics were a welcome distraction.

The first two carts pulled up alongside.  Donald mumbled to himself as he moved, his eyes darting from cart to cart, trying to keep them all in sight at once.  Donald was always mumbling to himself, a never ending leaking of air. He crinkled with every step, a light rustling from the newspaper shoved into his greasy windbreaker and pants.  A brown knit cap with a hole in it was pulled low over his ears. Douglas cleared his throat and gave a holler.

“What the hell you doing?”  

Donald’s head shot forward like a dog that heard its name.  His whole body tensed.

“My fucking cans.”  

Douglas let out a laugh that fell into a hacking cough.  Donald watched, ready for anything. Douglas recovered and laughed again.  

“I don’t want none of your cans you damn loon.  Haven’t seen you in awhile. Where you been?”

Donald didn’t answer.  He stood warily, his head jerking between Douglas on the bench and the rearmost shopping cart still ten feet behind.  Douglas snorted and spit before asking his question again.

“I said where you been?”  

Donald jogged back to get his third cart, throwing a hasty answer over his shoulder.

“Busy.”  

“I can see that.”  

Donald pushed the third cart up with its mates then faced Douglas.  He was sweating despite the cold. He kept one hand back on the plastic of the bags, assuring himself that the whole collection wouldn’t just disappear.  They stayed that way for a bit until Donald accepted that it was his turn to speak.

“What are you doing?”  

“Same as always, just sitting on this bench, waiting for the mission to reopen.”  

Donald nodded.  The mission always kicked everyone out during the day.  It was only a place to stay at night. Douglas snorted and spit again.  

“Haven’t see you there in awhile.”  

“Been busy.”  

“Obviously.  You must have a couple thousand cans there.”

Donald’s posture got defensive again.

“They’re my fucking cans.”

“Relax.  They’re your cans.  I ain’t no thief.”

Donald relaxed again, at least slightly.  He still fidgeted, but Donald always fidgeted.  Douglas lifted a paper sack from between his feet and gestured with it towards Donald.

“You want a drink?”  

Donald bit his lip.  A hand shot up and scratched fiercely at his head along the side of his knit cap.  

“Mission don’t like it when you get all slobbery.”  

He was right.  The mission didn’t like it when you got totally wrecked.  Such people were more liable to cause trouble. Sometimes if you were too wrecked they wouldn’t let you in.  

“It’s just a forty.  Plus I’m only sipping.”  

Donald looked back at his carts and then craned his neck to get a better look around the park.  

“Who’s that under the tarp?”

“Just Lane.”  

“What he doing?”  

“His usual junk.  Same as always.”

“Fucking government rainbows.”

“Yep.”

Not everything Donald said made a lot of sense, it was easier just to go along with it.  Douglas gestured with the paper sack at the empty portion of his bench.

“Take a load off.  Be nice to have someone to talk to for a bit.”  

“Pretty busy.”

“Just for awhile.  C’mon, take a bit of a break with me.”  

Donald craned his neck all around again before steering his eyes back to the bottle.  

“Okay.”

Douglas waited patiently while Donald used bungee cords to tie the three carts together.  When he finally sat down, Douglas unscrewed the cap on the bottle in the bag and passed it over.  Donald took it and eyed it carefully.

“What kind you got?”

“Colt 45.”  

“Lando’s favorite.”

“Yep.”

Donald took a sip and passed it back.  Douglas wiped the rim with his hand and took a drink himself.  A little dribbled down into his whiskers.

“So what’s all the cans for?”  

“They’re my fucking cans.”

“I know.  You ought to turn them in, be easier than hauling them around everywhere.”  

“Can’t turn them in yet.”

Douglas took another drink from the bottle and tried to pass it back to Donald, but Donald shook his head.  Douglas shrugged and sipped again before replacing the cap and putting the bottle back between his feet.

“Why the hell not?”      

“Don’t you read the paper?”      

Donald was smiling.  Douglas hated it when Donald smiled.  He had some pretty ganked up teeth.

“No professor.  I haven’t been reading the paper.”  

Donald unzipped his windbreaker slightly and rooted around amongst the wadded newspapers in his jacket.  Finally finding what he wanted he yanked it out, smoothed it on his knee, and passed it over.

“They’re doubling the deposit next week.”  

Douglas looked at the newspaper page.  It was the Sunday comics. He studied it intently for a moment, reading Beetle Bailey then Blondie, before handing it back.  

“No shit?”  

Donald wadded back up the newspaper and put it back in his jacket.

“No shit.”

Douglas sat back and stared at the three carts.  Donald picked his nose and flicked something into the grass.

“I’m going to buy a nice coat.  Something thick and waterproof. I ain’t going to freeze this winter.”  

Douglas needed a little time to think.  He reached down between his legs and picked back up the paper bag covered bottle.  He unscrewed the lid and took a good healthy pull to get the synapses firing. A forty of Colt 45 cost $1.89, or thirty-eight cans.  In a week it would only be nineteen. It was hard to think. Donald kept yammering on.

“Then I’m going to buy a nice pair of gloves, and maybe a new hat, then maybe some new boots.  Definitely some wool socks. Some nice wool socks. Warm. Then…..”

Douglas cut in with a wave of his hand.

“It don’t make no sense.  Who the hell going to be throwing away all those dimes?”

“What do you mean who’s going to be throwing away all those dimes?  Same damn people that’s been throwing away all the damn nickels.”

Douglas took another drink from his bottle.  The gears were turning now. He just needed to keep them lubricated.  

“I just can’t see as many people throwing out dimes as throwing out nickels.”  

Donald was frowning now.  He was trying to sort it out, but was out of his element.  Douglas powered forward to drive his point home.

“Look, do you find more cans east of 82nd or west of 82nd?”  

“West of 82nd.”

“And why is that?”

“Because the people east have less money.”  

“Exactly, those nickels are more valuable to them.  So more of them keep their cans.”

“So?”

“So what happens when they’re dimes instead of nickels?  More people are going to be keeping their cans if they’re worth dimes.”  

Douglas took another drink.  Donald’s face was scrunched up in concentration.  

“Not all the people are going to start keeping their cans.”  

“Never said they would.”  

“Do you think twice as many are going to be keeping their cans?”  

Douglas paused.  He had to think about that one.  One drink didn’t do the trick, nor did two.  It turned out to be a three drink question.

“I don’t know.  Probably not.”

“Well there you go, still better off.”  

Donald went back to mumbling about all of the things he was going to buy once the deposit jumped up.  Douglas went back to wetting his whistle, his brain whirling furiously in his head. The big old oak tree across the way creaked as it swayed in the breeze, its skeletal branches clawing at the gray wisps of clouds lumbering their way across the blue sky.  Two joggers ran by with a dog in a coat, swerving deep into the grass to avoid Donald’s shopping carts on the sidewalk. The dog stopped and let out a bark at the two men on the bench, but its masters pulled it back around. Douglas made a face at it as they jogged away.  

“I don’t know.  If you get a fancy coat ain’t someone just going to beat your ass for it?”  

Donald was smiling again with his ganky smile.

“No man, you don’t get it, we’ll all have nice coats.  We’re all going to be getting dimes.”

Douglas drank again.  The bottle was getting close to empty.  Everyone having more money. What could be wrong with that. Hell, if a forty only cost nineteen cans he wouldn’t have to spend so much time scrounging to get another one.  There’d be more time for sitting around, or if he kept working just as much, more money in his pocket. A nice new coat.  That didn’t sound too bad. It would be a hell of a lot better than the two sweatshirts he was currently wearing. Something nicer than the crap that got donated to the mission.  

“I don’t know.  It doesn’t make much sense.”  

“No, just think about it.  Not only do we get coats. We get tents and sleeping bags.  Be nice to have a warm tent and sleeping bag. We could tell those assholes at the mission to shove it up their asses.  No more jerks coming around with their bibles. No more people telling us what to do and when to do it. I’m talking financial freedom man.  Middle finger to the man. Everyone man. Fucking everyone.”

Donald was really on a tear now.  Something was nibbling at the back of Douglas’ mind.  It all sounded nice. It all sounded too good to be true.  

“It just doesn’t make sense.”  

Donald looked annoyed.  

“How does it not make any damn sense?”  

“Won’t more people move here if we’re all making dimes when they’re making nickels?”

“Yeah so?”  

Douglas tipped back the bottle and swallowed the last dregs in the bottom.  Across the way Lane and the tarp hiding him rolled off the bench and onto the ground.  Lane lay there, not moving except for the occasional erratic shallow breath. Donald didn’t seem to notice.  Douglas laid the empty bottle in its bag in between them on the bench.

“Just think about the inflation.”

Photo courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons user M.O. Stevens

One Night On The Max

One Night On The Max was first published in Crack The Spine, Issue 249, in the Winter of 2019. 

We were on the Orange Line headed back down toward Milwaukie, Jake and me.  It was late, damn soccer game didn’t start until eight. They got on one stop after us.  You could tell what they were the moment they got on. He was a gaunt fella, cheap tattoos up and down his arms, kind of stooped over.  She was a bigger gal, but more puffy than fat, you know, the way they get. Both had the sunk in faces. He had a backpack. She had a one of those giant hard plastic mugs, the type you buy down at the 7-11.  They had a dog on a leash, just a puppy, it wasn’t a bad looking dog.

People started eyeing them the moment they got on.  You know, sideways glances with the occasional blank stare broken as soon as the two of them looked over.  Hell, I can’t get on no high horse, I was doing it myself and I’m pretty sure Jake was doing the same. It's a pretty normal human reaction.  Old savannah instincts kicking in, at least at first, at least until it shifts into morbid curiosity and disgust. There was one girl down on the other end.  Pretty girl, at least the prettiest girl on the train, which isn’t saying much on the Orange Line at 11:30 in the evening, but pretty enough I guess. She just kept staring, biting her lip and staring.  None of it made me feel very comfortable, you know, having them right across from me, but what was I supposed to do? Just get up and move? You never know what’s going to antagonize such people.

The puppy started barking a little when they first got on.  The puffy woman wasn’t having any of that shit.

“Shut up.”

Her voice was a gravelly stab through the air.  The voice my mother used to have late in the day when she just couldn’t take our shit anymore.  The guy reached down and gave the puppy a pat. He mumbled something to it that I couldn’t hear.  He moved slow and his hands were shaking. It kind of looked like not all the signals were getting through.  I don’t know about Jake, but I mostly concentrated on the puppy. I guess I could’ve stared at the wall or something, or the window behind them, but it's pretty hard to concentrate on nothing when you got a puppy leaping around a right there in front of you.  Like I said, it didn’t look like there was anything wrong with it. They had it in a harness with an okay looking leash, and a small bell hanging around its neck that tinkled as it moved around. It acted like every other puppy I’ve ever seen. Sniffing everything and wagging its damn tail.  

I don’t know if the guy was smiling, I tried to avoid looking at his face, but he at least seemed to be enjoying having the puppy there.  As soon as they sat down he got out a piece of rawhide and laid it down next to the puppy. He brushed the rawhide along its face a bit, you know, to see if it wanted to play, which it did a bit, tugging at the rawhide, but not for long.  Puppies have short attention spans. Then he reached in his bag again and pulled out this rubber pig, probably about a third the size of the pup. He put it on the floor and gave it a squeeze, unleashing a pretty realistic pig grunt. The puppy though didn’t seem interested in that either.  The guy didn’t seem too perturbed about it. He just reached forward with his shaky hands and scratched the puppy behind the ear. It seemed to like that, it really leaned into him. When the man reached down I could see the track marks on his arm. That kind of puzzled me for a bit. I was thinking one of the other ones, but hell, I guess people can enjoy all sorts of flavors.  You don’t have to pick one.

The puffy woman kept smacking her lips.  Opening and closing her mouth. I did my best not to look at her either, but I could see the motions, and its just natural to look now and again.  It’s just the way things are. She had these real piggy eyes, with the skin sagging around them. It made her look really tired. She opened up her giant mug.  It was full of ice. She pulled some out and popped it into her mouth. The guy took some of the ice and let the puppy lick it in his hand. The woman licked her lips and smacked her mouth.  The guy leaned over toward her. His voice sounded just like a little boy in church. You know, just above a whisper, with just a hint of fear that maybe even then he was talking too loud.

“You okay?”

Her voice wasn’t quiet.  Her voice raised some heads towards their direction.  

“My damn mouth is dry.”

All the attention seemed to make the guy nervous.  At least that’s what it looked like to me. His whole body shook for a moment. The kind of pretty gal was really staring then. God you should’ve seen her. Tight curls framing her pale face.  I kept my eyes on the dog, you know, just using my peripheries. Jake kept shifting in his seat.

The guy reached into his backpack and pulled out a liter bottle of Mountain Dew.  He cracked the top gentle as you please and poured the whole thing into her mug. I kind of saw his face when he did it.  There was a little forced smile on his lips and his eyes reminded me of my mother when I was really sick and she brought me cough syrup.  He struggled to put the top back on the mug, what with his hands shaking the way they were, but he kept at it and managed it in the end. The woman watched him while he worked.  When he was done she took a sip, let out a tired sigh, and leaned up against him. The train kept moving, and things got kind of quiet for a bit. The kind of pretty girl was still staring, so I stared at her until she felt uncomfortable and looked away.               

We were about four or so stations in by this point, just starting to cross the bridge.  I had expected them to get off by now, but maybe they were going to the east side. I don’t know why I assumed they’d be getting off before the bridge.  Lots of places for people like them everywhere. Really none of my business, it wasn’t like they were bothering anybody. They were just sitting there.

The puppy was gazing up at the guy.  It made a little noise in its throat.  The guy smiled down at it.

“What is it buddy?”

The puppy made the sound again, pawing the ground in front of it.  The guy looked a little puzzled, then his eyes brightened up. He reached into his bag and pulled out what looked to be a cold chicken finger.  The puppy started panting the moment it saw what he was holding, its tail whipping back and forth at high speed. The guy tore off a chunk and fed the puppy a piece, tore off a chunk himself, and then tore off a chunk for the woman leaning against him.  The puppy lifted itself up a bit on its hind feet to say thanks. The woman just chewed on the chicken without a word. Once all of it was gone he pulled out another one and repeated the process, then a third. I was beginning to wonder how many chicken fingers the guy had, but he didn’t pull anymore out after three.  

The puppy started making the sound in its throat again.  The guy showed it his empty hands.

“Sorry buddy.”

The guy took the mug from the woman and drank a sip of Mountain Dew.  The puppy was pawing at the floor. It started whining. A good loud whine.  The guy looked sadly down at it. The woman had less sympathy.

“Shut up.”

The puppy laid down, its head between its paws, that chastened look that dogs get on its face.  I looked back up the train. The kind of good looking girl had changed seats, up the aisle a bit, where all the seats face front.  All you could see was the back of her curly head.

When I looked back the puppy was staring up at me, giving me the infamous puppy stare.  I don’t know, something about it just twinged the right spot. I just wanted to reach out and give it a pet, but I didn’t.  No reason to ask for trouble or get involved in anything I really didn’t want to get involved in. The couple were kind of not looking at anything, you know, staring at the floor, but seeing nothing.  The puppy started to nose around a bit. It crossed the aisle to our side. Jake reached down and scratched it behind the ear. I reached down and patted its butt. It was really the least that we could do.   

Photo courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons user Cacophony

Gutterball

Gutterball was first published in the Santa Clara Review, in February of 2019.

It's included in the short story collection Stumptown available for PURCHASE.   

He stands six lanes down.  He’s not a friend, just an acquaintance, someone whose existence you acknowledge, but little else.  You are in the same running group, but you’ve barely ever spoken. You can see him across the gleaming refracted light of spinning balls, racing their way frantically down the oiled wood.  He’s a big man, not tall, but wide. Big shoulders, big chest, and big arms, stretching his black t-shirt so tight that it looks to be several sizes too small. He’s starting to get fat, not overly so, just the beginning signs.  The type of chunkiness gained by former weight lifters. The added bulk of a man who used to pump iron at the gym every day, but has since given it up for whatever reason. Just the starting signs. The gradual bulging of the gut.  The slow collapse of the pectorals. A physical specimen slowly but surely collapsing from the peak of his perceived former glory. The steady ruination of an oversized monolith due to the lack of maintenance.

You wish she had never told you.  

“Can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

He’s bowling.  His lumbering size is strangely graceful.  Each step floating his mass across the floor.  His stair step calves tighten. His body lowers.  His arm, the upper half covered in tattoos, whips back and extends.  The ball in his meaty hand, covered in green swirls, softly kisses the hardwood without a sound.  The holes slip from his fingers. The growing thunder of the roll, right down the center, building to a cataclysmic rumble as the ball strikes the pins. They fall as one and he raises his arms in triumph, turning back to his spectators at the lane who greet his feat with howls of victory.

You sit with your friend.  The tears in her eyes the only sign of emotion.  A story told in a voice that is flat and monotone.  

His spectators are made up of a woman and a little girl.  The girl can’t be much more than five. You had heard that he had a daughter.  Somebody had told you, a fact in passing, or perhaps it had just been something you had once overheard.  Now living proof stands in front of you. Big brown eyes and dark brown hair. She has her father’s nose and mouth.  The rest must come from her mother. Who knows? You have never met the woman. A phantom from a past life. Briefly mentioned like the daughter, a fact without further explanation.  An ex long gone before you ever met him.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing.”

The little girl is wearing a pink shirt, emblazoned with Hello Kitty, and black tights.  She’s jumping with excitement. Little red lights built into the heels of her princess covered sneakers flash every time her feet touch the ground.  Her hair, in a ponytail, whips up and down. There’s a hole in her tights. A small one on the left knee. White skin pale against the black. The smile on her face is his smile.  The same toothy grin. The same gap between the upper two front teeth.

You can hear her voice in your head.  You can see the words emerge from her lips, each one part of a steady dirge, pounding with the resonating regularity of a clock tower at midnight.  The words come out, but she has gone away.

“It was a long time ago.  Over a year.”  

The woman with him is a stranger.  She is short and a little round, just enough to make everything pop in the right places.  She is a little too done up for your taste. Dyed jet black hair hangs loose to her shoulders.  Skin tanned much darker than the current natural sources of light had any hope of producing. She wears tight black jeans, a fashionable white loose fitting top, and multiple gaudy bracelets on both her wrists.  Too much makeup. Dark eye shadow. Thick mascara. She looks out of place amongst the aging decor, cracked vinyl seats, and stained ceiling tiles of the bowling alley. He sits down and takes a sip from a glass of beer on the table.  She gets up and bends over to pick up her ball. He says something you cannot hear. She rises and turns back to look at him and replies, a coy gaze targeted his way. A little smile, narrowed eyes, and cocked hip speak more than words.  He laughs and she laughs too. The little girl sits and sips her soda, oblivious to the interplay between the two adults. Unaware of a world that will only reveal itself with time, the opening of a treasure chest full of cursed gold.

“Don’t tell anybody.”

“Okay.  I promise.”

You wish she had never told you.  Why did she have to tell you? She is a friend, but not a close friend.  Why did she have to force you into a limbo with no way out? A world of knowledge without action.  A co-conspirator in a secret that’s not yours, but has somehow become yours to keep. You feel guilty for such thoughts, but they sit there in the back, furiously raising their hands, desperately trying to call attention to themselves.  Of course she had to tell someone. Of course she had to share. She’s your friend. It’s what friends are for, but still, still you can’t deny that part of you wishes she had told someone else. Part of you feels dejection at the added weight of the load placed upon your back.  You were glad to be there for her. You were glad she had someone she could trust. The weight is nothing compared to what she herself must have to carry. The description nothing compared to the actual experience. It’s not even close.

“I was asleep.  We’d both been drinking.  I didn’t want him to drive home.  I woke up to him inside me.”

You sit and stare at him as he sips his beer.  You sit and stare at this acquaintance of yours, a man you have known for several years, but don’t really know beyond the few passing facts.  You sit and you stare at him, trying to hate, trying to feel disdain. He is nothing to you, just above being another anonymous face in the crowd.  The few facts you know only due to the coincidence of group dynamics. Two people. Same place, same time. He is not your friend. You’ve never done anything but exchange pleasantries, follow the social norms, and now it is required that you hate him.  Hate him for what he has done. Hate him for committing such a cardinal sin.

“You should do something.”

“I don’t want to.”

He looks up and notices you across the way.  Your eyes lock across the distance. He gives you a little nod and raises his hand in greeting.  The reaction is automatic. Your hand raises back, a mirrored gesture. You lower your hand and look away.  Your hand feels dirty. You stifle the rising need to go into the bathroom and wash it. He looks confused for a moment then looks away, his shoulders shrugging.  The connection is too small for your strange reaction to spark much thought or worry. The bastard. The fucking bastard. He sits there in the gleaming fluorescent light.  Relaxed. Happy. Enjoying the undeserved bounty of his time. You want to stand up. You want to point your finger. You want to denounce him. Declare to the world what he is.  What he has done.

“Don’t tell anybody.  Do nothing. It was such a long time ago.  Nearly a year.”

It’s the little girls turn to bowl.  He stands up and pulls over a metal stand, a sloping ramp of stiff wires which goes from waist height down to the floor.  The little girl watches with eyes wide open, taking everything in. He lifts up a ball with purple swirls and places it on the top. He lets the little girl instruct him how to aim it, pushing the bottom end with a few well placed taps of his foot. The little girl makes loud demands, contradicting the last command.  He dutifully follows each order, eyes twinkling, mirth playing across his lips. The woman watches from her seat, sitting back, sipping on a beer. Her face gives away the emotions of her mind. Warmth. Adoration. The planting of the seeds of love.

“This is hard for me to say, but I need to say it to somebody.  I need to tell somebody.”

Nothing.  There is nothing you can do.  You have made a promise. Given your word.  It is not your place. Not your sin. You are not the victim.  You do not get to decide. Rapist. He is a rapist. You yearn to say the words.  To fall upon him with righteous indignation. To shatter the facade and reveal to all the ugliness underneath.  To unmask the monster that lies within. To watch the adoring eyes of the woman with him turn to disgust and horror.  Sucked in. You’ve been sucked into a vortex. She is not a close friend, but she is a friend. A promise is a promise.  The bastard. The fucking bastard.

“You’re an easy person to talk to.  I feel like you’re somebody I can trust.  Is it okay if I tell you something?”

The anger subsides and falls back.  You dig deeper, trying to restart the flow, but the well has run dry.  There is no way to sustain it. You are not the victim. You are none of these people. Truth be told both he and the one you call your friend could drift out of your life and leave no mark.  It is a terrible thought to have. One tinged by further pangs of guilt, but there it is. You don’t want to see her hurt, but there is nothing you can do after the fact.  Just sit with the knowledge you’ve been told not to share by the very person on whose behalf you feel the need to try and fill yourself with rage. Without sufficient emotion such passion is unsustainable.  

“I see him around sometimes.  It doesn’t bother me much anymore.  What’s done is done.”

What are you supposed to do?  You are neither judge nor jury.  You are just someone who was there to listen when someone needed to talk.  A proxy by happenstance. Now obligated to feel the anger required by society.  Forced to take up the mantle of the right against the wrong. What was described to you wasn’t right, what was described to you wasn’t fair, but you weren’t there.  You don’t know. Does he even know? Does he even know the harm that he has caused? The hurt that he has wrought? If you were to march over and tell him that you know, would you be met with denials, or would you be met with horror and tears?  Would he be a monster, or a man scared of himself, desperately wishing he could be washed clean of his sins? Your promise has left you neutered. You will never know. You can never ask. All you can do is stare and wonder. All you can do is keep your mouth shut and hope.  Hope that he is a man and not a monster. Hope that the terror he fashioned was a mistake and not a trend. You don’t know. There is no way for you to know.

“Have you ever said anything to him?”

“No.”

He helps the little girl push the ball down the ramp.  It picks up speed and she squeals in delight. He crouches beside her, watching the progress of their efforts.  The woman in the seat leans forward. Watching. Waiting. The ball slowly glides to the left. Inch by steady inch.  It grazes the furthest pin as it rolls past. The pin shakes. The pin shudders. The pin falls. The little girl screams with joy.  The woman hoots and claps her hands. He stands and tosses the little girl into the air. He lifts her onto his broad shoulder. The little girl is smiling, one fist pumping the air, the other holding tight to her daddy who parades her about, celebrating her victory.  

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing.”

You feel a nudge on your side.  It’s your turn again to bowl. You return to the broader world. You rise and pick up your ball. It’s green with swirls. It feels heavy in your hands.  You insert your fingers into the holes. Your steps move you forward. Your arm extends back.  Your arm arcs forward. You can see them from the corner of your eye. All three are smiling. All three are happy.  

“Can I talk to you about something?”

The ball clatters into the lane, a resounding thud that draws in eyes from all around.  The ball slides down the lane, straight into the gutter. Everyone but you looks away.     

“Don’t tell anybody.”

Photo courtesy of the U.S. Air Force, Senior Airman Timothy Taylor

Hate

Hate was first published in The Oregonian newspaper as an Op-Ed on November 4, 2018. It appeared under the title Others Are Easy to Blame When Hating.

The world right now is a scary place. Maybe for many of us it feels more scary than we imagined it could be. However, of everything going on in this growing world of neighbor against neighbor, nothing scares me more than the growing feeling of hate. Now when I say hate is growing, I imagine more than enough people are willing to jump onboard in agreeance, pointing out the sins of those they deem "others", but how much are we willing to see and judge the growing hate of ourselves and those we deem to be our friends and allies?

This is the part where many will likely get stuck. A thousand examples can be brought up on why it is okay to hate the "other", and any examples the other way can be easily swept away with righteous reasoning. But this isn't the hate that I'm talking about. The hatred of ideas or beliefs does not scare me. The distaste of words and actions does not frighten me. These things are only natural. A part of the human condition. No, it's the hatred of people that so fills me with a growing dread.

Increasingly it seems we look at the "other" as though they are no longer people like us, but a different breed all together. We latch onto broad blanket claims and seek out the extreme examples to prove our points. We avoid the "other", we demean them, shun them, and in the end do our best to dehumanize them. Rather than a collection of individuals, they become a nebulous blob, represented in our minds by the worst of them. We do this because they are easier to hate this way. It's easier to ignore them. It becomes okay to hate them, and once it's okay to hate, it becomes okay to do terrible things to defeat them.

I don't understand this type of hate. In the end we are all just bags of meat controlled by well timed chemical reactions and electrical impulses. There is nothing about any of us that under the right circumstances and given the right stimuli could fail to become just as terrible as those we hate. It's a hard thing for us to admit to ourselves, because if we do, it becomes that much harder to hate. We like to pretend that we are somehow naturally better, that in the end we are not the same. We prefer to ignore the privileges created by our backgrounds and our knowledge. We demand that the "others" listen and then stop listening ourselves. We refuse to hear their voices, and then masturbate ourselves for all the world to see. What do we hope to accomplish with such things? When has shunning ever worked? When has hating ever changed minds or brought about a better world?

Why do we do it? I know why, it's because hating is easier. It's a lot of work to change another person's mind. We expect epiphanies without the long period of scraping away at foundations. To change someone's mind you first must listen, and I mean really listen. You have to take it all in, even when you don't agree with any of it, even when every fiber of your being screams with rejection. You don't have to agree with the "other", you just have to understand them, not as the way you see them, but as they see themselves. Rather than declarations and denunciations, you must use questions. They must feel like you want to understand them, that you care for them as individuals rather than a clump of "others", otherwise their ears will always remain closed.  

We can't do this when we hate. We bring back up the extremes and they become the excuse to avoid trying with anyone. We force them to be what we expect them to be. We find reasons to do nothing beyond our own masturbatory impulses. It's the sick part that none of us are willing to admit. Hating makes us feel better. Hating is fun. It's gratifying with an immediacy that can never be matched by the long-term labors required to create actual change. If we hate then we never have to examine ourselves, for we can always justify our words and actions by someone else being worse. If we never examine ourselves, we are capable of anything.

Where does it all end, this dividing of the world into us and them? We are all stuck here together, but what happens when the hate grows too far? Division, violence, and death. An ugly repeating of history, far from being the first, that many will claim is inevitable. But it's not. It is not the "others" that are the problem. There is no "other", there is only "us". We are all the problem, but we can't admit it.

I'm scared. I'm so very scared of what we are capable of when we hate.

Image courtesy of Sarah Rankin/Associated Press

One Night In Rapid City

One Night In Rapid City was first published in Bull, in October of 2018. 

It’s your everyday hotel room.  Two queen beds with plain tan comforters.  A chair in the corner under a lamp, its cover matching the drapes on either side of the tall window that looks down six stories to the parking lot.  A large flat screen television on top of an unused dresser, the time of occupancy not long enough to warrant taking the clothes out of the bag on the floor.  A desk against the wall with a simple plastic and vinyl desk chair that can be purchased in bulk from any office supply company. A tiny bathroom through a door near the entrance. Bad low cost artwork hangs on the walls. Geometric shapes in inoffensive shades of brown. The door to the outside world is bolted. The chance of a stray murderer coming into the hotel and picking that one random door out of the hundreds just like it apparently too high to risk not locking it.  

He sits at the desk in front of his laptop, looking aimlessly at websites to try and entertain himself as much as possible.  The television blares with some shitty movie on HBO. It doesn’t matter what’s on. He watches HBO because he doesn’t have it at home.  The curtains are open, allowing a view of the large windowless concrete block that’s the building across the street. Just one more distraction to help pass the time.  All of the work for the day has been done. The meetings have been attended. Emails have been answered. There is nothing left to do. He’s just wasting time now, waiting for something to happen.  He knows nothing is going to happen.

Through the locked door is a balcony.  Below is the lobby, restaurant, and bar.  He can hear the sounds of his fellow conference goers and other mixed guests.  Drinking and chatting. A constant murmur in the background, occasionally punctuated by a sharp burst of laughter which cuts across the air.  Nice people, assholes, strangers, and colleagues. None of them can really be called friends.

His head is a little cloudy.  His belly is full of various hors d'oeuvres, puff pastries, and shrimp. How many shrimp should one really eat when this far from the ocean? Apparently quite a few. How many beers did he drink? Was it four, five, or six? Six seems like a low number. Back in college six was the number of beers he drank before heading out for the night.  Just a warm up exercise. He doesn’t drink that much beer now. It’s probably a good thing. Whatever the exact number, it was exactly one less than what it would take to get truly drunk.  He’s reached an age where professional and personal require two separate lives.

The entire day has been spent making small talk and politely laughing at bad jokes with people he barely knows.  He needs a rest. He needs to be alone. He doesn’t mind social interactions. He even enjoys them. He just needs to be alone now and again.  He needs to be by himself. Alone with his own thoughts. It’s the only way to recharge his batteries. It’s always been that way, for as long as he can remember.      

The movie plays on.  Some aliens in a department store.  A band of misfits saves the day. The ending is just as bad as the rest.  Who green lights this shit? He sits in the desk chair, butt ass naked. His ass cheeks make little indents in the cushion.  His bare skin sticks to the vinyl. He’s naked because he’s often naked. He enjoys the feeling of sitting around without clothes on.  He doesn’t tell people about it. It’s just something he does. The curtains are open. No one can see him. The hotel is the tallest building around.  

In his head he makes up a little story.  A story where he’s naked in a hotel room because he doesn’t have a chance to do such things at home.  That’s the appeal. Similar to the HBO, it’s another silver lining of staying in a hotel in a city surrounded by strangers.  You can do whatever you want as long as you're behind the safety of the locked door. He can’t be naked at home. He has responsibilities.  It would be inappropriate for a grown man to gallivant around his house naked in front of his wife and kids.

None of this is true.  He gallivants around his house naked all the time.  Gallivant, that’s a funny word, you don’t hear it that often, but here it is just randomly popping into his head.  A little linguistic surprise. He’ll probably use it in a conversation sometime tomorrow. Once a word gets into his head it’s hard to get it out.  He doesn’t have a wife or kids. The whole naked thing a may be a little weird, but it’s okay from a legal aspect.

It’s a nice story.  It’s a nice thought.  It feels good to imagine the other person in his head whose life took a different direction.  The man he thought he would be at thirty back when he was twenty, then twenty-five, then twenty-seven, then twenty-eight.  The man in his head may not be as successful in his job. The man may not have traveled as much, or seen so much of the world.  He really doesn’t know much about the man. He’s never given the man in his head a full back story beyond having a family.

He thinks about getting up and getting a snack from the vending machine.  He ate dinner already, but he’s still hungry. It would be nice to have a little snack, but of course then he would have to leave the room.  If he left the room he would have to put on some clothes. In all fairness, he doesn’t have to put on clothes. Nobody has to do anything, but given the high likelihood of losing his job if he doesn’t put on clothes, he pretty much has to.  He’d have to leave the room and look down over the balcony at the tiny people talking below. He’d have to walk clear around the circle of the balcony. He’d have to ride the elevator down to the fifth floor. He’d have to walk back around the circle of the balcony to the other side where the vending machines are.  Then he’d have to repeat the journey in reverse to get back to his sanctuary.

It would be a long time to be outside the room.  It would be a long time to be vulnerable. With his luck there would probably be someone outside their room on the balcony, or someone riding the elevator, or someone at the vending machine.  He’d have to make small talk that he doesn’t really want to make. At the very least he’d have to make eye contact and acknowledge another person’s existence. He doesn’t feel like faking it anymore today.  He’s not neurotic about these things. It’s not fear or anxiety that makes him feel as he does. These feelings aren’t a constant in his life, but he feels them right now. This is his me time and he doesn’t want anyone to interrupt it.  He needs it as much as he needs to breathe, or eat, or shit.

The grumble of his stomach makes a more convincing argument.  He grabs a pair of shorts from the open suitcase on the floor and slips them on.  He puts on a shirt, still damp with sweat from his run that afternoon. He walks over to the door.  His hand is on the handle. He takes a deep breath, then another. The murmur outside is louder closer to the door.  He begins to press down on the door handle, but stops. He remembers the jerky in the gift bag that everyone was given at the beginning of the conference.  He remembers thinking how stupid it was to have jerky in a gift bag. It’s still stupid, but he’s glad that it’s there.

He walks back to the bed and finds the jerky.  He takes back off his clothes. He doesn’t have to go out.  He gets to stay in the womb, warm and safe. The jerky is salty and sweet with the flavor of teriyaki.  Boxing comes on the television. He flips through the channels and stops at another shitty movie, this one about halfway through.  He sits and chews on the jerky, watching, but not really engaged. He opens another package from the gift bag. This one contains some kind of meat stick made out of buffalo.  It tastes terrible. He eats it anyways.

He’s rather good at what he does.  He’s never been one to seek people out.  It’s always been the other way around. When he’s in a big group of people he always feels a little anxious, a little out of place.  He can overcome it when he needs to. He can start a conversation and even keep one going for a while. He’s good at jokes. Snappy one liners.  His mind is quick. He can overcome what some would call shyness, he just doesn’t want to. He hates the clothes he has to wear at these meetings.  They’re always uncomfortable and never feel like they fit right. Maybe that’s part of why he always feels so anxious. He hates the polite holding back of the wild thoughts that run through everybody’s heads.  

A small white piece of quartz sits on the desk next to his laptop.  One side is bright white. The other side is gray with dirt. He doesn’t actually know if it’s quartz, but when he had first looked at it that was the word that had popped into his head.  It had just seemed right. He had taken a geology class in college, but he doesn’t remember much of it. Mostly just the lisping South African accent of the professor and laughing with his friends when they talked about the schists.  The brown schists, the green schists, and the silver schists. They had gone on a field trip where the professor drove the van and talked constantly about his hope of seeing Mount Saint Helens erupt again. The professor wouldn’t run yellow lights.  It had all seemed pretty funny at the time.

He holds the white rock in his hand.  He had picked up the rock earlier that day between the meetings and dinner.  He had changed out of his uncomfortable slacks and button down shirt and gone for a run.  Streets gave way to a park, which gave way to a golf course, which gave way to tall hills criss crossed by mountain bike paths.  It was a warm day. He had taken his shirt off and ran all the way to the top. He had stood and looked down one side at the city and down the other at the Black Hills.  His knee hadn’t hurt too much. It would probably hurt tomorrow morning. It had been a good run. Elation, happiness without reason. Smiling at the feeling of just being alive.  All just a rush of endorphins. A potent drug. Emotions are just chemicals in the brain, but that doesn’t mean they’re a bad thing. He had picked up the rock without really knowing why.  It had been just sitting on the ground. A single piece of quartz all by itself on top of a hill of sandstone.

He takes the rock into the bathroom and washes the dirt off of it.  The gray falls away revealing the white underneath. Some of the dark grit doesn’t fall away.  He rubs at it with a washcloth for a bit, but to no avail. The dirt will just have to stay where it is for now.  He walks back to the desk and sits back down. For a moment he thinks about her. It’s been awhile since he has thought of her.  In the middle of a meeting today she had crossed his mind. It had been a boring meeting. His mind had wandered.

A word had been said, a memory had been triggered, and his eyes had started to water.  All of the yearning for the lost joy, all the hurt from the slow and painful death of the relationship, all of the sacrifice, all of the mistakes.  It had all come back. A punch to his chest. It has been a long time since the memories have evoked such a strong reaction. Usually they come and go without much fuss.  A scar from the past, no longer an issue of the present. A ghost in the silence. A momentary sadness and then the mind moves on.

The second shitty movie comes to an end.  He turns off the laptop and gets up. Teeth are brushed.  Contacts are taken out. Lights are turned off. It’s time for bed.  The story restarts in his head. The family man calls his wife and kids to tell them all goodnight.  The man’s nightly ritual when he’s away on business trips. Does the family man have two kids or one?  Are they boys or girls? He doesn’t know. That part shifts with every telling. The family man’s life is blurry and inconsistent.  Part of him yearns for the life of the family man in his head. Another part doubts that he really wants the responsibility, that he really wants to give up his freedom for that kind of commitment.  The imaginary man in his head is just the grass on the other side of the fence. Not necessarily better, but something different. A person whom it’s all right to feel jealous of because it’s just himself in an alternative reality.        

It’s been a long time since he’s been in love.  It’s been a long time since he has come across someone and thought to himself, this one, this is the one.  He meets people, he attracts people, but nothing really ever seems to stick. With many he just can’t seem to get himself to really give a damn about them.  It’s like being numb. Some of them he’s truly fond of. These are the ones where he can pretend for a little while that he has the feeling again,but in the end he has to stop pretending, and it comes time to move on.  He has a good life. He has good friends. He has several nieces and nephews who universally think of him as their favorite uncle. He has so much more than he used to. So much more than he ever did when she was in his life. Perhaps it will all be enough.

He lays in the bed and watches a late night show on television.  He considers masturbating but decides not to. He’s pretty tired.  Maybe in the morning. The rush of endorphins is always a nice way to start the day.  Soon he will be going home. One and a half more days of meetings. His thoughts wander to the woman he was with the night before he left.  His mind’s eye brushes across her curves. His hands caress skin that isn’t there. A few too many drinks, some harmless flirting, then back to her place.  She lived in a cramped apartment above an Ethiopian restaurant. The bedroom didn’t have a door and throughout her little dog would run in and jump on the bed before being shooed out.  Maybe he would call her when he got back. He had said he would. Maybe not.

He turns off the television and pulls up the comforter.  He closes his eyes. Tomorrow he will be social. Tomorrow he will hang out with people more.  Spend more time making small talk and telling bad jokes. It will be enjoyable. Tomorrow they’re supposed to go to Mount Rushmore in the evening.  That will be fun. He’s never been to Mount Rushmore before. He’s brought his camera so he can take the same picture that thousands of tourists have taken before him.  He will look at the picture and feel like a photographer of great talent, then forget he ever took it. Soon he will be going home. He wants to be home right now. When he gets home he will want to be somewhere else.  Not a different place, he likes where he lives, just a different reality. This reality isn’t so bad. He smiles and drifts off to sleep. It’s been a nice little vacation from the world. It’s been nice to be alone.

Poison

Poison was first published in the Red Rock Review, Number 42, in the Summer of 2018. 

It is a beautiful day in early summer.  A light breeze blows down the river canyon where we hike.  Myself, Pabst, Steve, Eric, and my two brothers all carry light packs.  It is only a day hike. The sun shines downward but we only sweat lightly.  The river is small but swift. The canyon is steep and dotted with basalt outcroppings, sagebrush, and juniper trees.  It is an environ that is pleasing to my eyes, the environ I was born in. The sights, sounds, and smells are all of home.  

We come upon a small pine glade along the edge of the river.  Inside it is shaded, hidden from the outside world. Each step crunches downward through years of fallen needles, a soft carpet of tiny daggers which muffle all sounds as we move through it.  Dust motes float on shafts of light which have broken through the branches from the sky above. Small pixies lazily flying in the warm summer air. It is a strange place, a stifling place. We all get quiet as we walk through it.  The glade has the same feeling as a church, the feeling that one must be silent and respectful while one is within.

In the center of the pine glade we find an old picnic table, its paint peeled off in great strips.  Wisps of sunlight from above create patches of light around it. On top lays the remains of a long abandoned picnic.  An old falling apart wicker basket, a large old rusty thermos which once held ice tea, old metal plates and utensils which have been picked clean by insects, rotted paper wrappings, and what appears to the be the remains of watermelon which has collapsed in on itself.  All is covered in dust, mold, and mildew. It is a strange scene to behold. You can almost hear the happy laughter of the bygone picnic which was once held here.

Strangest of all is the large wooden cup set near the middle.  The cup is nearly a foot high and carved into the shape of a grinning tiki mask.  It is filled to the brim with water, the slow accumulation of rain falling through the trees.  Unlike everything else on the table the cup is not covered in dust or cobwebs, it appears clean and new as though it was just set there the day before.  

I don’t know what comes over me.  A strange sensation and need overcomes me and I reach forward and flick the top of the tiki cup with my finger.  A few droplets of water slop over the side and fall, splashing on the dusty tabletop below. A shape lashes forward, knocking pieces of forgotten picnic out of its way.  I feel a sudden sting on my wrist. All of us jump away from the table as the shape coils back, hissing, ready to strike again. Two snakes writhe against each other in the center of the table, their bodies coiling and uncoiling, making it difficult to tell where one snake ends and the other begins.  Their dry scaly skin rustles as they rub against one another. They hiss in anger, at each other and at the intruders to the glade. Both snakes have their tails jammed into the same knothole on the table, trapping both together in a permanent embrace.

I stare at the snakes intently, trying to make out their colors and markings in the dim light.  My heart is pounding. Please god no. Flashes of white belly and then the dark brown and the gray of their tops.  Patterns of diamonds spread downward across their backs. Rattlesnakes! The certainty drives a deep fear into me. I take a few deep breaths, try to get my heart to slow its heavy rhythm.  I look at my wrist and see the small gash near the blue veins that track just below the surface. It does not appear to be a bad bite, but there is no reason to take the chance.

“We have to go.”  The others look from the snakes to me, shock and puzzlement in their eye.  “We have to go. I’ve been bitten.”

One by one the bulbs light over their heads and the reasoning behind my words sink in.  Steve is the first to talk. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, it's really just a scratch.  But we should probably get it checked out.”

My older brother turns and starts walking.  “Let's go then. The car isn’t that far.”

We leave the  glade and hike another half mile down the canyon.  I try to keep my breathing deep, long, and even. Try to keep my heart from beating too fast.  My brothers and friends give me shit the entire walk. Trying to make me mad. Their words do nothing, but the fact that they’re trying to make me have a strong reaction at the one time I need to remain completely calm makes me angry.  Why are they being such assholes? I suppress it and ignore it. I tell myself to remain calm, to not let them get to me. I do my best. I look down at the gash again. It’s not bad. It isn’t even swelling. So why do I still feel so worried?

We reach the car and get in, my older brother behind the steering wheel.  We pull out of the parking lot and start the drive home. My eyes watch the passing landscape and my mind wanders.  Who put the tiki cup in the glade? How did the snakes get their tails caught in the knothole? What is going on?

The change is abrupt.  Like the flipping of a television channel.  One second I’m in the car. The next I’m in a Shakespearean throne room.  Torches and lamps flicker along the wall. Lords, ladies, jesters, soldiers, and peasants all wait for their chance to talk to the fat king who sits on the throne in the center.  His face is jowly and pale beneath a wispy beard. His fat shoulders are covered in soft furs and gold chains hang around his neck. His great belly bulges out against his tunic, hiding his lap and codpiece beneath its fold.  His fat fingers are covered in rings. His legs, encased in tights, are skinny and bony, in sharp contrast with the rest of him. The fat king stares out at the world through pig like eyes. He cannot see me. I can feel that I am not physically there.  It is just a vision.

Two assassins come forward and give their report to the king.  They tell him how they have slain the hero that was the king’s nemesis and that the hero will never challenge the king’s authority again.  The king chortles and laughs at the news, his great belly shaking, and then demands to know how the deed was done. The assassins hand the king a golden chalice and then begin a soliloquy about poison and how cleverly they got the hero to consume it.  The fat king sits and listens and raises the cup to his lips to take a drink.

The assassins and the entire court fall into a shocked silence.  The fat stupid king demands to know what is wrong. Nobody can find the words to answer him.  The king’s neck begins to convulse and he looks confused. He puts the chalice down and stands up and begins walking back and forth.  He stops and raises his hand, tries to speak, but nothing comes out. The entire court watches in stunned disbelief. No one tries to raise a finger to help the fat stupid king who can’t figure out what is happening.  He tries one last time to speak, and then drops over dead.

Another abrupt change.  I am back in the car and we are pulling up at my parents’ house.  None of it is real. I shake my head and concentrate on the task at hand.  We have to hurry, the nearest clinic is still half an hour drive away. We get out of the car and rush to tell my parents what has happened.  The house is crowded, my parents’ entire network of extended family and friends in one place to have a celebration. There is a momentary point of panic.  My wrist still has not swelled and I feel foolish for causing such a ruckus over nothing. I feel eerily calm, wishing that we could just get done with it already so I could continue with my day.  Nothing is going to happen, it will just be an interesting story to tell people later.

There is a momentary time of confusion as people debate on who should accompany me to see the doctor.  A group of us slip out as the debate continues. We don’t have time for this. We all get into my parent’s SUV.  Me, my mom, Eric, my dad’s cousin’s wife, and Pabst behind the wheel. He turns on the engine and mashes the accelerator to the floor, throwing gravel as he pulls out of the driveway.  I look at my wrist again, the small gash barely breaking the skin. I don’t feel entirely connected to the moment. I don’t feel like I’m entirely there.

When I look up again I do not see the rural setting of my boyhood home.  I see the SUV darting in and out of traffic, passing cars on both the left and right as it moves down the expressway in a heavily urban setting.  Tall buildings blot out large parts of the sky. Roadways and exits surround us on all sides. Pabst misses the exit he wanted to take. It moves below us, separated by a downward sloping cement embankment.  There is no time to wait, no time to try again. “Hang on,” I hear Pabst yell and then he jerks the wheel, sending the SUV down over the side. Cars honk their horns and angry faces appear in all the surrounding windshields, but with another jerk of the wheel we are right where we need to be, speeding down the exit to the hospital.

There is a bridge ahead, a bridge with no river below it.  Crossing guards close and the bridge begins to slowly rise in front of us.  Pabst guns the engine of the SUV and crashes through the crossing guard. Pabst has his foot to the floor, the pedal to the metal.  The SUV moves farther and farther up an ever steepening incline. I wrestle to get on my seatbelt. Everyone in the car is screaming except for me.  My heart is pounding but I am silent. I do not feel like I am actually there. I am unafraid. I know that nothing bad is going to happen. My heart is at first beating rapidly, but it slows as I become less of an actor in the play around me, and more of spectator.  

We are nearly at the top when the bridge hits 90 degrees.  The SUV, its wheels still spinning, begins to fall back to the earth below.  People continue to scream all around me, but it is all in slow motion. The various random loose items that can be found in all cars hang in the air around me.  I watch in captivated interest as we fall, the action unfolding around me at a tenth of normal speed. I feel as though I am weightless, as though I could unhook my seatbelt, open the car door, and float away.  

I do not remember the crash.  One moment we are hanging in the air.  The next we are all piling out of the ruined car and climbing over a railing and a steep embankment to the street below.  Nobody seems to be hurt. The moment of unreality ends. I am again part of the action, I am no longer just watching. We don’t run, running will just spread the poison, if there is any, through my body faster.  We keep up a brisk walk. As we round the first block we hear three gunshots in the distance. My mother looks worried but the rest of us ignore it and keep moving.

We move onto a sidewalk covered with scaffolding to keep the construction above from falling onto the people below.  The sidewalk is crowded, lots of people walking this way and that and small two person tables, all occupied, lining the wall.  I walk at a quickened pace, but my footsteps are uneven. I feel like I am drunk, my motor skills slowly going to hell. With each step the feeling becomes stronger.  My entire body feels off balance. I keep pressing myself forward.

The sidewalk becomes more crowded and I am forced to push my way through.  I don’t see any of the people that we’re in the SUV with me. More and more people start appearing in baby blue tracksuits.  They are all younger black men, wearing white dew rags. My brain instantly snaps in a picture of a gang, shooting up the streets.  I slow down, not willing to push and antagonize these men. My mind snaps back to the gunshots we heard when we left the car. My eyes fall back onto the wound on my wrist.  How long has it been? How long do I have?

I feel as though I am driving my body via remote control from a long distance away.  Commands from the brain to my limbs are scattered and unsure. I can feel my worry rising as I lose more and more control of my ability to walk a straight line.  Everything moves around me in a blur, the details becoming less succinct and definite. I pass by one of the tables. A small white blonde girl with glasses sits at it in the same baby blue track suit as the gang bangers.  I overhear her explain to somebody that their church group is here to help the poor and clean graffiti. That they are always getting confused for a gang. I don’t hear the rest but I feel a wave of guilt pass over me for my earlier assumptions.  

The scaffolding and sidewalk end and the crowds disperse.  I feel myself fall forward onto my hands and knees. I am not sure if I fall because I truly lost my balance or if I do it for dramatic affect, a cry for help to the people around me.  I feel someone lift me up and turn my head to see my mother. We hustle across the now eerily empty streets, her arm around me helping to support me. I don’t feel like I can move forward on my own anymore.  I feel worried, but I am still not afraid. Everything will turn out alright.

My mother's voice is quiet and easily swallowed by the empty urban setting around us.  “Your father and I have been watching a lot of TV shows online.”

“What?”

“You're better now than you were.  I didn’t think you could get her back before, but now maybe I think you can.”

“What?”  My mother keeps looking forward and hustling me on, my clumsy legs barely supporting my own weight.  It is as though she didn’t say anything at all. I feel like I should say something.

“My friend gave me the password for her account.  I’ll give it to you when we get home. Then you can watch all the shows you want.”

My mother looks confused but smiles at me.  “That would be nice.”

I look up and realize I’m not sure where we are.  The streets are empty. Great columns of concrete hold the freeway over our heads.  

“Hey idgets, you walked right past it.”  My mother and I turn and see Eric running down the street to a nearby door behind us.  Everyone else from the car is a little ways behind him, hustling to catch up. Our conversation has distracted us.  We walked right past the hospital.

We hurry back and walk through the hospital doors.  The waiting room is full and busy looking. Everyone stops what they are doing and looks up when we barge in.  My mother takes the lead.

“Snakebite.  Poison.”

Two men in white coats rush forward and throw my arms over their shoulders.  They half carry, half drag me through a pair of swinging doors. We go into a room and they lay me onto the cold tiled floor.  The room is not a hospital room. It looks like a dispensary. Shelves of bottled medications line the walls. The doctors working on me look like they could be brothers.  They both look like the actor Bryan Cranston. One has a full head of hair and looks like the dad from the popular comedy show. One is bald and has a goatee and looks like the science teacher who makes meth from the popular drama.  The people who rode in the SUV with me all come in and line up out of the way against the wall. They watch intently but their faces betray no emotion. Everything feels unreal, as though I’m not really there. It’s as though I’ve fallen deeper into my body and everything happening is from a farther distance away.  The doctors work feverishly.

“Check his glands,” yells the bald one.  They both even sound like Bryan Cranston.

“Hook up that draining tube,” snaps the full head of hair one.  I raise the wrist to try and show them my wound but they push my arm back down.  The bald one cuts off my right pant leg with a scalpel and shoves a large needle into my leg above my knee.  Liquid begins to flow through a rubber tube attached to the needle, out of my field of vision. The one with a full head of hair keeps popping tiny pills off a sheet of plastic and putting them in my mouth where they dissolve.  They taste bitter. I can feel my throat start to tighten. It becomes harder to draw in breaths. My hand tries to grip the arm of the doctor with hair.

The doctor with no hair looks at my mother.  “Has he been hallucinating?”

“Yes.”

The two doctors look at each other, mirrored worried expressions.  

The one with hair has a look on his face like he’s trying to solve a rubik's cube.  “What about dialysis?”

“Too late.”

Breathing becomes harder.  Each breath only brings in half as much air.  I can feel gurgling in my lungs with every breath.  Orange colored spittle comes from my mouth with every exhale.  I struggle, trying to breath harder to get enough air. A larger amount of orange colored liquid comes out of my mouth, splattering my front and the hand of the doctor with hair who continues to shove the little pills into my mouth.  Panic. I shake his arm in desperation. The doctor with hair leans in close. For a moment I wonder if he’s going to give me mouth to mouth. I feel myself instinctively recoil away.

“You need to stay calm.  We’re doing everything we can for you.  You need to stay calm.”

I look into his eyes and I know.  I know that I’m not going to live.  I’m going to die here on this dispensary floor.  My right leg jerks upward toward the ceiling, liquid continues to flow through the tube.  The bald doctor pushes it back down. Breathing becomes harder and harder. I’m choking, suffocating.  I begin to panic. My arms begin to flail but the doctor with hair holds them down. My eyes rove the room and land on my mother.  I try to speak but I cannot. There is so much I want to say. So many messages that I wanted to leave if this happened. I was never meant to die like this.  

I am laying in bed at home.  Warm and safe underneath my covers.  Protectively cocooned by layers of blankets.  Not asleep, but not awake. Mid-morning light brightens the curtains which cover the window and keep the room in shadows which shift imperceptibly as the sun heaves its way across the sky.  I see none of these things, but I can feel all of them. I’m laying on the cold dispensary floor. Choking. Desperate. Scared. Watching those standing around me who can do nothing to help.  I can feel myself slipping away as my supply of oxygen is cut off. I can feel my brain begin to slow. Each ragged breath helps less and less. I am in both places at the same time. I am in my bedroom and on the dispensary floor.  It’s a strange and disconcerting feeling. I am in both worlds but not entirely part of either. This is not the way I want to die. I am not dying. There is so much I still need to say. I still have time to do so. What is happening?  What is going on?

I am trapped.  I don’t know what to do.  I feel comfortable and safe at the same time as I feel panicky and scared, my mind slowing shutting down into emptiness.  Each ragged gurgling breath becomes harder and harder, bringing in less and less air. I can feel myself lying on my bed. Desperately gulping in long deep breaths.  They do nothing to help me on the icy cold dispensary floor. My heartbeat is rapid. I can feel my blood in every artery, vein, and capillary. My cells are vibrating in their terror.  I stare at my mother through a long tunnel of darkness. The light above her flickers. My chest aches and my lungs burn. I feel one last thought, one last popping synapse. I wish....I wish....and then nothing.  My mind and body lurches. I feel a warm comfort envelope me, shadowy darkness all around me. The feeling of the cold dispensary floor and the sounds of those around me disappear. It’s gone. It’s all gone.

Image courtesy of Pixabay

When Is It Due

When Is It Due was first published in Linden Avenue, Number 75, in the Summer of 2018. 

It's included in the short story collection Stumptown available for PURCHASE.  

Katie announced her pregnancy at the barbecue.  The women made their sounds of delight, sweeping in to hug their friend.  The men smiled and shook Kevin’s hand, voicing their congratulations and trading a few jokes as they always did when they were unsure what to say.  Katie beamed, a sleek porpoise riding the waves of attention and affection now flowing her way. Kevin blushed and smiled big, a nervous bit player in the upcoming production.  Of the friends, Devin was the loudest. She squealed and babbled, her voice rising in volume, her eyes getting watery. She jumped up and down in her excitement, holding Katie’s hands in hers.  Devin’s boyfriend, Leo, was out on the balcony, grilling burgers. He did not come inside to see about the commotion emanating from the open glass door. He stared down at the sizzling meat and grease fueled flames as though nothing else in the world mattered.  

Lisa did her part.  She went and gave Katie a hug and voiced the proper words.  Then she moved back and watched the commotion from the perimeter.  She was unsure how to hold her hands. Pockets seemed too casual, arms crossed too stand-offish, and clasped in front far too formal.  One of Lisa’s hands unconsciously tucked a blonde lock of hair behind her ear. Devin had her hands up, clutched as though in prayer. She went outside and yelled the news to Leo, who only grunted his affirmation of having heard.  All conversations in the room were derailed, forced onto a new single track. When is it due? How long have you known? Do you know what it is? The carrier was coy, basking in her moment. Lisa’s eyes tracked across the room, studying pictures and random art purchased at yard sales and Goodwill.  Her stomach gurgled, an uncomfortable shift in its arrangement.

Lisa moved to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine.  She sipped slowly. The sounds of the living room were subdued but still noticeable.  Buns, lettuce, tomatoes, and sliced cheese waiting in neat piles for the burgers to be done.  Potato and macaroni salad sat in their containers, the plastic film on top still intact. Everything ready.  Everything waiting. Devin came, a too wide grin stretching its way across her face, tears flowing down her cheeks.  She dabbed her face with a dish towel, poured herself a glass of wine, and downed half of it with a single gulp.

“I can’t believe it.  It’s just so exciting, isn’t it?”

Lisa forced a smile.  

“Yes, very exciting.”

Devin took another drink of wine and wiped her eyes again.

“I’m just so happy for them.”

Devin chattered on.  Katie would make such a great mother.  Kevin would be such a good father. They’d be the best parents.  She had known it would just be a matter of time. They were so lucky.  Auntie Devin would spoil the shit out of that kid. Lisa nodded, but her eyes kept skipping away, taking in every detail of the small kitchen.  The twist in her gut was growing. She was feeling a little sick.

“There’s no watermelon.”

Devin was startled from her soliloquy.

“What?”

“No one brought a watermelon.  You can’t have a barbeque without a watermelon.”  

Devin bent her head to the side in puzzlement, the teeth of her grin stained red by the wine.  

“I’m sure nobody cares.”

“Nonsense.  I’ll just pop out to the store and grab one.”

Lisa put down her wine glass and moved back into the living room.  Devin followed, but split off to rejoin the celebratory group. Lisa slipped out the door, through the hall, down the stairs, and into the sunshine of the outside world.  Devin was out on the balcony, having a quiet argument with Leo. Lisa moved on without listening. The apartment building was a four story structure of weathered brick and old time charm.  Lisa wondered if Kevin and Katie would retain their current domicile, or migrate. It didn’t matter really. They would do what they did. Change was inevitable.

It was a half mile walk to the Safeway.  The streets were crowded, but they felt less stifling than inside the apartment.  Lisa’s stomach had unclenched the moment she walked out the door.  Summer was coming to an end.  The air was crisp and flavored by scents of decay. Tourists and locals shuffled through the hemmed in streets of downtown.  An aimless herd on the move, dodging each other, banging into one another, and only stopping when commanded to by the stern red hand of the crosswalk light.  Katie pregnant. How about that? They’d known each other since college. Katie had been the Maid of Honor at her wedding, and the one to take her out drinking during the divorce.  Crazy Katie. It seemed strange. A different person. Paul had always wanted kids. At least he had always said he did. Lisa had never really been all that sure. She wasn’t against the idea, but it really wasn’t a demanding urge either.  

When Lisa was in nursing school she had worked in the maternity ward.  It hadn’t been what she wanted to specialize in, but they all had to. It was one thing to read about it in text books.  It was another to see it in person. The screaming. The stretching. The tearing. The shit. The literal fucking shit. It had been disgusting.  However, when all was said and done, not one had ever looked disappointed. They had all looked so serene. Thirty-five. It wasn’t really all so uncommon now.  Even forty was not outside the norm. Life was not so bad now. Why transform it? Just musings. A lot of steps would have to be done before that one. A lot of choices.  Paul would make a good father, but that was no longer her concern. Did he still want kids? When he looked at his black haired mouse, did he ever picture a squirming bundle in her arms?  

The last bit of the walk was diagonal across the park.  The red and white sign of the grocery store was visible across from the far corner.  The homeless sat on the benches and watched the luckier ones move past. The sidewalk was less crowded.  The bums made the tourists nervous, only the locals moved through the gauntlet. The bums stood alone and in clusters.  Smoking cigarettes. Asking for change. Eying the world through glazed eyes. Some talking to others. Some talking to no one in particular.  One man was yelling at the statue of Lincoln in the park center. All had been babies once.

What was it like to carry a baby?  It seemed strange. Almost like having a parasite.  The thought made Lisa feel sick. Something alive, growing inside, a part of you, but independent.  Paul’s mother had once said that having a baby was just getting a dog that learned how to talk and tell people your secrets.  That didn’t sound right, but maybe for Paul it had been, he was a bit labradorish in character. Life. There was life in Katie’s belly.  A belly that had been used repeatedly for body shots while in Cancun. That had been a long a time ago. Crazy Katie having a baby, and looking as tranquil as Lisa had ever seen her.  

The inside of the store was almost too cool.  They had the air conditioning up and running. Lisa went back to the produce and found the watermelons in their high cardboard box on the floor.  She selected a seedless one, perfectly round, smooth green skin, probably five pounds in weight. She hefted it and moved to the front of the store.  She read the covers of the celebrity rags while she waited in line at the checkout counter She moved to the front of the line. The woman at the register was in her early sixties.  Lined face, thinning hair, and a gap between her two front teeth. She rang up the watermelon with a slow but steady hand. Five and a half pounds. Lisa had been close.

“Having a barbeque?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s the weather for it.  You wanna bag?”

“No thank you.”

Lisa paid for the watermelon and headed for the automatic doors.  The glass slid open. A woman ponderously made her way inside. She was younger than Lisa, probably in her late twenties.  She was around seven months pregnant. Her belly large and round. Her body thrown back to account for the extra mass. Lisa moved out of the way as the woman waddled into the store.  She glowed. All eyes were upon her. The feelings of goodwill radiating through the air towards her from her adoring spectators was palpable. The woman smiled her thanks as she moved past.  Lisa carried her watermelon outside.

What was it like?  What was it like to be that woman?  To look so uncomfortable, but yet so sedate.  A misshapen goddess adored by all. An ideal form beaten into ruin by the ravages of motherhood.  The park was nearly empty. Just the homeless, milling about, filling space. What did it feel like to have that growing weight?  It couldn’t be easy. A wild thought flit through her brain. She held the watermelon, running her fingers across its shining rind.  She was wearing a loose sweater. She slipped the watermelon under her sweater, and clasped her hands beneath to support it. The round mass pressed against her stomach.  It was cold. One of the hobos cackled. He was watching her, itching his chin through a greasy beard. Lisa ignored him and moved on.

It didn’t seem so bad.  At the edge of the park she waited for the signal, and then crossed into the thick mass of pedestrians.  It was different. No one bumped into her. Nobody jostled her. Everyone was careful to give her extra space.  The crowds parted. Eyes fell to her falsified belly and gentle smiles crossed downturned lips. Strangers bowed their heads in greeting.  Old and young alike beamed with happiness. Couples took each other’s hands and gave each other a gentle squeeze. Old women gave her knowing looks, remembering their own time in the sun.  Children openly stared, their mouths agape. She was an island. Heathen and saint alike bowed to the power within her belly. The power of new life. A last bit of magic in a world with little to none.  Lisa felt her steps become slow and easy. She floated on an altruistic sea created by those around her.

Lisa’s arms were getting tired and sore.  The red hand flashed and the crowd came to a halt to wait.  Across the street, at the front of the mass, stood a woman, the belly beneath her shirt equal in size with the fraudulent mass beneath Lisa’s.  Their eyes met. The woman smiled with understanding. They were companions. Equals. Sisters. Two divine beings afoot amongst the mortals. Lisa smiled back.  

A man next to Lisa reached over to stroke the watermelon beneath her sweater.  Lisa jerked away, her hands instinctively moving to stop his unwanted advance. The watermelon dropped to the ground.  It shattered on the sidewalk with a wet splat. Red mush speckled the concrete and the legs of the waiting people. Eyes were wide in faces contorted with shock.  Somebody gasped. Across the street, the other woman’s face went from confusion to disgust. The bond was gone. Lisa was nothing. A liar. A false idol. A man began to laugh.  The signal changed. The woman started to cross the street, her eyes locked on the phony before her. Lisa turned and fled.

Image courtesy of Pixabay

Attack

Attack was first published in the Clackamas Literary Review, Volume 22, in the Spring of 2018. 

It's included in the short story collection An Unsated Thirst available for PURCHASE. 

All of the muscles on my body are tense, ready to spring into action at a moments notice.  My shoulders rise higher than normal, an attempt to make myself look bigger, a leftover trait from our species’ primal past.  The energy courses through my body making the hair on the back of my neck and arms stand on end. My heart pounds in my chest.  My breath, normal, feels rapid and uncontrolled. I’m on the edge and I am scared to death of falling off.

“Welcome to Subway, how may I help you sir?”

“A six inch meatball sub please.”  

I mumble my reply.  My voice, normally booming and filled with confidence, is quiet in my own head.  Barely perceptible to those around me.

“What was that sir?”  

The worker behind the counter leans forward, hoping that the closer distance will aid him in hearing my stifled words.  

“A six inch meatball sub on white please.”  

I say it a little louder.  He seems to hear me this time, but my voice sounds far away in my own ears.  I meet the eye of the man standing behind the counter, but only briefly. The eyes are the window to the soul.  I don’t want people looking into my soul right now. I don’t want them to see the anxiety and the fear. My foot begins to tap a quick rhythm as I watch my sandwich being made, a rapid percussive beat on the tile floor.  My muscles will not loosen, if anything they tighten further. I will my foot to stop, my shoulders to lower, my body to relax. They obey me for a second, but as soon as my mind moves on to another thought, my shoulders begin to rise again.  The fibers of muscles pull taut.

The making of the sandwich is a step by step process.  Each step requires a question and an answer. With each answer I feel the need to look at the man behind the counter.  I avoid looking him in the eye. I look at his nose, at his ear, at his mouth. Anything to avoid direct contact.

“Cheese?”

“Swiss.”

“Toasted?”

“No.”

“Toppings?”

“Black olives, mayonnaise and red wine vinegar”

“Did you say pickles?”

“No.”

Whenever I don’t have to talk to him I look away.  I look at the pictures of food on the wall above him.  I look down at his hands preparing the sandwich as I give my directions.  I look briefly at the other people in the store. Sometimes my eyes come to rest for brief moments, distracted, but only for a second.  Sometimes I stare at those around me, the workers or my fellow customers, letting my eyes watch them at their work. The connection of watching someone is somehow soothing.  When they feel me watching and look up, I quickly look away.

As I move forward along the sandwich assembly line I re-tuck my shirt for the fourth time since I’ve walked in.  I’m hypersensitive. Every little piece that is out of place must be fixed. A nervous tick. A sign of someone having difficulty.  I want to scream. I want to rip off my shirt and run around like an idiot. I feel like I’m about to explode. How can nobody notice this?  They have to be able to notice. I can feel my skin literally buzzing with energy.

I reach forward to grab a bag of chips.  I finger the packaging on the rack for a second before changing my mind and grabbing a different brand.  I can feel people watching my every movement, feel them judging me. Look at that man. What the hell is wrong with him.  He looks like a nervous wreck. Settle down fella. Just relax. What a basket case. I’m the only member of the audience for my little drama, but it feels as though all eyes are upon me.  

The pace of my heart quickens.  I reach up and clutch my chest for a moment like I’m having a heart attack.  A silly notion. I’m as healthy as a horse. My mind and body are ready, waiting for the attack, waiting for the lion to leap out of the bushes to maul me.  It’s going to leap at any moment, my mind and body are convinced of it. Adrenaline courses through my veins in anticipation. I try to slow my breathing. I only have to survive this social savannah for a bit more.    

I get to the register and open my wallet.  My hands, normally steady and sure, are clumsy.  I try to pull out seven dollars, two ones and a five, but it takes twice as long as normal.  It’s as though the hands picking through the wallet aren’t mine. It’s as though I’m controlling a robotic appendage from a distance away, watching via a camera with a long delay.  Every command has to be several seconds ahead of the actual movement. I fumble through my wallet and pull out too much money. I use the back of my hand to press my wallet against my chest so I can use all of my fingers to clumsily separate out the extra bills.  

The man behind the counter waits patiently.  He’s in no hurry. I feel like I’m being rushed.  The lion is getting closer. I can sense him hiding somewhere nearby.  He’s crouching and ready to spring. I hand the money to the man and he hands me back my change.  I grab my sandwich and shove the change in my pocket, a quarter escaping and falling onto the floor.  I reach down quickly to grab it, my body shaking and my face red with embarrassment. My first attempt fails, as does my second.  I can’t get my fingernails under it. They are ragged and bitten. Please, come on, this is torment. The third attempt does the trick.  I stand up and put the quarter in my pocket.

The man behind the counter smiles at me.  I look back at the other waiting customers.  Some faces are bored. Some are smiling at hidden thoughts.  Some are mad and impatient at the added wait. Little worlds separated by space and the inability to communicate.  I desperately want one to break through the divide. I desperately want to look one in the eye and feel a connection.  I desperately want one to step forward to reassure me, tell me everything is going to be fine. All of the eyes are blank.  All of the windows are opaque. I have to tell myself everything will be fine. My only advisor is someone I don’t completely trust right now.    

I walk hurriedly from the fast food eatery.  My motions feel jerky and unnatural, as though my joints are held together by overly tightened rubber bands.  Past the people eating at the tables, some alone and some with company. Some smiling and laughing. Some looking bored and weary.  I can feel the hot breath of the lion on my neck. I can feel the wetness of my shirt at the small of my back and in my armpits. I escape out the door to safety.  The lion falls behind. It’s safer here. Safer outside. Here the private worlds around me are more spread out.

My furtive motions carry me back to my office.  As I cross the bridge over the railroad tracks a quiet little voice tells me to jump over the railing.  The logical part of my mind instantly pushes the thought back and for a second a very real fear of falling comes over me.  It’s an instant, just an instant. An instant where the tiny little voice had me convinced. I’m not suicidal, I don’t want to die.  I want to live. It’s not a want to die that makes me think about jumping over the railing and falling the three stories to the railroad tracks below.  It’s only a desperate need to make something happen. It feels like something is going to happen. Waiting for something to happen is driving me insane.  Maybe if something happens I won’t feel like this anymore. Something. Anything.

I arrive at my building and get in the elevator with a woman who wears too much perfume.  I want to yell at her to stop wearing so much perfume, that she has overdosed on her cure and it has become a poison.  I worry that she can see the sheen of sweat across my brow, suspicious on a cold day. She gets off first, but her overpowering scent remains, a companion for the rest of my elevated journey.  I breath through my mouth. I get off the elevator and the distraction is gone. My thoughts turn back to myself. A few more steps. Open and close the door. Make a friendly remark to the secretary.  Walk into my office. Close the door behind me. Sit down in my chair.

I stare at the wall in front of me.  My body is motionless, but my mind is an unstoppable machine of perpetual motion.  It’s just an anxiety attack. Just wait. It will pass. This isn’t permanent. Just wait.  Don’t worry. Just breathe. My body and subconscious scream at me, calling the soothing voice a liar.  You will always be this way. There is no escape. You are insane. You will never feel normal again. It’s only a matter of time.  I breathe deep and slow. In and out. I push the negative thoughts away. It’s okay. Your body and brain are lying to you. They are just muscles having knee jerk reactions.  These are battles you have fought before. You don’t have to worry. You don’t have to be scared. Just ride it out. You’ll see.

I sit at my desk and shake, breathing deeply, repeating a soothing mantra in my head.  This is not who I am, this is only temporary, this is not who I am, this is only temporary.  I don’t have to hide. I don’t have to be afraid. The vibrations beneath my skin settle. My breath begins slowing and I feel some of the tension in my muscles ease.  I’m not relaxed, but I’m at least looser. I have escaped again. I have made it through again. I unwrap my sandwich and open up a comedy website on my computer. I concentrate on the task at hand, one step at a time.  The thoughts that set me off remain, but I ignore them, shoving them back where they are out of the way. It’s over. It’s passed. There’s a voice in the back of my head that I do my best to ignore. For how long?

Dan The Man

Dan The Man was first published in Permafrost Magazine, Issue 40.1, in the Winter of 2018.

It's included in the short story collection Stumptown available for PURCHASE.   

Leo knocked the prerequisite number of knocks and waited the prerequisite amount of time.  Nobody home. Somewhere in a side yard a dog barked, high and shrill, some kind of small yap dog.  Leo adjusted the package in his grip. It wasn’t heavy, just an awkward shape. Narrow in height, but wide and long.  Leo scanned the barcode on the box with his handheld computer. The machine thought about it for a moment and beeped. It was okay to leave the package by the door.  Leo leaned the package against the door and punched in a command. The computer beeped again and gave the all clear. Leo walked back up the sidewalk to his waiting truck.  The yard on either side was green and perfectly manicured. The neighbors’ yards on either side were yellow, desiccated by the summer sun. A garden gnome coyly watched from beneath a cherry tree.  The high sharp yap came again. Tiny paws beat a rhythmic back and forth behind a fence before fading off around the house.

Leo climbed into the big brown panel truck with its yellow logo and put the computer into its adaptor.  The next address appeared on the screen. He put on his seatbelt, but left the sliding door open. It was hot out.  Leo wore a button down short sleeve shirt and shorts the same color as the truck. The shorts only came down to just below mid-thigh.  They were always riding up and a little too tight in the crotch, the seam just a little too snug. Leo cranked the ignition and the truck cranked to life.  The yapping raised in volume in response. A small dog was standing next to the side of the house. It looked like a chihuahua. Someone had left a gate open.  It was a nice neighborhood. Old growth trees, elms and maples, lined the street, shading well kept homes. Leo hated neighborhoods like this. He always felt like such neighborhoods looked down on him.  Leo ground the transmission into submission and put the truck into gear. He checked his mirrors and pulled away from the curb. He was only one house down when he felt the bump.

“Fuck.”

It was a small bump on the left rear tire, almost like he hit a small rock or a bit of a pothole.  Leo hit the brakes and the truck lurched to a halt. He cut the engine. The rumbling racket of the pistons fell silent.  

“Fuck!”

The word was a sharp jab into the late morning peacefulness of the neighborhood.  Leo slammed his hand down on the steering wheel and let himself partially collapse in his seat, his head resting on his arms.  

“Damn it.  Damn it. Damn it.”

The curses came out in a steady emotionless litany.  He didn’t want to get out of the truck. Just a rock.  He probably just hit a rock. Nothing to worry about. Leo took in a deep breath and let it out.  He took in another, held it, and exhaled slowly. Okay. He was okay. Time to follow protocol. Leo punched a code into the computer.  The message went out to dispatch. Leo didn’t wait for a response. He unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the truck. Leo got down onto his hands and knees and stuck his head partway under the truck.  Jammed between the back dual tires was a mass of brownish hair, dark liquid dribbling across the vulcanized rubber. Leo scrambled away and puked at the base of an elm tree. He sat on the curb, breathing heavy, snorting errant chunks of vomit out of his sinuses, and spitting to clear the taste of bile from his mouth.  The computer in the truck beeped. Leo rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and climbed back into the truck.

<212, report.>

Leo tapped out his reply.

<Hit dog.>

<At last delivery address?>

<Yes.>

<Follow protocol.>

The thought of touching the mass of fur stuck between the duals made Leo’s stomach churn.  For a moment he thought he might puke again.

<Unable.>

The seconds ticked by with no reply.  Leo wondered if he needed to add more.  The computer beeped.

<Follow protocol.>

Stupid fuckers.  Hadn’t he just said he was unable?  Leo angrily stabbed in his response.  

<Unable.  Stuck in duals.>

The seconds ticked by again.  

<Do you need assistance?>

Leo wanted the slam the computer against the dash.  Stupid sons of bitches. No shit Sherlock.

<Yes.>

<Wait.>

Leo leaned back in his seat.  He let in and out a couple of breaths to calm down.  The streets were quiet, most everybody was at work. Two middle aged women jogged by.  One waved. Leo avoided making eye contact. A blue bird leaped from a branch and winged its way past the windshield.  The seconds turned into minutes. The computer beeped.

<369 en route.>  

Truck number 369.  Dan the Man. Shit.  Of all the drivers with nearby routes, Leo had hoped it wouldn’t be Dan, but of course it was the son of a bitch.  Hell, Dan probably volunteered. To call him crusty would have been a compliment. Dan was foul mouthed, foul smelling, and foul tempered.  He had been a driver for thirty years, and given his general attitude, had hated each of the years at an exponentially growing rate. Dan had grown up on a dairy farm back in the Midwest, exactly where seemed to change with each telling, but he delighted in sharing break room tales of his upbringing to anyone unlucky enough to be within earshot.  He loved to see people squirm. His only enjoyment in life seemed to be in the telling of ribald jokes that were not designed for laughter, but only to make the people around him uncomfortable. He’d been written up for a couple of offenses, but his impeccable driving record made all forgivable. When something unpleasant needed to be done, Dan was the one to do it.  The man was impervious to outside stimuli.

The two middle aged ladies came jogging back the other way.  They gave Leo a strange stare, but kept going. Leo watched them through his side mirror, willing them to round the corner before Dan and his antics arrived.  He checked the clock on the computer. Eleven o’clock. Shit. He’d been stopped for close to half an hour. Leo was never going to catch up. He was going have to work late.  A couple cars came down the street, paused, and moved past. One driver hung his arm out the window, middle finger outstretched. Leo ignored him. A second brown truck came down the road towards Leo’s.  The driver tootled his horn and pulled to a stop next to the curb across the street. Dan jumped out and started across. Leo got out to meet him.

Dan’s brown shirt was unbuttoned one button lower than regulation.  He was a thin man, all bones and angles, bald except for a halo of black hair that stretched from ear to ear.  A permanent five o’clock shadow that no razor could swipe from existence graced his clenched jaw. His beady eyes were narrowed against the sunlight.  His movements were stiff and awkward, a marionette with over tightened strings. Leo was a head taller than Dan, but he always felt intimidated by the man.  The two met in the middle of the street. Dan snorted and spit a loogie at Leo’s feet, forcing him to take a step back.

“Dispatch said you have some kind of dog problem?”

The voice was gravelly.  A mixture of gargled vodka and push pins.  

“Yeah.”

Leo’s voice sounded weak in his ears.  A touch higher than normal.

“Couldn’t take care of it yourself?”

The tone was filled with contempt which set Leo’s teeth on edge.  It was the tone used by a friend of the family, maybe your father’s drinking buddy.  Somebody, given the familiarity, you felt you should impress, but someone who was under no familial obligation to make a little worthless shit feel good about themselves.   

“No.”

Dan eyed Leo and spit again.  The slight curl of a smirk at the edge of Dan’s mouth told Leo how much the other man was enjoying watching him squirm.  Leo couldn’t get himself to look Dan in the eye. Nose and mouth seemed a safer bet, though the occasional glance at the ground was needed even for them.  Dan stunk of sour body odor and cinnamon gum.

“Well, let's take a look princess.”

Dan moved towards Leo’s truck.  Leo was forced to scramble after.  

“Back left.”

Dan moved around the side of the truck, crouched, and stuck his head under by the duals.  Dan kept his head down for several seconds, mumbling to himself and poking at the out of sight mass with a single index finger.

“Well I’ve got bad news Leonardo.”

Leo’s muscles tightened.  

“What’s that?”

“Little fuckers dead.”

Dan let out a rumbling laugh deep in his throat.  Leo thought about picking up a rock and bashing Dan in the back of the head.  He restrained himself. Dan growled and poked between the tires again.

“You really got the son of a bitch wedged in there.”

“Can we just get him out please.”

Dan pulled his head out, stood up, and stretched his back.  His eyes roved across the scene, falling at the base of the elm tree.  

“That your breakfast?”

The hands at Leo’s sides tightened into fists.  

“I need to get back onto my route.”

“Calm down murderer.  These things happen.”

Dan spit towards the elm tree and a hand wiped the sweat from his sunburnt brow.  

“You got any garbage sacks in your truck?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Well don’t just stand there, go get me one.”

The barked command set Leo’s legs into motion like a well trained soldiers.  He clambered into his truck and rooted around for a bit before coming back with a black trash bag.  He handed the bag gingerly over to Dan who snatched it away. The older man eyed Leo up and down, taking him all in.  Dan held the bag up, gesturing with it towards Leo.

“Last chance to take care of this yourself pussy willow.”

Leo tried again to meet the older man’s eye.  He wanted to grab the bag. He wanted to shove Dan’s words back into his mouth.  He wanted to make the bastard shut up. For a moment he thought about reaching for the bag, but the vision of touching the once yapping form wedged between the tires made the back of his throat burn.  Leo stared down at the brown shoes on Dan’s feet.

“Just take care of it.”

Dan’s smirk grew bigger and then faded back to its normal level.  He sat on the pavement next to the truck, wrapped one hand with the bag, reached his wiry arm up between the duals, and gave a sharp yank.  The organic sound of crunching bone and compressing tissue forced vomit into Leo’s mouth. He desperately swallowed it back. Some kind of thick liquid dribbled down the inside of the tire to the asphalt.  Dan pulled the mass down, turning the ends of the bag inside out, hiding the furry remains from view. He stood, holding the bag at arms length. Leo felt a hard lump at the bottom of his stomach. Dan gestured with the bag.

“Take care of it.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

Dan rolled his eyes.

“Jesus.  You hit it.  You take care of it.  Follow the fucking protocol.”

Leo took the bag, careful to hold it as far away from his body as possible.  It felt heavier than it should. Leo walked towards the house where he had delivered the awkward package.  He stopped and looked back. Dan was leaning against Leo’s truck, waiting impatiently. Leo turned back and marched at a near run across the perfectly manicured lawn.  He went up to the front door. He knew nobody was home, but the protocol required him to knock. He wrapped on the door in quick succession. God, what if someone was home now?  What if they had been on the crapper the first time? Leo’s whole body was shaking. He counted out the seconds in his head. Nothing. He knocked again. One...two...three. Nothing.  He laid the bag down next to the package and retreated. The cheerful gnome beneath the cherry tree seemed to wink at him. Dan waited until Leo got back next to the truck.

“Anybody home?”

“No.”

“Did you leave a note?”

“No.”

“That’s fucked up.  That’s real fucked up.  What kind of person just leaves a dead dog in a garbage bag by someone’s front door?”

Leo climbed into his truck, found a pad and paper, and scribbled out a quick note.  He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just explained the situation and ended it with an apology.  He was feeling nauseous again. Dan read over the note and handed it back.

“It’s no Hallmark, but it will have to do.  Hurry up and tape it to the door.”

Leo obeyed the command, his movements stiff and hurried.  He felt like he had drank too much coffee. The world was a vibrating blur.  Careful to give the trash bag a wide berth, he taped the note to the door and rushed back.  This time the gnome seemed to be scowling, judging eyes following his every movement. Dan waited next to the truck, whistling a tune that sounded like something only in his own head.  He took a package of gum out of his pocket, unwrapped a piece, and popped it into this mouth. The tin foil fell to the ground. The sight of Dan handling the gum with the same hand he had used to yank free the dog made Leo’s stomach turn.  Dan stuck out the pack, offering Leo a piece. Leo shook his head. Dan shrugged and put the gum back in his pocket.

“You deliver that package on the stoop?”

Leo nodded his head.”

“Wouldn’t it be fucked up if it was a dog bed or something?”  

Dan laughed again deep in his throat.  The red gum snapped between his teeth. Leo felt sick.  He imagined his fist connecting with Dan’s mouth. Dan stretched his back again.  

“Welp, times a wasting, better get back to work.”

Dan moved across the street and got back into his own truck.  The truck’s engine belched to life. Dan put it in gear, tootled his horn, and drove away.  Leo watched him go. It was hot out, but not so hot that his shirt and shorts should be soaked in sweat.  A bird chirped. A car drove by. The computer in Leo’s truck beeped. Leo climbed back into his truck.

<212, 45 minutes behind schedule.>

Leo breathed in deep and let it out.  He cranked the ignition. The engine started.  He hit a button on the computer. The next stop was five blocks away.  Leo put the truck into gear, checked all his mirrors three times, and headed down the street.  Forty-five minutes behind schedule. It was going to be a long day. Leo’s mouth still tasted like puke.  He wished he had taken the gum.

The Rodeo Monkey

The Rodeo Monkey was first published in the New Plains Review in the Fall of 2017 issue. 

The monkey was dressed like a cowboy.  Chaps, vest, and a little hat tied onto his head with a piece of string.  He rode a border collie with a specially fitted saddle, a young exuberant dog especially trained not to mind the extra load on its back.  The clowns sent the monkey and his dog into the arena between events.  The duo had a number of tricks.  The dog would herd a group of goats back into a pin or jump over a series of straw bales.  The monkey would hang grimly on to the dog’s back, occasionally raking his miniature spurs down the dogs back to get it to go faster.  Sometimes the monkey would pull out a little pop gun which he would shoot into the air or at targets held by the clowns who would fall in mock agony with every hit.  

Dusty loved the monkey.  Every time the monkey would charge out on his canine steed Dusty would give out a little eight year old squeal of delight and tug frantically at his mother’s arm, pointing as he tried to get her attention.

“Mom.  Mom.  Look at the monkey.”

Each time Linda would smile and hold her son close, pressing her cheek to his for a moment, and watch the running dog with the monkey on his back.  Dusty would clap and cheer and the world would fill with so much happiness that for a moment Linda would feel herself be carried away to the unbridled enthusiasm of her own childhood.  But such times were fleeting.  The monkey would ride back out of the arena and the next event would begin.  Dusty would quiet down and watch, bored by the non-monkey related competitions.  

Linda didn’t watch the rodeo.  She stared down at the beer garden and tried to discern the shape of her husband amongst the convulsing sea of western shirts and cowboy hats.  The sweaty heat of the afternoon had given way to the chill of evening.  Linda had hoped that the drop in temperature would be enough to force her husband back to the grandstands, at least to get his coat, but there was no such luck.  Dave was a man impervious to climate, especially while imbibing.  Dave had left them and escaped into his sanctuary as soon as they had arrived in the early afternoon.  He preferred the company of drunks and fools to the that of his own son and wife.  

Linda thought she saw him for a second, but the man was too thin, his shirt the only thing he had in common with Dave.  She looked at her son, intently watching the last round of calf roping, breaking only for an occasional yawn or to pop a candy in his mouth.  She could see Dave in her head, laughing and buying drinks for anyone who would claim to be his friend.  Spending money they couldn’t afford to spend.  Once Linda had been part of that world, and had reveled in it.  Now it seemed like those memories belonged to a different woman.

Linda wanted to go home.  She had wanted to go home hours ago, but Dave was not so easily roused from his enjoyment.  During the second round of barrel racing she had gone down to the beer garden fence and tried to spy her husband through the drunken mass.  She would have gone in herself to find him, but the man at the gate wouldn’t let her take Dusty in.  She didn’t like the idea of leaving Dusty outside by himself.  It would take a while to extract Dave when she found him.  Instead she had bought Dusty a hot dog and taken him back to their seats.    

The last round of calf roping would soon be over.  It would be followed by the final round of bull riding.  Then the rodeo would be over.  Linda both looked forward to and dreaded the rodeo’s end.  Dave would come and find them at least half an hour after the end of the last event, and then only because the beer garden would be closed.  He’d come up the grandstand steps, cheerful and laughing, at least until Linda would tell it was time to go home instead of migrating to the nearest bar.  His wishes denied, Dave would either respond by becoming angry and verbose, or sullen and pouty.  Either way there would be a string of backhanded insults coming her way.  Worse would be when they got home and Dusty got put to bed.  Then would come the groping, the pleading for his marital rights, until she either gave in or he passed out.  At times it seemed easier to just leave him behind.  Go home without him.  She had done it several times before, but all it had accomplished was a weekend sized dent in their finances instead of just one day.  

“Mom.  Mom.  It’s the monkey again.  He’s in a parade.”

The calf roping had come to an end.  The monkey rode out leisurely on his dog.  Sitting high in the saddle and pumping his little fist in the air.  Behind him came a parade of clowns on tiny wagons pulled by teams of miniature horses.  One large boxy wagon seemed to get stuck in the middle of the arena and the clowns all gathered around to feign pushing and pulling in an attempt to free it.  Fed up one clown kicked at the wagon with all his exaggerated might.  The moment his oversized boot connected with the garishly painted side fireworks burst from the top upward into the air, exploding with thunderous booms and bright flashes of color above the arena.  The crowd hooted and hollered and Dusty covered his ears.  

The dog did not like the fireworks.  At the first thunderous boom it ran at full speed towards the arena fence, desperate to escape, the monkey holding on for dear life.  The dog jumped through a space between two boards.  The monkey tried to crouch lower in his saddle but the gap was too narrow.  The monkey’s head kicked back as it hit the top board and he fell from his mount at the edge of the arena.  Several clowns were running towards the monkey.  Dusty was standing on top of his seat.   

“Mom.  Mom.  What’s wrong with the monkey?  Is the monkey going to be all right?  Mom.  Mom.”

Linda grabbed Dusty and held him close, turning his face away from the chaos in the arena below.  The clowns clustered around the fallen rider.  One took off his colorful vest and put it over the body to hide it from view.  Linda felt the wetness of her son’s tear’s on her cheek.  Dusty tried to wiggle around so that he could see again.  Linda picked Dusty up and started carrying him down the grandstand steps.  Out of the arena.  Past the beer garden.  Out of the rodeo grounds.  Out to the field, once grass, now dust, filled with rows of cars, pickups, and horse trailers.  Linda carried Dusty all the way to their pickup truck.  She unlocked the doors, buckled him in, and then got into the driver’s seat.  She put the key in the ignition.  

The engine of the pickup stayed silent.  Linda let her hand drop to her lap.  She couldn’t leave Dave.  Leaving him was more trouble than it was worth.  Linda realized she had left Dave’s coat in the stands.  For a moment she thought about going back to get it, but didn’t.  She sat and stared out at the bright lights of the distant arena where the announcer was declaring it was time to start the final round of bullriding.  Compared to the voice over the loudspeakers, Dusty’s voice sounded small and quiet.  

“Is the monkey dead Mom?”

A hundred motherly answers went through her head, but not one reached her mouth.  “Yeah, Dusty.  I’m sorry.  The monkey’s dead.”

Dusty started crying, big tears flowing down his cheeks.  Linda leaned over and hugged him tightly to her chest.  His little hands squeezed her as hard as he could.  

“It’s okay baby.  It’s going to be okay.”

“But the monkey’s dead.”  The little voice was choked with emotion.

Linda didn’t know what to say.  Her brain felt like it had frozen, but when she opened her mouth the words flowed out like water.  “No honey, don’t cry, it’s okay.  He was a bad monkey.”

Dusty lifted his head and stared at her with puffy red eyes.  “He was a bad monkey?”

“Yeah, he was a bad monkey.”  It felt like someone else was saying the words.  “He robbed the rodeo payroll.”  

“Really?”

“He did.  He was a bad monkey.  He was always spending all his money on booze and getting drunk.”  Linda wanted to stop the flow of the words, but she couldn’t seem to hold them back.  It was as though she was just a spectator.  They flooded over the banks in an unstoppable torrent.  “He only cared about himself.  He never gave a damn about his monkey family, he never spent any time with his monkey kids, and he was a verbally abusive ass to his monkey wife.  He was a real bastard.”  

Silence filled the cab and Linda wished she could suck back in the words.  Dusty sat looking thoughtful, taking deep breaths and snorting the snot back up his nose.  His scrunched up face was a mirror image of his fathers.     

“If he was that bad it’s probably a good thing he’s dead then, huh?”  

Linda took a couple deep breaths and gazed down at her son with unfocused eyes.  “Yeah, I guess so.”

Dusty nodded and pulled away from her.  He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and pulled a candy from his pocket.  The pair sat in the pickup and stared out at the bright lights of the arena, waiting for Dave to show up so they could go home.  After a while Linda turned on the engine so they could listen to the radio.       

Image courtesy of Joel Telling

Picnic

Picnic was first published in Tin House Online, Flash Fridays in the Winter of 2018. 

“I think we should go on a picnic this Sunday.”  

The breakfast/dinner table fell silent.  For Paul, his little brother Mike, his older sister Julie, and their mother, it was dinner.  For the man at the head, the man who worked the night shift down at the potato plant, it was breakfast.  Three sets of matching eyes swung from their mother to their father.  Paul’s father, wearing just boxers and a t-shirt in a failed attempt to escape the heat of the evening, let out a sigh.  Paul’s mother pressed her attack.  

“The weather’s supposed to turn.  It would be nice to do before the kids go back to school.”

Paul’s father took another bite of hamburger pattie between two slices of bread.  The buzz of the fan by the open door filled the silence.  

“What are you thinking, go up to Hat Rock or something?”

“I was thinking maybe some place else.”

“Where?”  

“Ritter Hot Springs.”

Paul’s father coughed, choking a bit on a bite of food.  

“Christ Renee, it’s a two hour drive on a windy ass road.”

“We used to go all the time when I was a kid.”  

“I don’t see what’s wrong with Hat Rock.”  

“The kids could go swimming.”  

Three sets of matching eyes filled with excitement.  

“They could swim in the Columbia too.”

“At least tell me you’ll think about it.”

Paul’s father grunted again.  The flow of words stopped, replaced by the rhythmic sound of mastication.  After breakfast/dinner the kids brushed their teeth and got ready for bed.  Lying in the hot bedroom he shared with his brother, Paul could hear his father help with the dishes, shave, and get dressed.  Heavy boots moved down the hallway and out onto the porch.  The old ‘75 Chevy Luv cranked to life, and Paul’s father headed out to work.  The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 10:30.

It was a half hour drive from the house in Echo to the potato plant just outside Boardman.  Paul’s father worked as a line supervisor on the night shift from 11:00 PM to 7:00 AM.  Paul’s father had been working the night shift for as long as Paul could remember.  You got a bonus if you volunteered.  They always ate dinner late so they could eat it as a family.  Other than that, and breakfasts on Sunday, Paul’s father was a ghost.  Pale compared to the summer tans of his family.  Pudgy from having to personally sample product every hour.  While the children played in the sunlight, he slept wearing earplugs in a bedroom with blackout curtains.

For Paul and his siblings, it was never a question of if they were going to Ritter.  Even Julie, the oldest at eleven, had never seen their mother fail to get her way.  Nothing was said the next morning when the children awoke to find their father having a couple of beers with their Uncle Rob, actually their father’s cousin, who worked the same shift.  Paul’s mother leaned against the kitchen counter in her bathrobe, sipping coffee and watching.  She said nothing the next day either, or the next day after that.  

On Saturday morning the Chevy Luv rattled into the driveway and Paul’s father came in with bags under his eyes to greet the weekend.  Paul’s mother was waiting for him.  The children were watching Saturday morning cartoons.

“You going to be up to going to Ritter tomorrow?”

“It’s been a long week Renee.”  

“The kids have been looking forward to it.”

Paul’s father grunted and drug himself back to the bedroom.  Paul’s mother turned up the volume of the television, and followed her husband to convince him to change his mind, closing the bedroom door behind her.  

Sunday morning they loaded the family sedan, a well driven ‘85 Toyota Camry, with a picnic basket and swim trunks wrapped in old bath towels.  Paul’s father looked groggy despite a full pot of coffee in his belly.  He pulled his ball cap low over his eyes, to shield them from the bright sun, and looked down at Paul.

“You’re not going to get carsick are you?”

“No sir.”

“Okay.”

The trip was mostly silent.  The radio was tuned to Paul’s mother’s favorite country station and his father only grumbled occasionally about the stupid premise of a few of the songs and about a couple of dark clouds on the southern horizon.  Paul’s mother laughed off both.  The radio broke up into static as the curving road climbed into the timber.  Paul’s mother tried to lead her brood in singing a song about a bear in tennis shoes, but only Mike joined her.  Julie read a book, and Paul tried to until he got carsick, forcing the Camry to pull over.  When he started feeling better, Paul entertained himself by picking on his brother and sister, resulting in a serious commotion until his mother turned and with a few loud words put a stop to it.  Paul’s father stayed quiet, his knuckles white on the wheel, letting loose with the occasional yawn.

The farther south they drove the thicker the dark clouds became.  When they reached the turnoff to Ritter the clouds broke loose, unleashing a heavy downpour that gave no signs of letting up.  Everybody stayed quiet, the only sound the swishing of the wiper blades.  Ritter was a pool behind a fence, a couple of dilapidated buildings, and a few scattered picnic tables.  Nobody else was there.  Paul’s mother looked out at the falling rain.  

“No use crying over spilled milk.”

She got out of the car, retrieved the picnic basket from the trunk, got back in, and started handing out cheese sandwiches.  Paul’s father took his sandwich, got out of the car, and sat down at one of the picnic tables.  He chewed slowly, the rain soaking his clothes, and his family watching him from the car.  Half an hour later he got back in, and they went home.  

Photo courtesy of Pixabay user StockSnap

Evidence

Evidence was first published in Permafrost Magazine, Issue 39.2 in the Summer of 2017.

It's included in the short story collection Stumptown available for PURCHASE.  

Lisa sat bolt upright in bed.  Paul lay on his side next to her, snoring softly.  It had been a dream.  Something about….no….it was gone.  Lisa breathed in and let it out.  Breathed in again, and let it out, unconsciously matching Paul’s respiratory rhythm.  What time was it?  Her phone was on the floor next to the bed, plugged into the wall.  It didn’t really matter.  It had just been a dream.  Paul smacked his lips in his sleep and rolled onto his back.  There was a faint trace of a smile on his lips.  The spot under her right thigh was still damp.  It had been a good night.  She hadn’t had a night like that in a long time.  She hadn’t known Paul could do things like that.  He was in better shape now than she had remembered.  Was she doing the right thing?  Pressure in her bowels.  She shouldn’t have had the appetizer at dinner.  There was always going to be trouble when she overstuffed herself.  Perhaps it would fade.  No.  This was the real deal.  Lisa pushed back the covers and swung her legs to the hardwood.  

The house was pitch black.  Lisa took baby steps, her hands out in front of her, hurrying as fast as she could.  The pressure was growing.  Bedroom doorway.  Hallway.  Bathroom.  First door on the left.  It was cold, but not uncomfortably so.  Her hand fumbled for the light switch.  Up the wall and back down.  Once.  Twice.  The world painfully flashed into visibility.  Sink.  Bathtub.  Tile floor.  Lisa caught a brief glimpse of herself in the mirror.  Bedraggled light brown hair.  Mascara running.  Cellulite on her thighs.  The toilet.  The seat was down.  Paul had never put the seat down when they were married.  She had yelled and screamed, but he had never listened.  A shift in her gut.  No time to think about anything but the job at hand.  Hike up her shirt.  Paul’s t-shirt, large on her frame, the Shamrock Run, last year.  Panties down around her legs.  A queen rests on her throne.  

Lisa breathed a sigh of relief.  Her eyes tracked across the tile of the floor and the beige paint of the walls.  Waiting.  Resting.  What the hell was she doing?  It all seemed so familiar.  No, that wasn’t fair.  It felt different this time.  The first time it had been like a fox run to ground after a long hunt.  It had felt more like giving in.  This time it felt nice.  Like getting home after a long vacation.  Things were working out just fine.  No problems.  No issues.  She could get up and go to bed, but it would mean being back in five minutes.  She knew how these things worked.  She wasn’t a little girl anymore.  The world was all out of surprises.  

Lisa sat and waited.  It didn’t always happen, but it was best to be sure.  She wished she had thought to bring her phone.  She could play Candy Crush or maybe comb through Tinder.  Was that wrong to do?  To just look?  There was something soothing about the judgement of the pictures.  Swiping left and right.  Ears too big.  Too fat.  Too skinny.  Eyes too close together.  You’d do in a pinch.  Not in a hundred years.  Possibilities.  Thousands of possibilities.  You never had to settle, but you never got to settle down.  Life was short.  There was more to it than short term thrills.  

Lisa took a deep breath in and let it out.  The bathroom stunk.  She should really turn on the fan.  No, it might wake Paul.  She craned her head to look at the back of the toilet.  No candles.  No matches.  That would be something she would have to rectify.  Maybe a nice bath mat too.  The one he had looked like an inheritance from the estate of a long dead relative.  Ratty and fraying at the edges.  Boredom was setting in.  

Lisa looked down in the garbage next to the toilet.  Wads of Kleenex, strands of floss, and an empty box of store brand anti-diarrheal pills.  At least it was something to read.  Lisa reached down and picked up the box.  Underneath was a razor.  White with pink piping.  It had a large round head.  It was a woman’s razor.  Lori’s razor.  Lisa had never met the woman, only heard of her through mutual friends and Facebook posts, but there she was, sitting in the trash.  Winking with a knowing smile brought forth by the knowledge of their common bond.  Gurgling in her stomach.  Lisa put the empty pill box back in the garbage.  

Things were on the move again.  Lisa flexed her toes and stared down at the tile floor.  Little white octagons speckled by lonely black ones near the walls.  The grout was dirty.  It needed a good scrub.  A little elbow grease with a stiff brush.  It sat by the bath mat, near the wall, a thin long black string.  Lisa reached over and picked it up.  She held it up to the light above to get a better look.  It was black as night.  A strand of Lori in her hand.  Straight with a slight wave.  Just like the smiling picture up at Tunnel Falls.  She was being silly.  It was just a hair, nothing more.  Lisa slipped it between her legs so that it could be with the rest of the excrement.  Nothing worth thinking about, soon to be flushed away.  

There was another hair by the sink.  Lisa reached over and put it in the toilet with its sibling.  Another by the tub.  One along the wall.  Wait, another there as well.  Lisa picked them up one by one, and dropped them all in the bowl to wait to be flushed away.  Lisa wiped, it was time to go back to bed.  No.  There were more.  Three on the bathmat, tangled in with the fibers.  Lisa picked them off, but found two more in the process.  Lisa dropped down on her hands and knees, her panties still around her legs, her head down close to the tile.  Hunting.  Searching.  Yes.  There were more.  A whole nest underneath the bath mat.  A tangled tumbleweed amongst the dust bunnies behind the toilet.  One stuck to the side of the sink pedestal.  Jesus.  How much hair could one woman lose?  Was Lori bald?  

They kept appearing.  Some in places Lisa swore she had already looked.  They were breeding.  Multiplying.  All were added to the growing collection in the toilet.  Lisa scoured every square inch of the bathroom.  Top to bottom.  Clean.  Every surface had to be clean.  She took a Kleenex and swept away the dust bunnies hiding near the walls, sweeping up more fine hairs in the process.  One last hair.  A light brown one.  That one was okay.  She let it retain its place on the bathroom floor.  She looked down at the black rat’s nest resting on top of the mass of wet toilet paper and Kleenex.  Her finger pushed the flush handle.  The water swirled and the mass was sucked down.  Down into depths.  Down to be forgotten.  

What was she doing?  Jesus.  She was acting crazy.  It was late.  She needed to go to bed.  Lisa pulled up her panties and looked at her profile in the mirror.  She was getting older, but her tits still looked pretty good.  Lisa washed her hands in the sink and rubbed some of the streaked mascara off her face.  Maybe she’d repaint the bathroom.  Seafoam.  She’d always liked seafoam.  

Lisa turned off the light and carefully felt her way back to the bedroom.  Paul was snoring softly.  She could just make out the darker patch in the blackness.  Her hands came to rest on the edge of the bed.  She laid down with her head on the pillow.  She pulled up the sheet and blankets.  Her fingers traced their way across the loose weave of one of the blankets.  Her eyes slowly shut.  Her mind drifted.  Her eyes snapped open.  A hair.  A hair between her fingers.  Lisa moved slowly, not wanting to wake Paul.  She reached down to her phone beside the bed.  Her other hand brought the strand close to the floor.  She hit the button, lighting the phone’s screen.  It was black.  A black hair in the bed.

Baby

Baby was first published in the Apeiron Review, Issue 12 in the Spring of 2017. 

We were all sitting at the dinner table the first time Baby brought up that she wanted to get the gastric bypass surgery.  Momma was dead set against it from the beginning.  I can still hear Momma’s high pitch voice squealing across the room, her hands frantically smoothing the table cloth.

“Oh god no Baby.  You don’t want to do that Baby.  You’ll die on that table Baby.  I just know you’ll die.”

Baby just stared down at her marshmallowy hands, biting her lower lip, her face scrunched up that way it would get when she was upset.

“But Momma…..”

“Oh no Baby.  Please Baby.  You’ll die on that table.  Lord I just know you would just die.”  

It was always pointless to argue with Momma when she got herself worked up into one of her fits.  No damn use at all.  Baby shut her trap and Momma went back to eating her chicken.  Baby didn’t go back to eating.  She pushed her bucket away and tears started flowing down her face.  Momma didn’t notice.  She kept her eyes on the table.  I waited until I knew Baby wasn’t going to eat anymore, then finished her chicken up for her.  There was no food wasted in that house.  Momma’s house.  Momma’s rules.   

Baby was always fat.  Hell, even her baby pictures looked fat.  When I came along she was already ten, but chunky enough that she mostly wore sweatpants to school.  Things did not improve as she got older.  Baby just got bigger.  By the end of high school her going to the doctor for knee and joint pain was a regular thing.  She couldn’t cut it in college.  Too much walking around to class.  Baby was back home before the end of the first year.  When she got back Momma just hugged her tight, told her there there, everything will be just fine, and brought out a big old chocolate cake she baked special for the occasion.  That cake didn’t last too long.  

Baby never really knew her daddy.  Momma always said he was a big man.  A big man with a big appetite and a laugh like a train whistle.  Baby always said I was the lucky one.  Lucky because I had the skinny daddy.  Gave me my skinny genes so I could eat whatever I wanted.  Baby always blamed her daddy for giving her the wrong genes, making her fat.  I don’t know.  No one would ever describe me as skinny.  I never met my daddy either.  Momma just always called him the skinny one, but then again, Momma had never been a small gal herself.

By the time she hit twenty-five Baby weighed 400 pounds.  She had to go on permanent disability.  Hell of a thing to see.  A woman her age, having to wheel around town in one of them scooters.  Use to drive me nuts when I was in high school.  Sitting there, trying to watch TV, listening to Baby wheezing.  

“Choo choo,” I’d say, “coming down the number four track, the express to Atlanta.”  

Baby would get mad.  Who could blame her?  I was being a little shit, but what could she do about it?  She was stuck there on the couch.  Down there on the far side where no one else would ever sit because it was all caved in.  She’d just scream and yell until it wore her out, then go back to wheezing again.  God she had a mouth on her.  If Momma was about she’d give me a smack.  Yell at me to leave my damn sister alone.  Never really fazed me much.  Seemed like about anything got me a smack back then.  I guess at the time I didn’t feel too bad for Baby.  It seemed like she was in a mess of her own creation.             

In all fairness, Momma certainly didn’t help the situation any.  When Baby’s daddy cut loose, he left Baby and Momma in quite a bind, or at least that’s the way Momma put it.  Lots of living out of cars and doing the best you can type of stuff.  There were a couple of years there where things were pretty lean.  Though you wouldn’t have guessed it looking at the pictures of Baby.  Either way, when Momma got the good job down at the courthouse, she seemed to make it her mission in life to make sure her kids never went hungry again.  We never had much for Christmas presents, but lord, our house was always full of food.  Momma liked watching us kids eat.  I’m betting it was her favorite thing in the whole damn world.      

That first time wasn’t the last time that Baby brought up the surgery.  For awhile it seemed like there was a big fight about it every month.  Every time it ended the same way.  Momma getting all hysterical, spouting no Baby this and no Baby that.  It didn’t take long until it was just the two of them screaming at each other.  I’ll give Baby props.  She did her research.  Read up on it as much as she could.  Knew all the ins and outs.  Figured out all the risks.  Hell, even called the insurance to make sure they would cover it.  It didn’t matter.  Anytime Momma even got a hint that Baby was looking into it she’d freak out, screaming and crying.

“Don’t do it Baby.  God sakes, please don’t do it.  They’d kill you on that surgery table Baby.  Kill you straight dead.  Then where would I be Baby?  Where would I be?”  

There was just no reasoning with her.  I stayed out of it.  You know how Momma gets.  There ain’t nothing you can do when Momma gets that way.  

I think what really got Baby starting to think about getting the surgery was after she got stuck in the tub.  Momma and I were both at work.  She was taking a shower and slipped, fell right on her back and couldn’t budge an inch.  Spent a good hour in their screaming before anybody heard her.  Finally Mr. Johnson next door found her and called the fire department.  They called Momma and me.  It was quite an ordeal to get her out.  I didn’t go in.  I didn’t want to see Baby that way.  Besides, there was nothing I could do that the fireman weren’t already doing.  Momma was convinced they were going to have to bust up the tub.  She spent the whole time fretting, making plans for what we’d do for showers and the such until we could get it fixed.  

They got Baby out just fine, nothing hurt but her pride, but she was real quiet for the next couple of days.  Then one night at dinner tears started flowing down her face and she just started balling to beat all.  Momma of course came all unglued.  Peppering Baby with questions to try to figure what was wrong.

“What’s wrong Baby?  Why you crying?  Tell Momma honey.  Tell Momma what’s wrong.”

Baby had to choke out the words.  She couldn’t get herself to stop sobbing.  

“When the fireman were getting me out of the tub.  One of them….”

“Yes Baby, yes, what did the fireman do?”

“One of them put his hand in my vagina.”

Momma just came uncorked at that one.  Started screaming and pounding the table.  I thought the damn vein on her head was going to pop.  She just kept yelling, more noise than words.

“Those bastards.  I’m going to kill those bastards.  Don’t worry Baby.  Momma’s going to get us a lawyer.  Momma’s going to make sure those bastards rot in hell.”

Baby kept crying, but started freaking out too, waving her arms around, trying to talk louder than Momma.”

“No Momma.  It was an accident Momma.  An accident.  He didn’t mean to do it.  He just couldn’t tell one fold from another.  It was an accident Momma.”

You could see the gears shift in Momma’s head.  I’m willing to bet without a clutch.

“Christ child.  An accident.  Why’d you freak me out like that?  Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Baby stared down at her dinner plate, her face bright red.  Momma just kept right on a going.

“Don’t I have enough stress without you adding to it?  Good god what a shock.  Christ Baby, if it was just an accident, why are you balling?”

Baby just started crying again.  I felt like I outta reach over and give her shoulder a squeeze or something, but I didn’t.  I just kept eating.  I didn’t really want to get involved.  

“You just don’t understand Momma.  You just don’t understand.”

Momma and Baby fought about that damn surgery for a little over a year, right up until the day Baby died.  It was during that real hot weather in July.  Baby went out to the store to get a soda.  The batteries on her scooter went dead halfway back.  She decided to try and walk it.  Died right there on the sidewalk.  Heart attack at thirty-one.  Hell of a thing.  Just a hell of a thing.  We had to get a special wide casket so we could bury her.  Momma was inconsolable.  She just kept screaming about Baby this, and Baby that.  Blubbering to beat all.  I don’t know.  Just a hell of a thing.  It was about three months later that Momma got that gastric bypass surgery.  Slimmed her right up.

Detour

Detour was first published in the MacGuffin in the Fall of 2016 issue. 

The flat landscape of Oklahoma rolled by, punctuated by the occasional tree or billboard.  As the freeway slid past Leroy took quick glances from his driving to look at the woman in the passenger seat.  Susan sat staring out her window, glaring with the petulance of a small child not getting what they wanted.  She had been that way since they had come out the wrong side of Fort Worth and it had become obvious that they weren’t going straight back to Arizona.  Now, not far from the Kansas border, her mood had done nothing but deteriorate.

Leroy had tried to start a few conversations when Susan had first gone stone faced, but had long since given up.  He wasn’t a talkative man, and it seemed little worth the effort just to get one word answers.  The radio played quietly in the background.  Slow sad country songs about losing your woman and fast paced country songs about getting drunk.  Not much in between.  The cab of the old pickup was cleaned as best it could be, but nothing could hide the sun weakened plastic of the dash and the permanent scuffs of long use.  

The woman Leroy could see out of the corner of his eye was older and thicker than the pictures she had sent.  Her hair had a bleached look to it and there were prominent crow’s feet around her eyes and loose skin at the corners of her mouth.  Leroy didn’t mind.  Such things were to be expected.  He hadn’t let his expectations get too high.  Besides, it had been the words in her letters, not the face in her photos, that had convinced him to make the thousand mile drive from Safford to Livingston.  

Leroy knew he wasn’t much of a catch himself.  Not many women wanted a wind burnt old cowhand who rarely got into town and spent most of his time on the back of a horse up on Mount Graham.  At least the photos he had sent had been fairly up to date.  Though in fairness, most were of the landscapes around his home rather than his own hangdog features.  Leroy knew he was no Tennyson either.  His letters had all been fairly straight forward and lacked the flowery wit that he believed most women found endearing.  The landscapes had seemed like his most sellable feature.  Perhaps some women were looking for a man with unexciting qualities.  Leroy didn’t know, he really didn’t understand women, and had never bothered giving much thought to the subject.  

It was lonely up on the mountain.  Especially when the work was done.  He had the cows and a string of good horses, but none of them could be called good conversationalists.  Leroy had gone after the problem the same as he would have if he had found a broken pipe or a hole in a fence.  Find the right tools, and fix it.  No fuss and no muss.  The ad he had put in the personals section of the Ruralite had been straight forward.

Lonely Arizona cowhand, age 40, seeks woman.

Quiet and easygoing, seeking the same.

Beautiful place to live.  

It had been surprising the number of responses he had gotten.  There were a lot more lonely women out there than Leroy had expected.  But after a few letters back and forth most had dropped off, except for Susan.  Her letters had been long and wordy, always at least three pages, impressive given her small handwriting.  Leroy’s letters had been short, though he tried to always make sure he filled up at least one page.  Letters had moved on to phone calls.  Leroy had done his best to hide the fact that he was about as interesting as morning oatmeal.  He had told her all his favorite cowboy jokes, even the one about the dead mouse in the chili.  She had seemed to enjoy them.  

The “Welcome to Kansas” sign rolled past, changing the state but not the landscape.  The pickup cab continued to be filled with sullen silence.  Leroy watched the world roll by and ignored it.  If she was going to be sullen, she was going to be sullen.  A little side trip seemed like a silly thing to get upset about.  There was nothing he could think of to say, so he didn’t see the need to bother.  Trucks and cars whizzed past on the left.  The old pickup was going as fast as it could, which wasn’t that impressive.  Besides, if he pushed it too much, air would howl through the loose windshield seal and they wouldn’t be able to hear the radio.  

A blue sign whipped past on the side of the road.  Susan’s voice entered his ear, flat sounding, but loud in the silence.  “Can you stop up ahead?  I have to use the bathroom.”

“Sure, no problem.”

Leroy pulled the old pickup off at the freeway exit and parked it next to the roadside restroom.  Susan got out, the old seat springs creaking underneath her, and slammed the door.  Maybe she was angry, though Leroy couldn’t figure why.  Maybe not though, the old pickup’s doors had to be slammed to get them to close proper.  

Leroy got out too, and stood next to the pickup admiring the waxed finish on the dulled and chipped paint.  He walked around his vehicle and checked the tightness of the ropes which held the blue tarp over Susan’s belongings in the back.  Susan hadn’t come with a lot of stuff.  Leroy thought of that as a positive.  The three pieces of furniture that she would not part with were a squat bookcase, an old sitting chair, and a giant dresser with a vast top like an aircraft carrier.  The chair and bookcase would easily fit in the living room, but Leroy doubted there was room in the bedroom for the dresser.  He would probably have to throw his out, which was too bad, he had owned it since he was a boy.  

All the ropes were as tight as they could be, so Leroy got back into the pickup and sat down to wait.  He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded up piece of high quality magazine paper.  The cattlemen’s magazine always used high quality paper.  He unfolded the advertisement and sat looking at it.  

For Sale $500

Purebred border collies trained by Gus Stewart

Both sire and dam High Plains Cowdog Competition Champions

Concordia, Kansas

Susan got back in the pickup and slammed the door behind her to get it closed.  She glanced over to see what Leroy was reading and gave a derisive snort.  “I can’t believe we’re making a seven hundred mile detour just for a god damn dog.”

Leroy folded back up the advertisement and put it back in his shirt pocket.  He ran a hand through his thinning hair, started the pickup, put it in gear, and lurched out of the rest area.  His eyes remain locked on the windshield in front of him.  

“Who says the dog was the detour?”

Judgement Day

Judgment Day was first published in the MacGuffin in the Spring of 2017 issue. 

George smiled as he put his candy bar and can of pop on the counter.  

“I’m giving you my bike Ed.  You’ve always liked it and I want you to have it.  I put it on your porch.”

Ed scowled at his friend across the counter.

“What the hell are you doing George?  For god sakes, you have a doctorate in chemistry.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“It’s just that it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Look, if you want to know more about chemistry you’d talk to me right?”

“Yeah.”

“If you have a leaky pipe you call a plumber.  If you have a faulty switch you call an electrician.  If you need a foundation laid you call a contractor.”

“So?”

“So you have faith that all these people know about something better than you.  That’s all this is, faith in someone who knows better.”

George continued smiling and Ed continued scowling as he rung up George’s purchases.  

“I don’t know.  It just seems odd for God to pick May 22, 2011.”  

“Would any date seem less odd?”

Ed sighed.

“Probably not.”

“You should come.  Pastor Matthews is having us meet at the church at eight this evening to start praying.  It’s not too late to seek redemption.”

Part of Ed wanted to shake his friend and call him an idiot, or laugh, or punch George in his self-righteous face.  

“Thanks, but no.  I have lots of things I need to get done.”

George took his change and walked toward the door.  As he opened it he turned back.

“I’m going to miss you Ed.  You’re a good egg.”

Ed let his scowl relax.  

“If you wouldn’t mind, say a few prayers for me George.”

“No problem Ed.”

“See you later.”

George didn’t hear.  He was already out the door, walking up the street, whistling.

Ed closed the grocery store at six and went home.  George’s bicycle sat on his porch.  He ate dinner alone in front of the television and fell asleep in his chair thinking of his friend praying with the rest of the fools at the church with its padded pews and grape juice instead of wine.  The next day he mowed the lawn, trimmed his hedges, and watched Sunday Night Football by himself.  On Monday morning he reopened the grocery store promptly at eight.           

George was the first customer to arrive.  He walked in whistling and got a gallon of milk from the cooler and brought it to the counter.  Ed stared at George for a moment but said nothing.

“There was no milk in the house.”

Ed nodded, rung up the purchase, and handed George his change.  George started to leave.  

“Hey George.”

George turned with his hand on the door and a smile on his face.

“Yeah.”

“You forgot your bike on my porch the other day.”

“I was wondering where I left it.  Thanks Ed.”

“See you later George.”

“See you later.”

George walked out the door whistling.   

The Trap

The Trap was first published in the Bellevue Literary Review in the Fall of 2016 issue. 

A reading of this story is available on YouTube courtesy of the Bellevue Literary Review.

Gary sat at the bus stop and waited.  The weather was chilly.  It was just cold enough to make being outside uncomfortable without a coat.  Gary had forgotten his coat at the office.  The bus was twenty minutes late, or at least it seemed that way.  Gary would normally know for certain, but he had forgotten his watch, the one his father had given him, on the nightstand that morning.  The wind picked up and he shivered.  Gary considered going back to the office for his coat, but knew as soon as he left the bus would arrive.  It didn’t really matter.  Soon he would be home.  

A plumpish woman in her mid-thirties walked up and sat on the other side of the bench.  She wore a jacket over scrubs, suggesting she was a nurse.  Gary nodded politely to her and then paid her no mind.  Soon the number eight bus would arrive and Gary would ride it five stops and then walk two blocks to his little green house with the blue door.  Martha would have dinner ready, she had said it would be pork chops tonight.  After dinner the boys would do their homework while he watched television and read the paper.  He’d check over the boys’ work and then read David a bedtime story.  David was the only one who still wanted bedtime stories.  The other two were too old.  Gary wished they were young again.  He would miss the ritual when David got too old.  

It had been a good day at the office.  He had found the problem with the Myers account with little fuss, just a few little bookkeeping mistakes.  Everyone had been impressed.  Problems with the Myers account usually took days to unravel.  Mr. Ricketts had brought Gary into his office to congratulate him and hint that advancement to associate would soon be in the picture.  Gary hoped it was true.  The extra money would be a nice thing for the family.  A new car, no more riding the bus, new kitchen appliances for Martha, vacations to Miami.  

Gary’s brain paused mid-thought.  Miami didn’t seem right.  They already did annual vacations to Miami.  The family had been doing them since he made associate.  Acapulco was the right place.  They were going to go to Acapulco when he made partner.  Was that right?  Gary was sure he had already been to Acapulco.  He could see the blue ocean and white beaches.  Something wasn’t right.  When was the last time David had wanted a bedtime story?  Gary looked at his hands.  The skin looked like paper and the joints were swollen with arthritis.  They didn’t look right.  They didn’t look like his hands.   

“Mr. Daly, would you like to come inside with me?”

Gary looked at the nurse sitting next to him on the bench.  She was smiling.  She seemed familiar though he’d never seen her before.  Gary tried to remember what he was doing on the bench but couldn’t.  It was cold, too cold to be out without a coat.  Gary nodded and the nurse helped him stand and walked him back up the sidewalk to the door of the big brick building behind them.  His joints felt stiff and his back would not straighten out all the way.  Inside the building it was warm and pleasant.  A second nurse sat behind a desk.  She looked up at the first nurse.

“Catch another one?”

“Yep.”

The two nurses smiled at each other.  Gary smiled too.  It seemed impolite not to.   

Home Sweet Home

Home Sweet Home was first published in China Grove, Issue #4 in the Spring of 2016. 

It's included in the short story collection An Unsated Thirst available for PURCHASE.

My wrist clenches tighter and the screw driver twists, pushing the screw deeper into the wood I hold against the door frame.  Force and torque, tools and energy, that is all it takes to attach the rough cut pine board to the back door of my house.  The edge of the board is broken.  Two straight lines created by a hacksaw that never meet in the middle, connected by a jagged break.  A hacksaw is not made for sawing boards, but it’s what I have, so I make it work.  The jagged middle is a sign of my impatient nature.  The sawing of the board with the hacksaw is slow compared to the quick downward thrust of a leg.  I smile as the screw spins deeper.  A homeowner’s work is never done.  

My house is a nice house.  It has a nice bedroom.  The bedroom is the largest that I’ve ever had.  The wasted space is a luxury.  My bed is awash in a sea of hardwood.  My bedroom has a large closet which does not have doors.  Inside are my clothes, hanging in rows and sitting in my dresser.  My clothes are not alone inside the dresser.  Inside the top drawer is also six Durex condoms, Trojans always seem to break, and a sock stuffed with a huge roll consisting of one-hundred-and-twenty-nine one dollar bills.  My wallet always inexplicably fills with one dollar bills to the point where it can barely close.  The sock seemed like a good solution.  Plus it feels pretty badass to have a huge roll of money, even if it’s only small denominations.  

The board is attached and I move back to admire my handy work in the dim light of the garage.   The board sits squarely on top of its twin across the top of the door’s window, blocking the inrush of cold night air from outside.  Each of the two boards is held on by four screws.  Each screwed in by hand.  My electric drill no longer works, its battery is aged long past its expected lifespan.  The boards block the night air, but they also block the entry of the outside light, which illuminates the patio.  Not perfect, but it will work for now.  Only a temporary scar on my house.  

My house has a nice second bedroom, but I use it for an office.  The office is slightly smaller than my bedroom, but still comfortably sized.  It also has a large closet, though this one is just full of random junk.  Things that need a space, but have no specific place to go.  A small futon loveseat sits in one corner.  Two bookcases cover one wall.  The left one overrun with classics, renowned authors, and books of thought and depth.  The right one is filled with Star Wars books, a monument to a youthful obsession.  A desk sits in one corner.  On top of it is my new PC computer, an impulse buy, an amazing step forward in our world of technology.  Inside the top drawer is my laptop.  In the lower drawer are my taxes, credit card statements, passport, and social security card.  All of the documentation that proves that I actually exist.  

I open the door and the cold darkness rushes into the garage.  I shiver involuntarily.  A pane of glass sits outside on the patio, delicately placed, a large piece broken off one corner.  It should be replaced, but it is all I have tonight.  Clear packaging tape provides the answer to the question of how to fix the problem.  It has the combined attributes of both working and being available.  Plenty is still lying around from the move several months ago.  It’s a simple fix.  Put the two pieces of glass together and tape.  Is it enough?  Probably, but I put another two pieces of tape across the whole pane in an X anyways.  It doesn’t hurt, and it will at least hold everything together if the glass breaks again.  

My house has a nice living room.  Four floor to ceiling windows wrap a corner, letting in the light each morning.  Before moving into my house I use to never own much furniture, but the little bit that I had seemed so alone that I felt the need to purchase it more companions.  Two chairs, a couch, and a coffee table.  It almost looks like the home of some kind of responsible adult.  Two lamps light the room, one tall one in the corner, and one small green one sitting on an end table next to the easy chair that I rarely sit in.  The easy chair was once my uncle’s, but he has made a journey and now it is mine.  A fireplace sits in the center of one wall, its mantle covered by knick-knacks from my travels.  A television and gaming console sit on a stand in one corner.  Two closets open onto the living room.  One holds games, camping supplies, and other random things.  The second holds coats, a vacuum cleaner, and a twenty-two caliber rifle.  

I hold the glass up to its place on the door frame with one hand, pushing it up and under the top and left side edging.  My other hand picks up and holds the lower edging in place, trapping the window, making it part of the door.  The lower and right side edging have been ripped aside.  Large pieces of paint from the door hang from their sides.  The small nails that once held the lower edging in place slide back into the holes from which they had been wrenched.  The paint lines up perfectly with the areas of door once bare.  It’s no longer enough to hold it in place.  My hammer and three penny nails quickly solve the problem.  I reach down and pick up the right side window edging.  My belly grumbles.  I’m hungry, it is late, already past midnight, and I have not yet had a chance to eat.  

My house has a nice dining room.  It is small, with only a round table surrounded by four chairs.  I am quite proud of the table.  You can unlatch a few clasps and pull it apart, turning the circle into a large oval.  The extension piece is part of the table, it simply folds out into place, attached by hinges which hide it underneath when not in use.  In one corner on a stand sit two ends of the auditory technology timeline.  An old record player, another impulse buy, with only two records sitting below it.  An old portable unit like the ones I remember from grade school gym class.  On top of it sits my iPod, fifteen thousand songs on a device smaller than a deck of cards.  

I stop working.  I have to pee.  I walk back into the house to the bathroom.  My house has a nice bathroom.  Nice tile floors, nice bathtub, nice toilet.  I think about my craftsmanship on the back door, listening to the sounds of bladder relief, a miniature waterfall in my kingdom.  My eyes fall on the medicine cabinet, its door open.  Two old orange bottles stare back at me.  Oxycontin and codeine, relics from past surgeries to straighten my sinuses and rebuild a recessive gum line.  I never used their contents, but yet they travel with me from home to home.  It’s strange what we keep.  I finish my business, flush the toilet, and walk back through my nice house, past open closet doors and through my kitchen.  My nice kitchen with all its amenities of modern life.  A row of liquor bottles sit on a shelf.  Whiskey, wine, vodka, brandy, the ambrosia of a good time.  The drawers and cupboard doors all hang open, not enough to let in light, but too much to be considered closed.  

I pick up a piece of cardboard and hold it against the door window, measuring it with my eyes.  A pair of scissors make short work of it, cutting it down to size.  I slide the piece of cardboard between the glass and the boards.  An unnecessary gesture, the tape and glass hold back the cold air as well as the window alone ever did, but I do it anyway.  I close the door and shiver again.  The furnace barks to life, warming the house, but the garage remains cold.  The garage is still a mess.  It’s the only part of the house that I have not yet organized.  Washer, dryer, furnace, hot water heater, modern conveniences in my modern home.  A small chest freezer sits along one wall, the wrapped remains of my annual half of beef cocooned within its icy grasp.  My bicycle leans on a wall nearby.  My tools sit in their box on the floor, good quality tools.  A shelf along one side holds camping gear and beer making equipment.  It’s top shelf is missing, its wood scavenged for other uses.  

I look at the blocked window in my newly repaired door and imagine seeing out to my nice patio and backyard.  It’s dark, but in my mind I can see the high fence and shrubs.  The abundant plant life which shields my little oasis from the outside world.  It’s nice on my patio and in my backyard.  It’s secluded.  It’s quiet.  When I’m there I can almost forget that I’m in the middle of the city or that any other houses are nearby.  It is one of the nicest things about my home, but apparently also a curse.  

I close the back door and lock it, then do the same with the door between the kitchen and garage.  I walk through my silent house, closing cupboards, drawers, and closet doors.  Everything is just where it belongs.  Many items have taken short little journeys of inches, but nothing is out of place or missing.  I take off my clothes, crawl into bed and breathe a quiet sigh.  Whoever they were they had taken their time, they had made sure to go through everything, made sure to look into every nook and cranny.  Can you call them a thief if nothing is missing, only disturbed?  I feel like I should have more fear or anger, but my mind is numb, only a sense of unease.  Would I feel better if they had actually taken something, not just gone through everything?  My house is a nice house, but it no longer feels like a home.  As I drift off to sleep the words of the police officer echoes through my head.  

“That’s weird.”

Lugnut

Lugnut was first published in the MacGuffin in the Winter of 2016 issue. 

He should have listened to his mother.  The big red dog sits on its haunches, looking at the boy, who sits on the floor next to him, directly into the eye.  It is a steady, unblinking gaze.  Two circular black islands in two matching golden seas.  The boy’s hand moves slowly and rhythmically through the dogs long red coat from the top of the dog’s head to the middle of the it’s back.  The boy’s fingers disappear into the fur with each stroke.  The knuckles brushing against the stiff hairs of the outer coat, while the fingertips feel the softness of the inner coat.

The dog’s body is ramrod straight, every muscle resting between tautness and relaxation.  A military officer standing at ease, but ready to spring to attention at any moment.  The big red tail sits on the ground behind the dog, limp and unmoving.  No happy wag, no joyous shake, no sign of appreciation for the boy’s constant efforts.  Up and down, up and down, up and down.  The same motion repeatedly, the same scene again and again.  

“Stay away from Lugnut, he isn’t good with kids.”

The warning still echoed in the boy’s ears.  A firm reminder given every time they made the hour long car trip to visit his grandmother.  It had become part of the constant litany of dos and don’ts which dictated the laws of his childhood.  

“Lugnut isn’t like the dogs at home.  Lugnut doesn’t spend a lot of time around kids.  Don’t try to play with Lugnut.”

The boy had doubted his mother’s words.  His seven year old brain had done the calculation and decided that she didn't know what she was talking about.  Lugnut wasn’t a bad dog, he was just misunderstood, that’s all.  Given a chance, Lugnut could be treated just like any other dog.  Uncle Bill had owned Lugnut for years.  Why wouldn’t he be used to having kids around?

Yes, Uncle Bill was a bachelor whose house was conspicuously absent of children.  Yes, Lugnut was a cow dog who spent most of his life walking behind horses up narrow trails and chasing cattle through forest covered hills.  Yes, Lugnut undoubtedly lacked some of the finer social graces and patience that were required when dealing with the sixty pound miniature people that sometimes appeared in his life.  But these things just suggested the need for a little tact, not outright ostracization.  

The boy had been around dogs his entire life.  Some of his earliest memories involved dogs.  When the boy thought of himself, he thought of a boy who knew dogs.  He knew their behaviors and their signals.  He knew the signs that showed what a dog was feeling.  Whether it was happy, bored, afraid, or angry.  He knew to go slow so that the dog did not get startled.  He knew to be careful around a strange dog.  But Lugnut was not a strange dog.  Lugnut was Uncle Bill’s dog.  He was pretty much a member of the family.

This trip was going to be different.  As the car had carried him and his brother’s towards their grandmother’s house, and his mother gave the familiar warning, the boy had decided that he was going to prove his mother wrong in her assertions over the personality qualities of Lugnut.  This was going to be the trip where his mother, with all her rules and regulations, would have to admit that she was wrong about something.  That she would have to recognize that she didn’t know everything and that the boy was not a little kid anymore.  

The boy’s chance had come shortly after lunch.  The adults all sat in the living room, relaxing after the meal and discussing various adult topics and pleasantries.  A background drone of catching up on the latest happenings and doings of various other adults and their progeny.  His brothers sat on the floor, playing with plastic horses and metal matchbox cars, lost in worlds of adventure within the theaters of their own heads.      

The boy put down the metal miniature corvette he was playing with, stood up, and walked down the hall as though he was going to the bathroom.  No one in the room looked up to watch him go.  The adults were all engrossed in a story about some neighbor.  The boy’s brothers were reaching the climaxes of their individual internal monologues.  The boy walked down the hall, but he did not go to the bathroom.  When he was sure no one was looking, the boy turned the corner and went into the kitchen instead.

The big red dog lay in the corner on an old rug next to the door to the outside, waiting for the alpha to get done and head back out to work.  His body rose and fell as though he was sleeping.  Rhythmically in a steady cadence in time with the quiet sound of in rushing and out rushing air from the big dog’s nose.  With the boy’s first step into the kitchen the golden eyes pulled open and the red head raised up from between the big front paws.  The dog stared at the boy and the boy stared back.  The dog’s eyes appraised the miniature person who had entered the room and found nothing of interest.  The big head lay back between the large paws.  The eyes did not droop back close.  They stayed open, watching.    

The boy walked further into the kitchen.  The only sounds his feet upon the floor, the steady movement of air through the dog’s stuffed up nose, and the hum of the refrigerator.  

“Hey Lugnut, how are you doing today?”

The dog gave no sign that he had heard the question.  The boy took a few more steps, and then stopped.  He lowered himself to the floor into a cross legged position in the center of the room.  The linoleum felt cool beneath him.  The golden eyes of the dog followed his every movement with an air of boredom and disinterest.  The boy stared back and studied the contours of the eighty pound pile of fur before him.  The boy slowed his breathing until it moved in synchronization with that of the dog’s.  The two remained still, appraising the situation.  

One minute, two minutes, three minutes.  Time passed with no action by either party.  The boy sat and watched the dog.  Letting the dog get use to his presence.  Letting the dog understand that the boy was not a threat in anyway.  The dog laid in the corner and watched the boy.  The boy got a sense that the dog was not really all that interested in him.  That he only watched him because he was the newest item in the room and therefore slightly more interesting than the other things already in the dog’s field of vision.  The boy cleared his throat to make it feel less dry.    

“Hey Lugnut.”

The dog raised his head again.

“Come here.”

The dog stared at the boy for a moment.  Then opened his mouth in a yawn, revealing his numerous sharp yellow teeth and red tongue, and then laid his head back down.  

“Lugnut.”

The dog gave no response and turned his gaze to stare at a chair that had suddenly become more interesting.  The boy breathed in and out in a huff of frustration.  He did not want to walk over to the dog.  He wanted the dog to come over to him.  If he walked over to the dog it would mean he had failed.  It would mean that the dog called the shots.  Also, if he invaded the dog’s personal space, he did not know what the dog would do.  

The boy’s eyes followed the dog’s gaze to the chair with its spare wooden frame and blue cushion.  He let his eyes drift across the kitchen, taking it all in.  Inside, the feeling that he should just get up and go back to the living room to play matchbox cars was slowly growing.  The boy’s eyes roved across various items.  Refrigerator, dishwasher, cupboard doors, toaster oven, sink, bowl of dog treats on the counter.  The thoughts of admitting defeat were banished by the creation of a new plan.  The boy got up and walked over to the counter.  He could feel the dog’s eyes following his movements.  He picked a single treat, green and bone shaped, from the bowl and went back to sit cross legged in the middle of the room once again.  

The dog’s head was up and he watched with rapt attention.  His red tongue licked his black lips in anticipation.  His nose worked, testing the air.  The boy held the treat in front of him.  Holding one end with the tips of his fingers.    

“Hey Lugnut.”

The red tail beat the floor.

“Come here.”

The large paws pushed against the floor, the thick legs raised the great body upwards.  The dog stood and stared at the treat.  Unsure for a second what to do.  The indecision was short lived.  The dog moved forward, his nails clicking on the linoleum.  The dog walked to the boy and gingerly took the treat from the boy’s fingers, careful in all his movements.  The boy reached out slowly, and put his hand on the dogs side.  He tentatively began moving his hand back and forth, rubbing the red fur coat.  Each back and forth movement got longer.  The boy’s fingers moved from the top of the dog’s head to the middle of his broad back.  The dog sat on his haunches, and raised his nose up towards the sky, his eyes closed, obviously enjoying the attention.  

“You're a pretty good dog, aren’t ya Lugnut.  You just got a bad rap, that’s all.”  

The boy petted the dog for a full minute and then let his hand drop.  His point had been proven.  He had been victorious in his goal.  The boy began to stand.  The growl came deep from within the dog’s throat.  His mouth did not open and he did not show any teeth.  It was more a vibration than a sound.  More something felt than heard.  The dog sat face to face with the boy, his muzzle just inches away from the boy’s nose.  The boy stared into the gold colored eyes and stood a little more.  The dog growled once again in disapproval.  The boy sat fully back down, raised a hand, and started to again pet the threatening red bulk before him.  

Another minute passed.  The boy again lowered his hand.  Again the growl from the back of the throat.  The boy recommenced his petting.  The dog gazed at the boy steadily, reminding the boy of his vulnerability.  The dog’s tail did not wag.  His jaw did not hang slack.  He sat perfectly straight and stared at the boy who was now under his control.  A petting machine under his command.  

The boy was scared.  He did not know what to do.  He could not bring himself to meet the big dog’s eye.  The boy’s hand moved rhythmically, following the unspoken orders of his new canine master.  All of the warnings his mother had given him ran through his head.  The constant lectures and reminders breeding uncertainty over what to do.  The boy couldn’t just quit petting.  God only knows what the dog would do if he did.  Maybe the dog would just let the boy go, or maybe he would tear his face off.  It was a gamble, and he lacked the experience to judge the relative likelihood of each scenario.  The boy felt all alone and isolated.  He could not get the image of the dog’s large yellow teeth out of his head.  He could not ignore the relative disparity in their mass and weight.

The boy couldn’t call for help.  The boy couldn’t face his mother’s admonishments for doing what he had specifically been told not to do.  He could see her lecturing him in front of everybody.  He could feel the shame as she made him feel like a little kid in front of everyone whom he wanted to have think the opposite.  He could see the disapproving look of his grandparents and uncle.  He could see his brothers mocking looks as they relished in him getting in trouble.  The boy was stuck.  He was trapped.  He had no escape.  

Minute passed by after minute.  Twice more the boy built up the courage to challenge the alpha in its dominance.  Twice the quiet growls drove him back to his task of endlessly rubbing the big red dog’s back.  There was no way out.  Nothing he could do.  The boy could think of only two solutions, and in his mind the negatives of both were of equal weight, leaving him in limbo.  Tears of frustration filled his eyes.  He knew the longer that he sat there, endlessly petting the damned dog, the more likely it would be for someone to come into the kitchen and find him.  A combination of hope and dread filled him at the thought of such an event.     

The boy’s arm was becoming tired.  The repetitive motion became harder to do, but he dared not slow down.  He would have to make a run for it.  In a single motion he would have to stop petting and lunge for the doorway, a seemingly far off beacon of escape.  He would have to be quick.  He would not be able to hesitate.  The boy began to brace himself for the lunge.  The dog felt the boy’s arm stiffen, and sensed his changing stance.  The dog leaned in closer to the boy, as though warning him that any attempt to break away would be futile.  The boy felt the dogs muscle become more taunt, matching the boy's in readiness for action.  The boy’s heart beat rapidly in his chest.  He uncrossed his legs and put one foot firmly on the floor, ready to push off.  The dog raised its back end off of the ground slightly, its body began to shake with anticipation.  In his head the boy counted.  In one, two, thr......

“Lugnut, come here boy.”

The sound of Uncle Bill’s voice filled the house and the dog stood up and trotted out of the kitchen, his tail wagging and tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.  The boy sat and watched him go, breathing deeply and willing his heart to slow its rapid motion.  The boy’s mother walked into the kitchen and looked down at him as though from a great height.

“What are you doing sitting in the middle of the floor?”

“Nothing, just playing.”

“Well, come back in the living room and say goodbye.  Uncle Bill is leaving.”

“Okay.”